The Man in the Moon,
Came tumbling down,
And ask'd his way to Norwich,
He went by the South,
And burnt his mouth,
supping cold pease-porridge.
(Traditional Nursery Rhyme)
The man in the moon,
Came tumbling down,
The man in the moon, came tumbling down. He stretched his
long legs, he yawned his large mouth, arched his back and stretched out his
lanky arms up, up, up above his head creating a full cat stretch to shake off
the jolts and bumps he acquired from his fall.
It isn’t often that he tumbles down from the moon, to visit
his large earth friend. The bumpy ride down joltingly reminds him why he stays
up in his moon home for such long stretches at a time. It ‘tis a good moon
home, no doubt. He’s got his secret caves of cheese about a quarter day’s walk
from his cottage, and it’s a pleasant trip each time he goes to resupply his
pantry full of it. The skipping up and down in lower gravity is much more
melodic and pleasant than this earth plod he must do here.
“Well, let’s get on with it, and see what treasures I can
find,” he whispers to himself, with a twinkle in his eye. Having sufficiently
stretched out and shaken off the journey that plopped him in the middle of his
favorite isle, he commences his plod.
And ask’d his way to
Norwich,
He went by the south,
He likes to go following the last celestial trail markers he
can find in this early light, aiming southward as he goes. It’s different, for
him, as the experience from his moon home is usually east to west across this
earth globe, so he decidedly travels north or south each time he arrives for an
earth jaunt. He happened upon a small little field mouse, and having learnt a
little of the squeak language from his mouse friends on the moon, who migrated
there for the abundance of cheese, he quietly asks, “Excuse me, good Mr. Mouse,
which way tis it to Norwich?” After a squeaky little exchange, he believes
himself to be heading in the right direction. He tips his hat to bid him adieu,
and journeys until he finds himself a quaint, slanting little cottage. “Why, a
home like my very own!” he exclaims as he crosses the rolling hill meadow
before him to gets to an entrance.
And burnt his mouth
With supping cold
pease-porridge.
He peered in the window, he peered in the door, he peered
through the peephole and he hurried around the side of the house in search of
some way to get in. All the while he was rounding the house about and about,
the lady of the cottage was preparing her morning meal just before she went to
hang out the laundry to dry. “I’ll just set out the laundry, then I’ll warm my
pease-porridge on the stove, head into town to check on Mrs. Waitsworth, gather
a few berries on the way bake and begin on my blackbird pies,” she ticked off
her list to herself. Just as soon as she
was out the back door towards the clothesline, the man in the moon found a way
in: the side kitchen window was open to let the cool morning breeze in. Tumble,
tumble, tumble, the moon man fell through the window, only catching himself
before he crashed into the tables and chairs. Following his sniffer, he stood
up, and up, and up (the full extent of his lanky legs and arms having stretched
out from the low gravity of the moon), and bending back down at the waist,
found the scent that beckoned him. Grabbing the wooden spoon left in the pease-porridge
pot, he scooped up a large spoonful and brought it to his mouth. “OW, OW, OW,
OW, OW” he cried like a hurt dog yelping out. “That is too HOT!” he exclaimed,
spitting out the pease-porridge. While the taste and texture was delightful,
though the awful green color he wished could have been somehow a different hue,
even at room temperature, it was simply significantly warmer than anything he
ate in the cold ice box that was his moon home. “Blasted, I’ve burnt my tongue!”
he moaned, hoping for something colder to soothe it with.
It was just as he folded his long legs underneath him to sit
down and pout that the lady of the cottage came back in from hanging her
laundry. “Wha…, Wha… Wha…. Who?” She stammered, surprised at the appearance of
a strange, unusually proportioned man on her kitchen floor. “M’am, I’ve burnt
my mouth,” the moon man managed out in a whine. “Burnt? Burnt your mouth? On
COLD pease-porridge?!” the lady laughed, and gathering her stern tone back to
her, “Then don’t go supping other people’s spoons if it ain’t to your liking!”
Author’s Note
I was drawn to The Nursery Rhyme Book, by
Andrew Lang, as I have a ten month old that we read lots of nursery rhymes to. Since a lot of these rhymes are running around in my head all day long, it's hard not to incorporate them: mice eating cheese on the moon, the dish ran away with the spoon They’re short and sweet, and entertaining enough for the adults but the rhyming
seems to keep our son’s attention. I was immediately drawn in by the image
accompanying this book, as the book itself was published in 1897. I took the
short rhyme that was presented, and decided to elaborate, incorporating both an
air of the 1800’s in with some sci-fi, space flairs to my version of the story.
Tsk, Tsk, for being upset for eating someone else’s pease-porridge!
