II

THIS is Lina, with her lamb,Lina and her lamb together,In the pleasant, flowery weather.“What a happy lamb I am!”—That is what the lamb would sayIf the lamb could only speak—“Lina loves me all the week;Lina loves me night and day;Lina loves me all the hours;Lina goes to gather flowers;Lina knows them, Lina finds them;Lina takes the flowers, and binds themIn a necklace for her lamb!”—Happy Lina, happy lamb!Lina and her lamb together,In the pleasant flowery weather.

This is Lina with her lamb,Lina and her lamb together,In the snowy winter weather;“What a happy lamb I am!”That is what the lamb would sayIf the lamb could only speak—“Lina loves me, Lina heeds me,Lina carries me, and feeds me!”Happy Lina, happy lamb!Lina and her lamb together,In the freezing winter weather.

GOOD morrow, Little Stranger,Good morrow, Baby dear!Good morrow, too, Mrs. Grainger,And what do you do here?With your boxes, caps, and cap-strings,Drowsy, hazard-hap things,And love of good cheer?I’m a little boy that goes, ma’am,Straight to the point;You said that my nose, ma’am,Would soon be out of joint;But my nose keeps its place, ma’am—The middle of my face, ma’am;It is a nose of grace, ma’am—Aroint thee, aroint!

GOOD morrow, Little Stranger,Good morrow, Baby dear!Good morrow, too, Mrs. Grainger,And what do you do here?With your boxes, caps, and cap-strings,Drowsy, hazard-hap things,And love of good cheer?

I’m a little boy that goes, ma’am,Straight to the point;You said that my nose, ma’am,Would soon be out of joint;But my nose keeps its place, ma’am—The middle of my face, ma’am;It is a nose of grace, ma’am—Aroint thee, aroint!

GOOD morrow, Little Stranger,A girl, or a boy?Good morrow, Mrs. Grainger—Where are you, ma’am?—ahoy!Here’s all things in their proper place,And people likewise,The laundry-maid in the copper-place,The skylark in the skies!Here’s love for Mamma,And love for Papa;Here’s a penny for a scavenger,And a bag for the blooming lavender,And a rope for Don’t Care,And a kiss for the little Baby,And one for a pretty ladyWith a diamond in her hair!

THE Giant sat on a rock up high,With the wind in his shaggy hair;And he said, “I have drained the dairies dry,And stripped the orchards bare;“I have eaten the sheep, with the wool on their backs,”(A nasty giant was he,)“The eggs and the shells, the honey, the wax,The fowls, and the cock-turkéy;

THE Giant sat on a rock up high,With the wind in his shaggy hair;And he said, “I have drained the dairies dry,And stripped the orchards bare;

“I have eaten the sheep, with the wool on their backs,”(A nasty giant was he,)“The eggs and the shells, the honey, the wax,The fowls, and the cock-turkéy;

“And now I think I could eat a scoreOf babies so plump and small;And if, after that, I should want any more,Their brothers and sisters and all.“To-morrow I’ll do it. Ha! what was that?”Said he, for a sound he heard;“Was it fluttering owl or pattering rat,Or bough to the breeze that stirred?”Oh, it was neither rat nor owl,Giant! nor shaking leaf;Young Harold has heard your scheme so foul,And it may come to grief!One thing which you ate has escaped your mind,—Young Harold his guinea-pig dear;And he has crept up to try and findHis pet, and he shakes with fear;He has hid himself in a corner, you know,To listen and look about;And if to the village to-morrow you go,You may find the babes gone out!

“And now I think I could eat a scoreOf babies so plump and small;And if, after that, I should want any more,Their brothers and sisters and all.

“To-morrow I’ll do it. Ha! what was that?”Said he, for a sound he heard;“Was it fluttering owl or pattering rat,Or bough to the breeze that stirred?”

Oh, it was neither rat nor owl,Giant! nor shaking leaf;Young Harold has heard your scheme so foul,And it may come to grief!

One thing which you ate has escaped your mind,—Young Harold his guinea-pig dear;And he has crept up to try and findHis pet, and he shakes with fear;

He has hid himself in a corner, you know,To listen and look about;And if to the village to-morrow you go,You may find the babes gone out!

