“Away with the tea-things!” said Grandmama Grey; In a twinkling the tea-things were taken away! And Martha ran back to see what they meant To do with the small rogue under the tent. Cried Dame Grey, “Bring the bird-cage—look sharp—and run quicker!” It once was a blackbird’s, and made of white wicker. The bird-cage was brought, and Grandmama Grey Took the jelly-bag up in her carefullest way, Clapt its mouth to the open door—shook it—at last In popp’d the Elf!—the cage-door was made fast! Now, what do you think the small prisoner did? Shed many tears, and jibber’d, and groan’d? Crouch’d at the bottom, d’ye fancy he did, And there his sad capture and fate bemoan’d? Nothing like this: with one spring and ten kicks He climbed to the perch, and himself he seated, Like a young thing practising calisthenics, With his hands on his pole, as if tired and heated. Toddy ran close to the cage—so did Crocus; Twig cried, “Here’s mischief and hocus-pocus!” And Kitty stared smiling; her soft hazel eyes With wonder seem’d double their natural size. But the Elf met their looks without a wince, While his cheek was yellow and tart as quince, And his tongue at one side thrust a bulb on the skin As the sight of his left eye slid out and in. He sat on his perch, not the least in despair, But swinging his little legs—and, I declare, With a perking, half-winking, impertinent air. Dame Grey with her spectacles now rose up, “Who are you, little sir? and what may you be? Do you know you have broken my best China cup, And spoilt all my cream?—now, answer to me! Tell us your story from first to last— Where you were born—where educated— Or here a captive for life you stay fast!— Begin, sir, at once—all must be stated.” Rough the crown of the Elf did bristle, His brutus rose like a flowering thistle, Till his anger through his nose did whistle; But his feelings he master’d, and tried to look Demure as a good child over his book. Some yellow of egg he rubb’d off his chin, And stuck like a buttercup on his shin, Then shrugg’d his shoulders up in a hunch, With a wheezing squeal, and a noise like Punch, Though not half so loud. And now with a sneeze, Like a parrot’s, who suffers much from a cold, His account of his life among the trees He thus, in his way, began to unfold. “Nine white witches sat in a circle close, With their backs against a greenwood tree, As around the dead-nettle’s summer stem Its woolly white blossoms you see. _Tack-a-rack, tangle tang, twangle tee!_ Rills and hills, Lawns and horns, Hedges, sedges, Rushes, thrushes, _Twangle dee!_