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By Charlotte Mellen Packard.
HOW does life look behind the Hill?
All the suns I have ever seen
Peeped from over a mountain screen,
Stretched a finger of rosy light
Through some crevice to paint "Good-night;"
Up the darkness the great round moon
Floated by like a red balloon,
Hung and glittered awhile, until
It went to the people behind the Hill.
The earth spins round, the mountain is still
Men and women they come and they go,
Children play in the valley below.
Winds are roaring, or winds are whist,
Sun may pass, there is rain and mist,
The world we know is a bright world still,
But ah, for the other behind the Hill!
Voices are calling me day by day—
I listen, and wonder whatever they say!
The valleys are pleasant, and days are long
With play and study, with work and song—
But a boy keeps planning for other things,
There's room in his restless body for wings,
And fancy will never fold them until
He sees for himself what is over the Hill.
But most I dream of the unknown sea
Where brave ships hasten like birds set free,
Where plunging breakers ride high and loud
Till the sailor is lost between wave and cloud.
Oh the sunny lands, and the frozen zone,
The forests where never a man is known!
There are wonders and wonders waiting still
For a boy who has never looked over the Hill!
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INTO silence of the morning's splendor
There is shaken a golden robin's dream;
Kissed by sunshine to divine surrender,
Bloom the snowy lilies in the stream;
Soft south winds the hidden wild flowers Woo;
And between the tangled leaves in view—
Hush! I see the Summer,
Summer, Summer floating through.
Climbs the sun, with ecstasy of shining,
From the blush of rising into gold;
And the river's heart, with close defining,
Tells the same sweet story it is told;
Hills are veiled in tender mists anew;
From the liquid skies' unshadowed blue-
Hush! I see the Summer,
Summer, Summer flooding through.
IWANT to sing a little song to please you,
How midsummer comes following after June,
And shall I pitch it by the lark or robin?—
For songs in midsummer should be in tune.
And shall I give it sweetness like the roses?—
For midsummer has roses, as you know,
As well as June; and sprinkled o'er with spices
From beds of pinks and poppies in a row?
Perhaps like them; or, maybe 'twould be sweeter,
My little song, and prettier sound to you,
If I should make it make you think of lilies—
For midsummer has always lilies too.
Around the meadow-sweet the bees they cluster
So thick the children pick it not for fear—
Like meadow-sweet and bees, if I could make it,
A pretty little song 'twould be to hear!
Down in the field a crowd of flowers are standing;
The locusts pipe, the flowers keep sweet and still—
With honey-balls of clover and the others,
If only I my little song could fill!
I want to sing a little song to please you
Of midsummer that's following after June,
But oh! of all her sweet, gay things, I cannot
With one put yet my little song in tune!
I think you'll have to find a child or robin,
Some ignorant and merry-hearted thing;
For, I suppose, a song of the midsummer
It takes a heart more like a bird's to sing!
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By Celia Thaxter.
UP through the great Black Forest,
So wild and wonderful,
We climbed in the autumn afternoon
'Mid the shadows deep and cool.
We climbed to the Grand Duke's castle
That stood on the airy height;
Above the leagues of pine-trees dark
It shone in the yellow light.
Around the edge of her wee white cap
We saw how the peasant women
Were toiling along the way,
In the open spaces, here and there,
That steeped in the sunshine lay.
They gathered the autumn harvest—
All toil-worn and weather-browned;
They gathered the roots they had planted in spring,
And piled them up on the ground.
We heard the laughter of children,
And merrily down the road
Ran little Max with a rattling cart,
Heaped with a heavy load.
Upon orange carrots, and beets so red,
And turnips smooth and white,
With leaves of green all packed between,
Sat the little Rosel bright.
The wind -blew out her curls—
A sweeter face I have never seen
Than this happy little girl's.
A spray of the carrot's foliage fine,
Soft as a feather of green,
Drooped over her head from behind her ear.
As proud as the plume of a queen.
Light was his burden to merry Max,
With Rosel perched above,
And he gazed at her on that humble throne
With the eyes of pride and love.
With joyful laughter they passed us by,
And up through the forest of pine,
So solemn and still, we made our way
To the castle of Eberstein.
