THE TALE OF JOCKO A STORY FOR A CHILD

An old white Jocko, kindly and urbane, Lived with a little girl called Betsey-Jane, He was her oldest friend, thin was his hair, One arm he lacked, but Jocko did not care, No more did Betsey-Jane;—his eyes were gone, His figure flat, but all his teeth were on, Stitched to his mouth, a row of beady pearls More white than those of many little girls. All day to please he did his docile best And only squeaked when Betsey punched his chest; When bed-time came and Nurse tucked Betsey in, Warm in her cot he slept beneath her chin.

Now Betsey-Jane was rather more than two And just about as good as I and you;— She’d learnt to talk, but not learnt when to stop, Her yellow hair swung round her in a mop, Round was her face, her eyes were opened wide And only blinked in sleep or when she cried; White frocks she had and blue her pinafore With scarlet stitching at the neck, and more Delights she had than many girls and boys,— Father and Mother, Nurse and many toys To comfort her, but, more than all the rest, There is no doubt she loved her Jocko best.

Yet Jocko’s life was not a life of ease,— We think to do entirely as we please, Age teaches otherwise. One evil day A cat approached the cushion where he lay And tore away his inoffensive hair And left him with his leathern skin laid bare, Silent upon the rug. His Betsey-Jane Found him with tears and kissed him well again; But she herself, forgetful of her grief, Laughed when they dressed him in a handkerchief Just like a doll, but Jocko did not mind, He still forgave her for his heart was kind.

Thus did our Jocko play, for Betsey’s sake, The Grand Domestic Game of Give and Take, Until her rudeness to her friend was such As makes men say “This is a straw too much.” One day he sat, as docile as a lamb, By Betsey-Jane who, upright in her pram, Refused to sleep and went from bad to worse, Kicked off her rug and disobeyed her nurse; And though her Jocko did not speak his mind And only stared to see her so unkind, In Endless Street, some yards from their abode, She picked him up and flung him in the road.

On sped the pram nor did the nurse’s pace Leave time to miss our hero from his place. Flat by the curb lay Jocko, still and pale, Till a rude sparrow plucked him by the tail And up he sat;—the sparrow hopped around And eyed him seated sadly on the ground, Propped up against the parapet and grey With grime and dust that in the gutter lay. Then Jocko spoke, he smoothed his sullied fur With one long trembling paw, and thought of her And said, all torn betwixt his love and pain,— “I will go back no more to Betsey-Jane.”

“I will arise and go beyond the din Of towns to where the endless woods begin, There among tangled oaks and lowly ways Of undergrowth to end my dreary days; I will seek acorns, beech-nuts, hips and haws And pluck them down with my prehensile paws; While the grey rabbits, never shy with me, From holes around my sandy-rooted tree Come out to nibble in the gentle rain,— A calmer life than that with Betsey-Jane. Long is the way, but I will make a start, A carrier shall take me in his cart.”

This said, he rose, and sought with feeble pace, For he was stiff and sore, the Market Place; Where, without horses and their shafts turned down, Are ranged the carts that come into the town; Until at dusk, all loaded up, they’re gone. He found the cart that went to Clarendon. Beneath it lay a yellow dog who shook His brazen collar, but his churlish look Passed off when Jocko hailed the man inside Who, loading parcels and not looking, cried,— “We start in Butcher Row, sir, from the Bear. At four o’clock.” Said Jocko “I’ll be there.”

All was arranged, and he could do no more But pass the time until the clock struck four. He wandered up the Market; far and wide The burly drovers elbowed him aside, The sheep regarded him with mild surprise Behind their hurdles, and the hairy eyes Of families of little porkers stared And cart-horses with braided tresses glared And stamped upon the cobbles. From their shed The calves looked bluntly round and many a head Of penned-up fowls peered through a wiry door,— “Jocko!” they cackled, “we will meet once more!”

Out of the Market Place an alley led To Poultry Cross and old white Jocko sped Beneath its shelter and surveyed the stalls Which here sell hobby horse, tops and balls, And tins for little cakes. One stall was full Of button-cards and reels and hanks of wool, Another sold you sage and pansy roots, And this, red carpet-slippers, hob-nailed boots And clogs, and hanging on a string by twos A row of little russet leather shoes; Tears filled his eyes, he turned to look again,— “Those shoes,” said he, “are just like Betsey-Jane.”

While thus he spake two farmers sauntered past And turned to stare at Jocko, said the last,— “I saw that monkey next a Spanish hen, The little beast has wandered from his pen!” Jocko is captured by the portly pair, They lead him, passive, to the Market Square; Once more the hens their throats exultant crane,— “Jocko!” they cackle; “Here he is again!” The farmers stuff our hero, sad and sore, Into a vacant pen and slam the door:— Through the grim wires the searching breezes moan And Jocko sits there shivering alone.

The time lagged on; some children through his door Prodded his fur with sticks, the clock struck four. Now is the time, but Jocko does not care, When carriers are starting from the Bear; Fast in his pen, and all his anger gone, No longer would he live at Clarendon. Home was his one desire. “At six,” he said, “My Betsey-Jane is kissed, and goes to bed, Her bath-tub by the nursery fire will be, She will come in and look around for me And sob all night beneath her counterpane For her lost Jocko—little Betsey-Jane!”

While Jocko thus lamented, through the crowd There came a little girl who sobbed aloud And clutched her Mother’s hand; ’twas Betsey-Jane, Who all the afternoon had sought in vain Her Jocko cast away in Endless Street; Tired are her little gaitered legs, her feet So weary, each new thought of Jocko brings New tears to wet her woollen bonnet strings And drip from each blue tassel to the ground. She would not look on all the beasts around, But Jocko saw her coat, and “Betsey-Jane,” He cried, “Do come and take me home again!”

Alas, they did not hear, his voice was low, With chill and hunger, Mother turned to go; But Betsey-Jane looked sadly back and then Beheld him upright in his distant pen. She dropped her Mother’s hand and with a shout Of “Jocko, Jocko!” ran to get him out;— Two shame-faced men undid at her commands His cage and Mother put him in her hands, She clasped him closely, not a word was said, And laid her tearful cheek against his head.

So back to Endless Street and once again Our Jocko slumbers close to Betsey-Jane, Clutched in her little fingers’ rosy snare, Among the sleepy tangles of her hair, Seen dimly through her cot’s surrounding rail. And here are morals tied to Jocko’s Tale:— “Though hurt your feelings never try to roam For there are many places worse than home.” And yet another,—“Never slight or spurn A good old friend, they say a worm will turn; And such-like stories end in deeper pain Than that of Jocko and his Betsey-Jane.”