A family of Fairies lived under the ground,And search as they might no place co'd be found,Where a home they could make, a snug little nest,A refuge from harm when by foes they were pressed.Day in, and day out they skurried about,Putting fish worms, and beetles, and such like to rout.At length one, the most energetic of all,Found something quite large and round like a ball,So calling the family, with pickaxe and spadesThey soon in the wonder an opening made.And what do you think they found it to be?A turnip so large it might have been three.So they hollowed it out as fast as they could,Not pausing a moment for rest or for food.A part of the contents they hurled from the door,And trampled the rest to thicken the floor,And ere through the holes the sun 'gan to peep,The turnip was empty, the Fairies asleep.The gardener on passing his turnip bed saw,'Midst the flourishing green a queer looking flaw:"Why, how can this be? I'm sure yester-e'en,That turnip, as any, was thrifty and green.There may be a grub at its root, or perhaps,A bug at its top, they are meddlesome chaps;I'll wait until morning, the heat of the sunMay have proven too much for a delicate one."In the meantime the Fairies waked up by his words,Laughed and chuckled together as happy as birds."Before he comes round, we'll have finished and done,And he'll find that his turnip is not worth a bun.He will leave it and we will hold revelry high,For that some may have life, why, something must die."So they cut a small hole through the top, for a door,The tiniest roots from the outside they tore,And made them a ladder, so firm and so fairIt answered their purpose and served as a stair.A cabbage leaf carpet, a bedstead so neatThey made in a minute, just out of a beet,A table and chairs were made out of roots,Supported in style by asparagus shoots.Lace curtains of spider webs, hung o'er the doors,And bumble bee skins were the rugs on the floors,Their dishes were all from the button weed made,Their knives and their forks from the tiny grass blade,Corn silk for their cushions, thistledown for a bed,"Our home will be royal," they boastingly said.They caught a black cricket and hollowed him out,For a crib the sweet baby must have, without doubt,And the cricket, his life, ought gladly to give,For "something must die, that others may live."But why should I tell you the wonderful wayThey furnished and finished their house the next day?They sent invitations to their four hundred friends—"At Home—after sunset until the night ends."But plans that are made for ends of our own,May steal our sweet plums and leave us the stone.Next day as the gardener walked down through the rowsPressing down the soft earth here and there with his toes,He found that the turnip looked worse than before—And grimly he smiled, for he saw the top door,That the Fairies forgot in their hurry last nightTo close with the curtains, and fasten down tight,So stooping, he gathered the leaves dry and dead,Gave a vigorous pull, and away o'er his headHe sent it a-flying—Poor Fairies, good-bye—"That something may live, you know, something must die."
A family of Fairies lived under the ground,And search as they might no place co'd be found,Where a home they could make, a snug little nest,A refuge from harm when by foes they were pressed.Day in, and day out they skurried about,Putting fish worms, and beetles, and such like to rout.At length one, the most energetic of all,Found something quite large and round like a ball,So calling the family, with pickaxe and spadesThey soon in the wonder an opening made.And what do you think they found it to be?A turnip so large it might have been three.So they hollowed it out as fast as they could,Not pausing a moment for rest or for food.A part of the contents they hurled from the door,And trampled the rest to thicken the floor,And ere through the holes the sun 'gan to peep,The turnip was empty, the Fairies asleep.The gardener on passing his turnip bed saw,'Midst the flourishing green a queer looking flaw:"Why, how can this be? I'm sure yester-e'en,That turnip, as any, was thrifty and green.There may be a grub at its root, or perhaps,A bug at its top, they are meddlesome chaps;I'll wait until morning, the heat of the sunMay have proven too much for a delicate one."In the meantime the Fairies waked up by his words,Laughed and chuckled together as happy as birds."Before he comes round, we'll have finished and done,And he'll find that his turnip is not worth a bun.He will leave it and we will hold revelry high,For that some may have life, why, something must die."So they cut a small hole through the top, for a door,The tiniest roots from the outside they tore,And made them a ladder, so firm and so fairIt answered their purpose and served as a stair.A cabbage leaf carpet, a bedstead so neatThey made in a minute, just out of a beet,A table and chairs were made out of roots,Supported in style by asparagus shoots.Lace curtains of spider webs, hung o'er the doors,And bumble bee skins were the rugs on the floors,Their dishes were all from the button weed made,Their knives and their forks from the tiny grass blade,Corn silk for their cushions, thistledown for a bed,"Our home will be royal," they boastingly said.They caught a black cricket and hollowed him out,For a crib the sweet baby must have, without doubt,And the cricket, his life, ought gladly to give,For "something must die, that others may live."But why should I tell you the wonderful wayThey furnished and finished their house the next day?They sent invitations to their four hundred friends—"At Home—after sunset until the night ends."But plans that are made for ends of our own,May steal our sweet plums and leave us the stone.Next day as the gardener walked down through the rowsPressing down the soft earth here and there with his toes,He found that the turnip looked worse than before—And grimly he smiled, for he saw the top door,That the Fairies forgot in their hurry last nightTo close with the curtains, and fasten down tight,So stooping, he gathered the leaves dry and dead,Gave a vigorous pull, and away o'er his headHe sent it a-flying—Poor Fairies, good-bye—"That something may live, you know, something must die."