Now, when to the village came Harold backAnd told his tale so wild,Then every mother she cried, “Good lack!My child! preserve my child!”And every father took his swordAnd sharpened it on a stone;But little Harold said never a word,Having a plan of his own.He laid six harrows outside the stileThat led to the village green,Then on them a little hay did pile,For the prongs not to be seen.A toothsome sucking-pig he slew,And thereby did it lay;For why? Because young Harold knewThe Giant would pass that way.Then he went in and said his prayers,—Not to lie down to sleep;But at his window up the stairsA watch all night did keep,Till the little stars all went pale to bed,Because the sun was out,And the sky in the east grew dapple-red,And the little birds chirped about.

Now, when to the village came Harold backAnd told his tale so wild,Then every mother she cried, “Good lack!My child! preserve my child!”

And every father took his swordAnd sharpened it on a stone;But little Harold said never a word,Having a plan of his own.

He laid six harrows outside the stileThat led to the village green,Then on them a little hay did pile,For the prongs not to be seen.

A toothsome sucking-pig he slew,And thereby did it lay;For why? Because young Harold knewThe Giant would pass that way.

Then he went in and said his prayers,—Not to lie down to sleep;But at his window up the stairsA watch all night did keep,

Till the little stars all went pale to bed,Because the sun was out,And the sky in the east grew dapple-red,And the little birds chirped about.

Now, all the village was early awake,And, with short space to pray,Their preparations they did make,To bear the babes away.The horses were being buckled in,—The little ones looked for a ride,—When on came the Giant, as ugly as Sin,With a terrible six-yard stride.Then every woman and every childTo scream aloud began;Young Harold up at his watch-tower smiled,And his sword drew every man;For now the Giant, fierce and big,Came near to the stile by the green,But when he saw that luscious pigHis lips grew wet between!Now, left foot, right foot, step it again,He trod on——the harrow spikes!And how he raged and roared with painHe may describe who likes.At last he fell, and as he layLoud bellowing on the ground,The stalwart men of the village, theyWith drawn swords danced around.“O spare my life, I you entreat!I will be a Giant good!O take out those thorns that prick my feet,Which now are bathed in blood!”Then the little village maids did feelFor this Giant so shaggy-haired,And to their parents they did kneel,Saying, “Let his life be spared!”His bleeding wounds the maids did bind;They framed a litter strongWith all the hurdles they could find;Six horses drew him along;And all the way to his castle rudeUp high in the piny rocks,He promised to be a Giant good—The cruel, crafty fox!

Now, all the village was early awake,And, with short space to pray,Their preparations they did make,To bear the babes away.

The horses were being buckled in,—The little ones looked for a ride,—When on came the Giant, as ugly as Sin,With a terrible six-yard stride.

Then every woman and every childTo scream aloud began;Young Harold up at his watch-tower smiled,And his sword drew every man;

For now the Giant, fierce and big,Came near to the stile by the green,But when he saw that luscious pigHis lips grew wet between!

Now, left foot, right foot, step it again,He trod on——the harrow spikes!And how he raged and roared with painHe may describe who likes.

At last he fell, and as he layLoud bellowing on the ground,The stalwart men of the village, theyWith drawn swords danced around.

“O spare my life, I you entreat!I will be a Giant good!O take out those thorns that prick my feet,Which now are bathed in blood!”

Then the little village maids did feelFor this Giant so shaggy-haired,And to their parents they did kneel,Saying, “Let his life be spared!”

His bleeding wounds the maids did bind;They framed a litter strongWith all the hurdles they could find;Six horses drew him along;

And all the way to his castle rudeUp high in the piny rocks,He promised to be a Giant good—The cruel, crafty fox!

“O mother, lend me your largest tub!”—“Why, daughter? tell me quick!”—“O mother, to make a syllabubFor the Giant who is so sick.”Now in fever-fit the Giant lay,From the pain in his wounded feet,And hoping soon would come the dayWhen he might the babies eat.“O mother, dress me in white, I beg,With flowers and pretty gear;For Mary and Madge, and Jess and Peg,And all my playmates dear,“We go to the Giant’s this afternoon,To carry him something nice,—A custard three times as big as the moon,With sugar and wine and spice.”“O daughter, your father shall go with you;Suppose the Giant is well,And eats you up, what shall we do?”Then her thought did Alice tell:—“No, mother dear; we go alone,And Heaven for us will care;If the Giant bad has a heart of stone,We will soften it with prayer!”Now, when the Giant saw these maids,Drest all in white, draw near,He twitched his monstrous shoulder-blades,And dropped an honest tear!“Dear Giant, a syllabub nice we bring,Pray let us tuck you in!”The Giant said, “Sweet innocent thing!“Oh, I am a lump of sin!“Go home, and say to the man of prayerTo make the church-door wide,For I next Sunday will be there,And kneel, dears, at your side.“Tell brave young Harold I forgiveHim for the harrow-spikes;And I will do, please Heaven I live,What penance the prayer-man likes.“Set down, my dears, the syllabub,And as I better feel,I’ll try and eat a fox’s cubAt my next mid-day meal;“And all my life the village I’ll keepFrom harmful vermin free;But never more will eat up the sheep,The honey, or cock-turkéy!”

