"In my young days," the grandmother said (Nodding her head, Where cap and curls were as white as snow), "In my young days, when we used to go Rambling, Scrambling; Each little dirty hand in hand, Like a chain of daisies, a comical band Of neighbours' children, seriously straying, Really and truly going a-Maying, My mother would bid us linger, And lifting a slender, straight forefinger, Would say-- 'Little Kings and Queens of the May, Listen to me! If you want to be Every one of you very good In that beautiful, beautiful, beautiful wood, Where the little birds' heads get so turned with delight, That some of them sing all night: Whatever you pluck, Leave some for good luck; Picked from the stalk, or pulled up by the root, From overhead, or from underfoot, Water-wonders of pond or brook; Wherever you look, And whatever you find-- Leave something behind: Some for the Naïads, Some for the Dryads, And a bit for the Nixies, and the Pixies.'" "After all these years," the grandame said, Lifting her head, "I think I can hear my mother's voice Above all other noise, Saying, 'Hearken, my child! There is nothing more destructive and wild, No wild bull with his horns, No wild-briar with clutching thorns, No pig that routs in your garden-bed, No robber with ruthless tread, More reckless and rude, And wasteful of all things lovely and good, Than a child, with the face of a boy and the ways of a bear, Who _doesn't care;_ Or some little ignorant minx Who _never thinks_. Now I never knew so stupid an elf, That he couldn't think and care for himself. Oh, little sisters and little brothers, Think for others, and care for others! And of all that your little fingers find, Leave something behind, For love of those that come after: Some, perchance, to cool tired eyes in the moss that stifled your laughter! Pluck, children, pluck! But leave--for good luck-- Some for the Naïads, And some for the Dryads, And a bit for the Nixies, and the Pixies!'"