Standing to-night beside their little bed,All richly hung with tapestry and lace,I look half sadly down upon my treasures there,My boys, so full of innocence and grace,My little lambs, safe folded for the night,Caught by the god of slumber unaware.The sturdy lad's soft cheek close pressedAgainst his baby brother's, soft and fair;The smile is still upon the boy's red mouth.On baby's face the roguish dimples lie;The curls of brown, the shining rings of gold,Like sun and shadow tremble as I sigh—Sigh that so much of innocence and graceSo soon must leave a mother's tender care—So soon the hurrying years crowd on apace,And bring to each of toil and pain his share.To-day, when poisoned breath from lips profane,Blown harshly from the busy street below,Entered my safe retreat, and broughtQuick to my side the lad, his cheeks aglow,His hazel eyes with wonder wide met mine;I could not speak—I stooped and kissed his hand.The shadow passed, my heart leaped up in joy—The words—the sin—he did not understand.But ere the cloud had left his childish faceUpon my heart this deeper shadow lay:I cannot always keep my darlings safe;They'll leave the shelter of the fold some day.Strong-willed, strong-hearted, loving boys—Harmonious souls by angels set attune—Oh, may my fingers touch the keys aright!I ask of Heaven than this no greater boon;No greater boon than wisdom from on highTo strengthen them against the snares of sin;To teach them how to live and how to die,To hear their Master bid them "Enter in!"So, with my good-night kiss upon your lipsI'll banish all the shadows from my heart,And know He'll send His blessed sunshine in,If only you and I will doourpart.
Standing to-night beside their little bed,All richly hung with tapestry and lace,I look half sadly down upon my treasures there,My boys, so full of innocence and grace,My little lambs, safe folded for the night,Caught by the god of slumber unaware.The sturdy lad's soft cheek close pressedAgainst his baby brother's, soft and fair;The smile is still upon the boy's red mouth.On baby's face the roguish dimples lie;The curls of brown, the shining rings of gold,Like sun and shadow tremble as I sigh—Sigh that so much of innocence and graceSo soon must leave a mother's tender care—So soon the hurrying years crowd on apace,And bring to each of toil and pain his share.To-day, when poisoned breath from lips profane,Blown harshly from the busy street below,Entered my safe retreat, and broughtQuick to my side the lad, his cheeks aglow,His hazel eyes with wonder wide met mine;I could not speak—I stooped and kissed his hand.The shadow passed, my heart leaped up in joy—The words—the sin—he did not understand.But ere the cloud had left his childish faceUpon my heart this deeper shadow lay:I cannot always keep my darlings safe;They'll leave the shelter of the fold some day.Strong-willed, strong-hearted, loving boys—Harmonious souls by angels set attune—Oh, may my fingers touch the keys aright!I ask of Heaven than this no greater boon;No greater boon than wisdom from on highTo strengthen them against the snares of sin;To teach them how to live and how to die,To hear their Master bid them "Enter in!"So, with my good-night kiss upon your lipsI'll banish all the shadows from my heart,And know He'll send His blessed sunshine in,If only you and I will doourpart.