“O mother, lend me your largest tub!”—“Why, daughter? tell me quick!”—“O mother, to make a syllabubFor the Giant who is so sick.”

Now in fever-fit the Giant lay,From the pain in his wounded feet,And hoping soon would come the dayWhen he might the babies eat.

“O mother, dress me in white, I beg,With flowers and pretty gear;For Mary and Madge, and Jess and Peg,And all my playmates dear,

“We go to the Giant’s this afternoon,To carry him something nice,—A custard three times as big as the moon,With sugar and wine and spice.”

“O daughter, your father shall go with you;Suppose the Giant is well,And eats you up, what shall we do?”Then her thought did Alice tell:—

“No, mother dear; we go alone,And Heaven for us will care;If the Giant bad has a heart of stone,We will soften it with prayer!”

Now, when the Giant saw these maids,Drest all in white, draw near,He twitched his monstrous shoulder-blades,And dropped an honest tear!

“Dear Giant, a syllabub nice we bring,Pray let us tuck you in!”The Giant said, “Sweet innocent thing!“Oh, I am a lump of sin!

“Go home, and say to the man of prayerTo make the church-door wide,For I next Sunday will be there,And kneel, dears, at your side.

“Tell brave young Harold I forgiveHim for the harrow-spikes;And I will do, please Heaven I live,What penance the prayer-man likes.

“Set down, my dears, the syllabub,And as I better feel,I’ll try and eat a fox’s cubAt my next mid-day meal;

“And all my life the village I’ll keepFrom harmful vermin free;But never more will eat up the sheep,The honey, or cock-turkéy!”

Now Sunday came, and in the aisleDid kneel the Giant tall;The priest could not forbear a smile,The church it looked so small!And, as the Giant walked away,He knocked off the roof with his head;But he quarried stones on the following day,To build another instead.

Now Sunday came, and in the aisleDid kneel the Giant tall;The priest could not forbear a smile,The church it looked so small!

And, as the Giant walked away,He knocked off the roof with his head;But he quarried stones on the following day,To build another instead.

AND it was high and broad and long,And a hundred years it stood,To tell of the Giant so cruel and strongThat kindness had made good.And when Harold and Alice were married there,A handsome sight was seen;For the bridegroom was brave, and the bride was fair—Long live our gracious Queen!

AND it was high and broad and long,And a hundred years it stood,To tell of the Giant so cruel and strongThat kindness had made good.

And when Harold and Alice were married there,A handsome sight was seen;For the bridegroom was brave, and the bride was fair—Long live our gracious Queen!

OH, who loves Prince Philibert?Who but myself?His foot’s in the stirrup;His book’s on the shelf;His dapple-grey DobbinAttends to his whip,And rocks up and downOn the floor like a ship.I went to the pond with him,Just like the sea,To swim his three-deckerThat’s named after me;His cheeks were like roses;He knew all the rocks;He looks like a sailorIn grey knickerbocks.Oh, where is the keepsakeI gave you, my prince?I keep yours in a drawerThat smells of a quince:So how can I lose it?But you, giddy thing!Keep mine in your pocket,Mixed up with some string.Remember the riddleI told you last week!And how I forgave youThat scratch on the cheek!You could not have helped it,—You never would strike,Intending to do it,The girl that you like!You call me Miss Stupid,You call me Miss Prue;But how do you like meIn crimson and blue?We go partners in findings,And money, and that,You help me in ciphering;Look at my hat!I love you, Prince Philibert!Who but myself?With your foot in the stirrup,Your book on the shelf!We call you a prince, John,But oh, when you crackThe nuts we go halves in,You’re my Filbert Jack!

OH, who loves Prince Philibert?Who but myself?His foot’s in the stirrup;His book’s on the shelf;His dapple-grey DobbinAttends to his whip,And rocks up and downOn the floor like a ship.

