I saw the old woman go downward again;
And she easily travelled, with never a pain;
    Yet she loudly cried,
    And gustily sighed,
And groaned, though the road was level and wide.

“Oh! why, my old woman,” says I, “do you weep,
When you laughed, as you climbed up the hill-side so steep?”
    “High-ho!  I am vexed,
     Because I expects,”
Says she, “I shall ache in climbing the next.”

H. Pyle

[Illustration:  A newspaper puff.  This is a full page illustrated poem depicting the geese acting out the poem.]

A NEWSPAPER PUFF

Twelve geese
In a row
(So these
Always go). 
Down-hill
They meander,
Tail to bill;
First the gander. 
So they stalked,
Bold as brass
As they walked
To the grass.

Suddenly
Stopped the throng;
Plain to see
Something’s wrong
Yes; there is
Something white! 
No quiz;
Clear to sight. 
(’Twill amuse
When you’re told
’Twas a news-
Paper old.)

Gander spoke. 
Braver bird
Never broke
Egg, I’ve heard: 
“Stand here
Steadily,
Never fear,
Wait for me.”

Forth he went,
Cautious, slow,
Body bent,
Head low. 
All the rest
Stood fast,
Waiting for
What passed.

Wind came
With a caper,
Caught same
Daily paper. 
Up it sailed
In the air;
Courage failed
Then and there. 
Scared well
Out of wits;
Nearly fell
Into fits. 
Off they sped,
Helter-skelter,
’Till they’d fled
Under shelter.

Poor geese! 
Never mind;
Other geese
One can find,
Cut the same
Foolish caper
At empty wind
In a paper.

H. Pyle

[Illustration:  Three Fortunes.  This is a full page illustrated poem, depicting:  the three as they start the journey, the shoemaker with his lady, the tailor and baker on the path, the tailor lounging in the Inn, and the baker wandering “To Nowhere.”]

THREE FORTUNES

    A merry young shoemaker,
    And a tailor, and a baker,
Went to seek their fortunes, for they had been told,
    Where a rainbow touched the ground,
    (If it only could be found,)
Was a purse that should be always full of gold.

    So they traveled day by day,
    In a jolly, jocund way
Till the shoemaker a pretty lass espied;
    When quoth he, “It seems to me,
    There can never, never be,
Better luck than this in all the world beside.”

    So the others said good-bye,
    And went on, till by-and-by
They espied a shady inn beside the way;
    Where the Hostess fair,—­a widow—­
    In a lone seclusion hid; “Oh,
Here is luck!” the tailor said, “and here I’ll stay.”

    So the baker jogged along,
    All alone, with ne’er a song,
Or a jest; and nothing tempted him to stay. 
    But he went from bad to worse,
    For he never found the purse,
And for all I know he is wandering to this day.