I'm only a boy, but before me lieLife's paths untrod, and a sunny skyBends o'er the paths, and smiles on me.And under its blue serene, I seeTwo ways stretch out, one, narrow and straight;The other, broad, and an open gateBeckons me on, and smiling and sweetAre the Heavens fair, and down at my feetFair flowers bloom, and the grasses nodOn the level slope of the emerald sod.In the bosky dells my eyes discernThe feathery flakes of the filmy fern,The birds' low song in the shadows deepLull my fancies to dreamful sleep.The sun-flecked slopes and the open gateSeem for my eager feet to wait.But the narrow way, though rough and steep,Has a charm for me, and my senses leapAs I view the heights that seem to riseFrom the lowly earth, to the sunlit skies.Though rough and steep, and with danger fraught,Though the glorious heights with my life be bought—I'll turn from the broad road leading down,And seek the heights and the laurel crown.From the blood-stained prints of my thorn-pierced feet,Spring wonderful flowers, whose fragrance sweet,Borne on the breath of the balmy air,Charms my heart and dispels my care.The beetling crags that block my way,The storm cloud's gloom, where the lightnings play,But give me strength for each new emprise,And joys my soul as I slowly rise;For snares and cliffs, to a boy like meShould only incentives to action be.I'm bound to rise—If I earnestly tryI know I can reach the hilltops high.But I have no time to loiter and play,On the tempting slopes of the downward way,But must follow the path, by good men trod,To rise to the heights of life and God.
I'm only a boy, but before me lieLife's paths untrod, and a sunny skyBends o'er the paths, and smiles on me.And under its blue serene, I seeTwo ways stretch out, one, narrow and straight;The other, broad, and an open gateBeckons me on, and smiling and sweetAre the Heavens fair, and down at my feetFair flowers bloom, and the grasses nodOn the level slope of the emerald sod.In the bosky dells my eyes discernThe feathery flakes of the filmy fern,The birds' low song in the shadows deepLull my fancies to dreamful sleep.The sun-flecked slopes and the open gateSeem for my eager feet to wait.But the narrow way, though rough and steep,Has a charm for me, and my senses leapAs I view the heights that seem to riseFrom the lowly earth, to the sunlit skies.Though rough and steep, and with danger fraught,Though the glorious heights with my life be bought—I'll turn from the broad road leading down,And seek the heights and the laurel crown.From the blood-stained prints of my thorn-pierced feet,Spring wonderful flowers, whose fragrance sweet,Borne on the breath of the balmy air,Charms my heart and dispels my care.The beetling crags that block my way,The storm cloud's gloom, where the lightnings play,But give me strength for each new emprise,And joys my soul as I slowly rise;For snares and cliffs, to a boy like meShould only incentives to action be.I'm bound to rise—If I earnestly tryI know I can reach the hilltops high.But I have no time to loiter and play,On the tempting slopes of the downward way,But must follow the path, by good men trod,To rise to the heights of life and God.
Dear little cherub, from isles of the blest,What is your destiny? What is your quest?Have you been watching us with your bright eyesTill you thought you would come as a cunning surprise?Did you see that this house lacked a baby so sweetTo widen the circle and make it complete?Did you see from your perch in the realms up aboveThe sweet mother-heart overflowing with love?You thought it so precious, you flew to her breast,You sought it and found it, and found, too, your rest—Your refuge from sorrow; your fortress so strong,May you rest in it, dwell in it, cherish it long.You are welcome as dewdrops when parched are the flowers;You will brighten the days till they shrink into hours.May heaven watch over you, fill you with joy,And bless the whole circle, in you, little boy.
Dear little cherub, from isles of the blest,What is your destiny? What is your quest?Have you been watching us with your bright eyesTill you thought you would come as a cunning surprise?Did you see that this house lacked a baby so sweetTo widen the circle and make it complete?Did you see from your perch in the realms up aboveThe sweet mother-heart overflowing with love?You thought it so precious, you flew to her breast,You sought it and found it, and found, too, your rest—Your refuge from sorrow; your fortress so strong,May you rest in it, dwell in it, cherish it long.You are welcome as dewdrops when parched are the flowers;You will brighten the days till they shrink into hours.May heaven watch over you, fill you with joy,And bless the whole circle, in you, little boy.