I went to the pond with him,Just like the sea,To swim his three-deckerThat’s named after me;His cheeks were like roses;He knew all the rocks;He looks like a sailorIn grey knickerbocks.

Oh, where is the keepsakeI gave you, my prince?I keep yours in a drawerThat smells of a quince:So how can I lose it?But you, giddy thing!Keep mine in your pocket,Mixed up with some string.

Remember the riddleI told you last week!And how I forgave youThat scratch on the cheek!

You could not have helped it,—You never would strike,Intending to do it,The girl that you like!

You call me Miss Stupid,You call me Miss Prue;But how do you like meIn crimson and blue?We go partners in findings,And money, and that,You help me in ciphering;Look at my hat!

I love you, Prince Philibert!Who but myself?With your foot in the stirrup,Your book on the shelf!We call you a prince, John,But oh, when you crackThe nuts we go halves in,You’re my Filbert Jack!

THERE was a little jackdawLived on a vane;He was a very black daw,Shiny in the rain.There was a boy in gold;There was a girl in green;The lad was very bold;The maid was more serene.There was a little church;It had a little steeple;The jackdaw on his perchCawed at the people.This little golden boyAnd green damoselDid make it their employTheir loves for to tell.And early in the morning,It came into their headThemselves to be adorningAnd go for to be wed.The girl in green did stammerAt sayingI take thee;Gaffer said, and Gammer,“What a pair they be!”The yellow boy was bolder,And spoke up like a king,As if he had been older—Hark, the bells ring!In pops the jackdawAt the belfry-door;“Caw!” says the jackdaw,“One peal more!”

THERE was a little jackdawLived on a vane;He was a very black daw,Shiny in the rain.

There was a boy in gold;There was a girl in green;The lad was very bold;The maid was more serene.

There was a little church;It had a little steeple;The jackdaw on his perchCawed at the people.

This little golden boyAnd green damoselDid make it their employTheir loves for to tell.

And early in the morning,It came into their headThemselves to be adorningAnd go for to be wed.

The girl in green did stammerAt sayingI take thee;Gaffer said, and Gammer,“What a pair they be!”

The yellow boy was bolder,And spoke up like a king,As if he had been older—Hark, the bells ring!

In pops the jackdawAt the belfry-door;“Caw!” says the jackdaw,“One peal more!”

THE tawny sheaves of wheatAre standing on their feet,They cuddle together,They huddle together,They laugh out bold,Their tassels of goldThey toss up together;They gossip togetherIn the harvest weather;And what may the thing they are whispering be?The trees stand waiting;The windmills are pratingAnd gesticulating—But what is debating?What do they wait to hear or to see?We shall soon know, I trust—Whew, the wind! justA soft, rapid gust,That swirls about the dustIn the serpentine green lane, and the straws upon the lea!The light white mill divines;I can see him making signsTo his heavy black brother;They nod to each other—“Hail-fellows-well-met with the Wind are we!”And my lady in her bower,Or her parlour, or her tower,Says, “In about an hourWe shall have a thunder-shower”——Shine or storm, pretty lady, keep a kiss for me!

The trees stand waiting;The windmills are pratingAnd gesticulating—But what is debating?What do they wait to hear or to see?

We shall soon know, I trust—Whew, the wind! justA soft, rapid gust,That swirls about the dustIn the serpentine green lane, and the straws upon the lea!

The light white mill divines;I can see him making signsTo his heavy black brother;They nod to each other—“Hail-fellows-well-met with the Wind are we!”

And my lady in her bower,Or her parlour, or her tower,Says, “In about an hourWe shall have a thunder-shower”——Shine or storm, pretty lady, keep a kiss for me!

ISAID to the babe, out of swaddling bands,As it kicked up its heels, and flung out its hands,And blew little bubbles, and cried, and crew,“You innocent dear! But I wouldn’t be you!And yet I don’t know: you have never to think;You have only to snuggle, and sleep, and drink,And, in spite of original sin, grow fat.Yes, really, one might do worse than that!”I said to the schoolboy, “You joyous elf!”—I mean, I murmured the thing to myself,Or he would have laughed—“Get out, sir, do!I have half a mind to wish I were you!”He looked so jolly, that scaramouch did,As gay as a Clown, as bold as the Cid;But then I remembered task and taws—There is always something to make one pause.And my dot of a daughter, she says, “Papa!I wish you would make me my own mamma!Sheisso happy, sheisso nice!And then I would give you my three white mice!”Says I, “You’re a duck, a dear, a pearl!”But really my brain was inclined to whirl;“There is always something,” I thought; “but why?Perhaps we shall know of it by-and-bye.”So I went to my bed, and I dreamed that nightOf a saint in heaven, all shining white.“Sweet, fair-eyed seraph!” said I, in sleep;“I wish I were you, in the rest you keep!”And yet at the word I thought, in bed,Of wife, and Walter, and Winifred;The Christmas bells my slumber broke:“There is always something!” thought I, and woke.