Oh, lofty the Grand Duke's castle
That looked o'er the forest gloom;
But better I love to remember
The children's rosy bloom.
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Oh, vast and dim and beautiful
Were the dark woods' shadowy aisles.
And all their silent depths seemed lit
With the children's golden smiles.
And sweet is the picture I brought away
From the wild Black Forest shade,
Of proud and happy and merry Max,
And Rosel, the little maid.
OUT in the meadow the scented breeze
Was full of the gossip of birds and bees;
Out in the orchard the glad things flew,
And o'er meadow and orchard the sky was blue—
The sky was blue, and the clouds were white,
And the summer morning was blithe and bright.
"It is quite too lovely in-doors to stay,"
Said Edith, "whether I work or play."
So slate and pencil and fairy-book
Were carried forth to a cozy nook,
Where the shadows glanced, and the sunbeams shone,
And the dear little girl could be alone.
There were hard examples that must be done,
For father to see ere the set of sun;
And there was the merriest tale to read,
Of a lady fair, on a milk-white steed,—
Of a lady fair, and a stately lover,
And the charm that lay in a four-leaf clover.
"Study the lesson!" the robin said,
As he poised on the branch above her head,
With a whirr of wings like the beat of drums;
"Edith," the bee hummed, "mind the sums!"
But shadow and shine in their airy play
Coaxed for the story that matched the day.
"Any time will do for the tiresome task,"
Said Edith at last, "and I think I'll ask
Papa to excuse my Arithmetic,—
In such warm weather I might be sick
If I taxed this poor little brain of mine."
So she listened, you see, to shadow and shine;
And then full-length on the velvet grass,
She dreamed of delights that would come to pass
When she, too large for the rigid rule
Of the happy home, or the stricter school,
Should be a woman, and quite at ease
Each hour to do what she might please.
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"On silvery paper, with golden pen,"
She mused,"I'd write love-stories then,
And wherever I went, would people say,
'The gifted Edith is here to-day! '
And maybe,—for stranger things have been,—
I might Editor be of a Magazine!"
No higher flight could her fancy take,
Were the darling child asleep or awake;
And presently there in that paradise,
The lids fell over the heavy eyes,
And the noon-bell's summons, loud and clear,
Was heeded not by her slumbering ear.
How long was her nap, I do not know,
But she sauntered home when the sun was low';
Dinner was over, and father frowned,
And chided her gently for "idling round,"
While gravely he bade her be sure and see
That she solved her examples after tea.
By Margaret J. Preston.
SHE sat in the upper chamber
—'Twas a summer of Long Ago—
And looked through the gable window
At the river that ran below,
And over the quiet pastures,
And up at the wide blue sky,
And envied the jay his freedom
As he lazily flitted by.
Yet patiently at her spinning,
In a halo of happy light,
Se wrought, though a shimmer rippled
The heads of the wheat in sight—
Though the garden was spilling over
Its cups on the fragrant air,
And the hollyhocks at the doorway
Had never looked half so fair.
She saw, as her wheel kept whirling,
The leisure of Nature too—
The beautiful holiday weather
Left nothing for her to do:
The cattle were idly grazing,
And even the frisky sheep,
Away in the distant meadows,
Lay under the shade asleep.
So sitting, she heard sweet laughter,
And a bevy of maidens fair,
With babble of merry voices,
Came climbing the chamber stair;
"O Dorns! how can you bear it,
To drone at your spinning here?
Why, girl! it's the heart of summer,
The goldenest time of year.
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"Put out of your hand the distaff,
This wearisome whirl relax—
There are things that are gayer, Dorris,
Than sitting and spinning flax:
Come with us away to the forest;
When it rains is the time to ply
Such tiresome tasks—and to-day is
The fifteenth day of July!"
With a face that was softly saddened,
Sweet Dorris looked up and said,
As she ravelled a bit of tangle,
And twisted again her thread,
"Nay, nay, I must do my spinning;
It wouldn't be kind or right
That the loom should be kept a-waiting;
My hanks must be done to-night.
So the frolicsome maidens left her,
With something of mild surprise
That Dorris should choose a duty,
With pleasure before her eyes;
Not dreaming that when her mother
Her "dozens" should count up-stairs,
And kiss her and say, "My darling!"
Her day would be glad as theirs.