Three little kittens, black, white and gray,Went out in the garden one morning to play.Said the white one, "I want to play hide and go seek,'Tis long since we played it, much more than a week.""All right," said the gray, "I'm ready for fun,"And he started away with a hop and a run."Just wait," said the black with an ominous growl,His face wrinkled up in the crookedest scowl."It's an old-fashioned game—I shan't play at that,It is not becoming a stylish young cat;I'll sport with the leaves or I'll play in the sun,But it's tiresome, unpleasant and foolish to run."The others agreed in a good-natured way,And the three little kittens began then to play;The dead leaves went flying to right and to left,All three, for a time seemed of senses bereft;But something went wrong—"I say that's not fair,"The black kitten cried—"and to play I don't care"—The gray and the white coaxed him hard for awhile,But nothing would cause him to speak or to smile,So they left him alone and hied them away—"Hide and seek" 'mongst the roses and lilacs to play.He heard their gay laughter and sullener grew—The sun was too hot—the skies were too blue,The grass, he was certain, was damp where he lay,All things had conspired to annoy him that day,He could bear neither sunshine, the mirth that he heard,The hum of the bees, nor the chirp of a bird.How silly they seemed—it made him so cross—The pleasures of life were nothing but dross,So he hastened away in a fit of despair;All things were against him and "nothing was fair."And now, little people, does any one knowA child who is cross, and always acts so?Who cries with a pout—"I say I shan't play,Unless you do everything just as I say."If beaten at games, he says "It's not fair"—And takes of good things far more than his share.If you know such a child, I'm sure you will findHe is sour and unhappy, because he's unkind;To be happy, be gentle, good tempered and sweetTo playmates and elders and all whom you meet.
Three little kittens, black, white and gray,Went out in the garden one morning to play.Said the white one, "I want to play hide and go seek,'Tis long since we played it, much more than a week.""All right," said the gray, "I'm ready for fun,"And he started away with a hop and a run."Just wait," said the black with an ominous growl,His face wrinkled up in the crookedest scowl."It's an old-fashioned game—I shan't play at that,It is not becoming a stylish young cat;I'll sport with the leaves or I'll play in the sun,But it's tiresome, unpleasant and foolish to run."The others agreed in a good-natured way,And the three little kittens began then to play;The dead leaves went flying to right and to left,All three, for a time seemed of senses bereft;But something went wrong—"I say that's not fair,"The black kitten cried—"and to play I don't care"—The gray and the white coaxed him hard for awhile,But nothing would cause him to speak or to smile,So they left him alone and hied them away—"Hide and seek" 'mongst the roses and lilacs to play.He heard their gay laughter and sullener grew—The sun was too hot—the skies were too blue,The grass, he was certain, was damp where he lay,All things had conspired to annoy him that day,He could bear neither sunshine, the mirth that he heard,The hum of the bees, nor the chirp of a bird.How silly they seemed—it made him so cross—The pleasures of life were nothing but dross,So he hastened away in a fit of despair;All things were against him and "nothing was fair."And now, little people, does any one knowA child who is cross, and always acts so?Who cries with a pout—"I say I shan't play,Unless you do everything just as I say."If beaten at games, he says "It's not fair"—And takes of good things far more than his share.If you know such a child, I'm sure you will findHe is sour and unhappy, because he's unkind;To be happy, be gentle, good tempered and sweetTo playmates and elders and all whom you meet.
"What is the use of trying?I never can learn to fly,See how the lark goes floatingUp to the sunlit sky;He never failed as I have,See how he flies at ease,Light as a down of thistleTossed on the tremulous breeze.I have been foolishly trying,Thinking I, too, might rise,I'll stay down here in the hedges,And leave to the lark the skies."So he stayed in the crowded hedges,And lived through the summer long,Only a common sparrow—One of a common throng."What is the use of trying?Pouring o'er book and slate,I fail, and shall keep on failing,For men are created great.'Tis folly to think that studyFor so many hours a dayIs going to make out of boys and girls,Wise women and men alway.So what is the use of trying?A common lot shall be mine;Why muddle my brain with study?I never was meant to shine;"So away in the closet cupboardThe books kept gathering dust,And the mind they were meant to nourishWas buried and lost in rust.So the hedges go gathering sparrows,And the larks still mount to the sky,And out from the crowded bywaysFew souls gain the mountains high.Have courage and keep on trying,Though a sparrow, a lark cannot be,The highways that lead to the PisgahsAre open to you and to me.