ISAID to the babe, out of swaddling bands,As it kicked up its heels, and flung out its hands,And blew little bubbles, and cried, and crew,“You innocent dear! But I wouldn’t be you!

And yet I don’t know: you have never to think;You have only to snuggle, and sleep, and drink,And, in spite of original sin, grow fat.Yes, really, one might do worse than that!”

I said to the schoolboy, “You joyous elf!”—I mean, I murmured the thing to myself,Or he would have laughed—“Get out, sir, do!I have half a mind to wish I were you!”

He looked so jolly, that scaramouch did,As gay as a Clown, as bold as the Cid;But then I remembered task and taws—There is always something to make one pause.

And my dot of a daughter, she says, “Papa!I wish you would make me my own mamma!Sheisso happy, sheisso nice!And then I would give you my three white mice!”

Says I, “You’re a duck, a dear, a pearl!”But really my brain was inclined to whirl;“There is always something,” I thought; “but why?Perhaps we shall know of it by-and-bye.”

So I went to my bed, and I dreamed that nightOf a saint in heaven, all shining white.“Sweet, fair-eyed seraph!” said I, in sleep;“I wish I were you, in the rest you keep!”

And yet at the word I thought, in bed,Of wife, and Walter, and Winifred;The Christmas bells my slumber broke:“There is always something!” thought I, and woke.

GREAT, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,With the wonderful water round you curled,And the wonderful grass upon your breast—World, you are beautifully drest.The wonderful air is over me,And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree,It walks on the water, and whirls the mills,And talks to itself on the tops of the hills.You friendly Earth! how far do you go,With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow,With cities and gardens, and cliffs, and isles,And people upon you for thousands of miles?Ah, you are so great, and I am so small,I tremble to think of you, World, at all;And yet, when I said my prayers to-day,A whisper inside me seemed to say,“You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot:You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!”

GREAT, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,With the wonderful water round you curled,And the wonderful grass upon your breast—World, you are beautifully drest.

The wonderful air is over me,And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree,It walks on the water, and whirls the mills,And talks to itself on the tops of the hills.

You friendly Earth! how far do you go,With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow,With cities and gardens, and cliffs, and isles,And people upon you for thousands of miles?

Ah, you are so great, and I am so small,I tremble to think of you, World, at all;And yet, when I said my prayers to-day,A whisper inside me seemed to say,“You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot:You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!”

THAT is the Kitten,The one in blackThat you see at the back,Whose heart was smitten(For kittens have heartsAs well as brainsAnd other parts,For pleasures and pains)—Was smitten, I say,On a sunshiny day,By a callow chicken,And made a pickingOf the chicken’s bonesOut there, on the stones,To the great disgustOf the mother Hen,Who came up then,When the feast was ended,And the undefendedFowl just swallowed!And the Hen was followedBy the Cock well-grown,Who seemed disgustedThat the Hen had trustedThe chicken alone.It was on the next dayThat the Cat did essayTo visit the placeOf this disgrace,In search of a chickenAgain for picking;But now the Cock,As firm as a rock,Beholding the Kitten,With rage was smitten,And stuck out his chest,And set up his crest,And crowed defiance,Like an army of lions,To the Kitten who there,With his tail in the air,Saw that the hens,—Three in number,—Were not in slumber,And so had the senseTo take his departure,Like the arrow of an archerSwift from a bow,And left the Cock,As firm as a rock,To ruffle and crow,All under the door,As we said before,With nothing to tire him,And the hens to admire him.In a corner was sittingAnother Kitten,White, not black,Who heard the clack,And knowing the storyOf the chicken gory,And, seeing the CockDefying the other(It was her brother!)Had trepidationsAnd meditationsAbout taking chickens,And such, for pickings.But cats will be catsThe whole world long!