So she minded her wheel, and blithely
She sang as she twirled it round,
And cunningly from her fingers
The delicate fibre wound;
And on through the sunny hours,
That neither were sad nor long,
She toiled in her sweet obedience,
And lightened her toil with song.
"Aye, surely, the day is lovely!
It tugs at my very heart
To look at its drifting beauty,
Nor share in its joy my part r
I may not go forth to meet it,
But the summer is kind, you see,
And I think, as I sit at my spinning—
I think it will come to me!"
(She sings.)
"Come hither, happy birds,
With warbling woo me,
Till songs that have no words
Melt through and through me!
Come, bees, that drop and rise
Within the clover,
Where yellow butterflies
Go glancing over!
Oh, roses, red and white,
And lilies, shining
Like gilded goblets bright
With silver lining—
Each to my window send
Gifts worth the winning,
To cheer me as I bend
Above my spinning!
"Oh, ripples on the sand,
That break in beauty,
Oh, pines, that stiffly stand
Like guards on duty,
Green meadows, where, this morn,
The scythes were mowing,
Soft slopes, where, o'er the corn
The wind is blowing,
"White clouds above the hill
That sail together,
Rich summer scents that fill
This summer weather—
All bring the sweets you've found
Since morn's beginning,
And come and crowd them round
My day of spinning!"
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By Mrs. Martha Perry Lowe.
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RUN along thy pastures, happy, happy brook,
Run along the pebbles, with a curvet and a
crook,
Sing it all the morning, and sing it afternoon,
Sing it all the starry night—that pleasant little
tune!
Are you growing modest, do you think that I shall
tire?
Do you fear that I shall go and look for something
higher?
Well I know the noisy world has music grand enough,
But I do not care for all its preludes, wild and
rough.
Well I know other music, solemn and sublime,
Voices of the ocean sounding all the depths of
time:
That is not the music I am looking for to-day,
It is you I want to hear, so frolicsome and gay.
Do not ever try to practise any modern art,
Do not even stop to think or care about your part,
Sing just as you always do, when there are none to
hear,
That will surely be the sweetest way to please my ear.
Ah, my little brook! how foolish was my thought:
All the praises of the worldling can disturb you naught.
Nothing can mislead you, or set you ill at ease,
Make you think about yourself, or of the way
to please.
Not a little fish could have made such a speech,
Not a shining fly that skims along your beach,
Not a little bird would have said such a thing—
Pardon me my foolishness, and sing again, sing!
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ONE, two, three!
One was Bobby Lee
Sitting by the brook,
With his fishing-hook,
With his spelling-book
Thrust far aside,
Whilst loud he cried:
"For once, no school,
For once, no rule,
Bell, ring away!
This whole, whole day
I'll stop and play!"
One, two, three!
One was Mrs. Bee
Stopping just to stare
At the vision there—
Bobby by the brook
With his fishing-hook;
At the spelling-book
Thrust far aside;
By Rosa Graham.
Whilst loud she cried:
"The livelong day
A boy to play!
I'd like to see
One little bee
Like Bobby Lee!"
One, two, three!
One was Lady Rose,
In her pretty clothes,
Staring down to see
Little Bobby Lee,
With his fishing-hook,
With his spelling-book
Thrust far aside,
Whilst loud she cried:
"The livelong day,
A boy to play!
I'd like to know,
If I did so,
How I would grow!"
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LEAVES are shrinking on the trees,
Where the nests are hidden;
There's a hush among the bees,
As to roam forbidden;
There's the silk of corn that shows
Faded tangles blowing:
So that everybody knows,
Darling, summer's going.
There are insects' wings that gleam;
Locusts shrilly calling;
There are silences that seem
Into sadness falling;
There is not another rose
But the sweet-brier blowing:
So that everybody knows,
Darling, summer's going.
There's the mist that haunts the night
Into morning sailing,
Leaving filmy webs of light
On the grasses trailing;
There's the fierce red sun that glows,
Through the vapor showing:
So that everybody knows,
Darling, summer's going.
Breathe but softest little sigh.
Child, for vanished roses,
For each season, going by,
Something sweet discloses;
And if in your heart has grown
Truth to fairer blowing,
Summer then will be your own,
Spite of summer's going.