"What is the use of trying?I never can learn to fly,See how the lark goes floatingUp to the sunlit sky;He never failed as I have,See how he flies at ease,Light as a down of thistleTossed on the tremulous breeze.I have been foolishly trying,Thinking I, too, might rise,I'll stay down here in the hedges,And leave to the lark the skies."So he stayed in the crowded hedges,And lived through the summer long,Only a common sparrow—One of a common throng."What is the use of trying?Pouring o'er book and slate,I fail, and shall keep on failing,For men are created great.'Tis folly to think that studyFor so many hours a dayIs going to make out of boys and girls,Wise women and men alway.So what is the use of trying?A common lot shall be mine;Why muddle my brain with study?I never was meant to shine;"So away in the closet cupboardThe books kept gathering dust,And the mind they were meant to nourishWas buried and lost in rust.So the hedges go gathering sparrows,And the larks still mount to the sky,And out from the crowded bywaysFew souls gain the mountains high.Have courage and keep on trying,Though a sparrow, a lark cannot be,The highways that lead to the PisgahsAre open to you and to me.
I've had a birthday party—Of course I'm only five—But I had the jolliest timeOf any boy alive.I got some little chickens,The roosters cannot crow;But on my mamma's tableI stand them in a row.I got the funniest bank—A man, all mouth and eyes,He swallows every penny,And every dime he spies;My mamma set a dinnerFor Ollie and for me.'Twas just alittleparty,One little girl, you see.We had the nicest oranges,And nuts, and apples red,And just the tiniest custard pie,Plum cake and snow white bread.We ate up all we wanted,Mamma sat by and smiled,And kissed my curls and dimples,And called me "precious child."And when the day was over,And I was snug in bed,She found theprettiestbook I have,And lots of stories read;And then—I can't remember,My head was in a mix;For when the sand-man found me,I dreamed that I was six.
I've had a birthday party—Of course I'm only five—But I had the jolliest timeOf any boy alive.I got some little chickens,The roosters cannot crow;But on my mamma's tableI stand them in a row.I got the funniest bank—A man, all mouth and eyes,He swallows every penny,And every dime he spies;My mamma set a dinnerFor Ollie and for me.'Twas just alittleparty,One little girl, you see.We had the nicest oranges,And nuts, and apples red,And just the tiniest custard pie,Plum cake and snow white bread.We ate up all we wanted,Mamma sat by and smiled,And kissed my curls and dimples,And called me "precious child."And when the day was over,And I was snug in bed,She found theprettiestbook I have,And lots of stories read;And then—I can't remember,My head was in a mix;For when the sand-man found me,I dreamed that I was six.
Hid away in the corner I found it,A little shoe worn out and old;But dearer to me in my sorrowThan all earth's treasures of gold.Scarcely lost to the foot's soft imprint,I can fancy its warmth still thereAs I press it close, close to my bosomAnd sob in my hopeless despair.My arms are so useless and empty,My heart is so hungry and sore,My dear little golden-haired baby,Will lie on my breast, nevermore.Nevermore, will I feel the soft pressureOf his rosy lips pressed against mine,Nevermore will his arms warm and tenderMy neck with caresses entwine.You mock when you say God has ta'en himAway from the sorrows of earth,What love could shelter and shield him,Like the love that had given him birth?Will it heal the mad longing to fold himOnce more to my grief-stricken heart,To tell me I'll meet him in HeavenNevermore from my darling to part?Your words are well meant, I can feel it,But the wound is too deep and too fresh,I cannot deal now with the spirit,Oh! God give him back in the flesh.Let me see him again as I saw him,So winsome, so rosy, so bright,His baby face dimpled and roguish,His blue eyes with laughter alight,Let me feel in my mad desolation,His heart throbbing close to my own,Does God pity me in my sorrow?Does he care for my heartbroken moan?Had he need of my darling in HeavenThat the life of my life he has ta'en?Do not try, while my poor heart is breakingThe mystery of death to explain,Let me sit by myself in the shadow,Let me kiss as I will the worn shoe;For I'm chilled by the breath of the angelThat over my hearthstone flew.Let me weep as I will, and the teardropsMay wash from my dim eyes awayThe shadows that hide in their garments,The light and the glory of day.Perhaps, as you say, Christ is tender,And he'll shelter my lamb in his breast,But your sympathy hurts me, I cannot—I will not say yet—"It is best."