It was on the next dayThat the Cat did essayTo visit the placeOf this disgrace,In search of a chickenAgain for picking;But now the Cock,As firm as a rock,Beholding the Kitten,With rage was smitten,And stuck out his chest,And set up his crest,And crowed defiance,Like an army of lions,To the Kitten who there,With his tail in the air,Saw that the hens,—Three in number,—Were not in slumber,And so had the senseTo take his departure,Like the arrow of an archerSwift from a bow,And left the Cock,As firm as a rock,To ruffle and crow,All under the door,As we said before,With nothing to tire him,And the hens to admire him.

In a corner was sittingAnother Kitten,White, not black,Who heard the clack,And knowing the storyOf the chicken gory,And, seeing the CockDefying the other(It was her brother!)Had trepidationsAnd meditationsAbout taking chickens,And such, for pickings.But cats will be catsThe whole world long!

“MAKE us a song, then, mother dear!Sweet to think of, and sweet to sing,”Said the little daughter and the little son;Their lips were gay, and their eyes were clear—“And let the song be an easy one,Sweet to think of, and sweet to sing.”“Sweet to think of, and sweet to hear?How shall I make it, children dear?The night is falling, the winds are rough;What will you give me to make it of?”“No, mother dear, the winds are soft,And the sky is blue and clear aloft,And oh! we can give you things enoughTo make the beautiful music of.

“Sweet to think of, and sweet to hear?How shall I make it, children dear?The night is falling, the winds are rough;What will you give me to make it of?”

“No, mother dear, the winds are soft,And the sky is blue and clear aloft,And oh! we can give you things enoughTo make the beautiful music of.

“WE will give you the morning and afternoon,We will give you the sun, and a white full moon;You shall have all our prettiest toys,And fields and flowers, and girls and boys.“We will give you a bird, and a ship at sea,And a golden cloud, and an almond-tree,A picture gay, a river that runs,A chime of bells, and hot cross-buns.“You may have roses and rubies rare,And silks and satins beyond compare,A sceptre and crown, a queen, a king,And beautiful dreams, and everything!We will give you all that we think or know—The song will be sweet if you make it so.”Then the mother smiled as she beganTo make the music, and sweet it ran,And easy enough, for a strain or two;And the children said, “Mother, the song will do!”But soon the melody ran less clear;There came a pause, and a wandering tear,And a thought that went back many a year;And the children fancied the music long,And asked, “What have you put into the songThat we did not tell you, mother dear?”

“WE will give you the morning and afternoon,We will give you the sun, and a white full moon;You shall have all our prettiest toys,And fields and flowers, and girls and boys.

“We will give you a bird, and a ship at sea,And a golden cloud, and an almond-tree,A picture gay, a river that runs,A chime of bells, and hot cross-buns.

“You may have roses and rubies rare,And silks and satins beyond compare,A sceptre and crown, a queen, a king,And beautiful dreams, and everything!We will give you all that we think or know—The song will be sweet if you make it so.”

Then the mother smiled as she beganTo make the music, and sweet it ran,And easy enough, for a strain or two;And the children said, “Mother, the song will do!”

But soon the melody ran less clear;There came a pause, and a wandering tear,And a thought that went back many a year;And the children fancied the music long,And asked, “What have you put into the songThat we did not tell you, mother dear?”

THE trees and the flowers seem running a race,But none treads down the other;And neither thinks it his disgraceTo be later than his brother.Yet the pear-tree shouts to the lilac-tree,“Make haste, for the Spring is late!”And the lilac whispers to the chestnut-tree(Because he is so great),“Pray you, great sir, be quick, be quick,For down below we are blossoming thick!”Then the chestnut hears, and comes out in bloom,White, or pink, to the tip-top boughs—Oh, why not grow higher, there’s plenty of room,You beautiful tree, with the sky for your house?Then like music they seem to burst out together,The little and the big, with a beautiful burst;They sweeten the wind, they paint the weather,And no one remembers which was first:White rose, red rose,Bud rose, shed rose,Larkspur, and lily, and the rest,North, south, east, west,June, July, August, September!Ever so late in the year will comeMany a red geranium,And chrysanthemums up to November!Then the winter has overtaken them all,The fogs and the rains begin to fall,And the flowers, after running their races,Are weary, and shut up their little faces,And under the ground they go to sleep.Is it very far down? Yes, ever so deep.

THE trees and the flowers seem running a race,But none treads down the other;And neither thinks it his disgraceTo be later than his brother.

Yet the pear-tree shouts to the lilac-tree,“Make haste, for the Spring is late!”And the lilac whispers to the chestnut-tree(Because he is so great),“Pray you, great sir, be quick, be quick,For down below we are blossoming thick!”

Then the chestnut hears, and comes out in bloom,White, or pink, to the tip-top boughs—Oh, why not grow higher, there’s plenty of room,You beautiful tree, with the sky for your house?Then like music they seem to burst out together,The little and the big, with a beautiful burst;They sweeten the wind, they paint the weather,And no one remembers which was first:White rose, red rose,Bud rose, shed rose,Larkspur, and lily, and the rest,North, south, east, west,June, July, August, September!

Ever so late in the year will comeMany a red geranium,And chrysanthemums up to November!Then the winter has overtaken them all,The fogs and the rains begin to fall,And the flowers, after running their races,Are weary, and shut up their little faces,And under the ground they go to sleep.Is it very far down? Yes, ever so deep.

BROWN eyes,Straight nose;Dirt pies,Rumpled clothes;Torn books,Spoilt toys;Arch looks,Unlike a boy’s;Little rages,Obvious arts;(Three her age is,)Cakes, tarts;Falling downOff chairs;Breaking crownDown stairs;

BROWN eyes,Straight nose;Dirt pies,Rumpled clothes;

Torn books,Spoilt toys;Arch looks,Unlike a boy’s;

Little rages,Obvious arts;(Three her age is,)Cakes, tarts;

Falling downOff chairs;Breaking crownDown stairs;

CATCHING fliesOn the pane;Deep sighs,—Cause not plain;Bribing youWith kissesFor a fewFarthing blisses;Wide awake,As you hear,“Mercy’s sake,Quiet, dear!”New shoes,New frock;Vague viewsOf what’s o’clockWhen it’s timeTo go to bed,And scorn sublimeOf what is said;Folded hands,Saying prayers,UnderstandsNot, nor cares;Thinks it odd,Smiles away;Yet may GodHear her pray!Bedgown white,Kiss Dolly;Good-night!—That’s Polly,Fast asleep,As you see;Heaven keepMy girl for me!

CATCHING fliesOn the pane;Deep sighs,—Cause not plain;

Bribing youWith kissesFor a fewFarthing blisses;

Wide awake,As you hear,“Mercy’s sake,Quiet, dear!”

New shoes,New frock;Vague viewsOf what’s o’clock

When it’s timeTo go to bed,And scorn sublimeOf what is said;

Folded hands,Saying prayers,UnderstandsNot, nor cares;

Thinks it odd,Smiles away;Yet may GodHear her pray!

Bedgown white,Kiss Dolly;Good-night!—That’s Polly,

Fast asleep,As you see;Heaven keepMy girl for me!

NOW, who will live in the windmill, who,With the powdery miller-man?The miller is one, but who’ll make two,To share his loaf and can?“O, I will live with the miller, I!To grind the corn is grand;The great black sails go up on high,And come down to the land!”Now who will be the miller’s bride?The miller’s in haste to wedA girl in her pride, with a sash at her side,A girl with a curly head!“O, I will be the miller’s wife;The dust is all my joy;To live in a windmill all my lifeWould be a sweet employ!”Then spake the goblin of the sails(You heard, but could not see),“The wickedest man of the hills and dales,The miller-man is he!“None ever dwelt in the mill beforeBut died by the miller’s steel;The whiskered rats lap up their gore,He grinds their bones to meal!”O gossiping goblin, my dreams will be bad,You tell such dreadful tales!O mill, how secret you seem! how mad,How wicked you look, black sails!

NOW, who will live in the windmill, who,With the powdery miller-man?The miller is one, but who’ll make two,To share his loaf and can?

“O, I will live with the miller, I!To grind the corn is grand;The great black sails go up on high,And come down to the land!”

Now who will be the miller’s bride?The miller’s in haste to wedA girl in her pride, with a sash at her side,A girl with a curly head!

“O, I will be the miller’s wife;The dust is all my joy;To live in a windmill all my lifeWould be a sweet employ!”

Then spake the goblin of the sails(You heard, but could not see),“The wickedest man of the hills and dales,The miller-man is he!

“None ever dwelt in the mill beforeBut died by the miller’s steel;The whiskered rats lap up their gore,He grinds their bones to meal!”

O gossiping goblin, my dreams will be bad,You tell such dreadful tales!O mill, how secret you seem! how mad,How wicked you look, black sails!

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