Hid away in the corner I found it,A little shoe worn out and old;But dearer to me in my sorrowThan all earth's treasures of gold.Scarcely lost to the foot's soft imprint,I can fancy its warmth still thereAs I press it close, close to my bosomAnd sob in my hopeless despair.My arms are so useless and empty,My heart is so hungry and sore,My dear little golden-haired baby,Will lie on my breast, nevermore.Nevermore, will I feel the soft pressureOf his rosy lips pressed against mine,Nevermore will his arms warm and tenderMy neck with caresses entwine.You mock when you say God has ta'en himAway from the sorrows of earth,What love could shelter and shield him,Like the love that had given him birth?Will it heal the mad longing to fold himOnce more to my grief-stricken heart,To tell me I'll meet him in HeavenNevermore from my darling to part?Your words are well meant, I can feel it,But the wound is too deep and too fresh,I cannot deal now with the spirit,Oh! God give him back in the flesh.Let me see him again as I saw him,So winsome, so rosy, so bright,His baby face dimpled and roguish,His blue eyes with laughter alight,Let me feel in my mad desolation,His heart throbbing close to my own,Does God pity me in my sorrow?Does he care for my heartbroken moan?Had he need of my darling in HeavenThat the life of my life he has ta'en?Do not try, while my poor heart is breakingThe mystery of death to explain,Let me sit by myself in the shadow,Let me kiss as I will the worn shoe;For I'm chilled by the breath of the angelThat over my hearthstone flew.Let me weep as I will, and the teardropsMay wash from my dim eyes awayThe shadows that hide in their garments,The light and the glory of day.Perhaps, as you say, Christ is tender,And he'll shelter my lamb in his breast,But your sympathy hurts me, I cannot—I will not say yet—"It is best."
"Oh, Dolly! How can you be naughty?You've been naughty the whole day through;You spoiled your white dress in the gutter,And stuck up my pictures with glue;And when in a corner I put you,And plead with you so to be good,You stared in my face with a simper,And acted so saucy and rude.I have tried so hard to be patient—For I'm sorry to punish you so;And I love you, my poor naughty Dolly,Much more than you ever can know.I hope you will think the day over;I am going to bed now—good-night.Be a good little Dolly to-morrow,And try all the day to do right."
"Oh, Dolly! How can you be naughty?You've been naughty the whole day through;You spoiled your white dress in the gutter,And stuck up my pictures with glue;And when in a corner I put you,And plead with you so to be good,You stared in my face with a simper,And acted so saucy and rude.I have tried so hard to be patient—For I'm sorry to punish you so;And I love you, my poor naughty Dolly,Much more than you ever can know.I hope you will think the day over;I am going to bed now—good-night.Be a good little Dolly to-morrow,And try all the day to do right."
Mabel stood by the garden gateSwinging her hat in a careless way;A frown on her face, a pout on her lip;For naughty had Mabel been that day.A pert brown Thrush on a bough o'er headFluttered his wings and carolled his song.Happy as ever a bird could be,Singing and working all day long.Mabel had risen late that morn;The breakfast was over, and everything cold;Mamma was busy and Harry was ill,And Bridget did nothing at all but scold.Long ere the light, the Thrush had been out,Catching his breakfast as best he could;Working and singing with right good will—Never was bird in a merrier mood.Mabel had started the day all wrong,Had hurriedly dressed and forgotten to pray;The bird sang on and she heard his song,And the wonderful things he seemed to say."I waked," he sang, "as one by oneThe stars slipped out of the purple night,Ere the slender fingers of infant dawnCould catch the thread of their faint pure light.I bathed in the brook that sings near by,And borne on the breath of the opening day,Joyously up to the brightening sky,I sent to my Maker a grateful lay.And so I go on and I build my nest,Happy and busy as bird can be;For I know though the winds blow cold and chill,My Heavenly Father guardeth me."Mabel looked up with a penitent face,The bird had flown, but the lesson stayed,And Mabel went in from the garden gateA better, and wiser, and happier maid.For bright, or dark is this life of ours,Just as we make it, children dear—With naughty deeds come the chilling showersWhile the skies of the good are bright and clear.
Mabel stood by the garden gateSwinging her hat in a careless way;A frown on her face, a pout on her lip;For naughty had Mabel been that day.A pert brown Thrush on a bough o'er headFluttered his wings and carolled his song.Happy as ever a bird could be,Singing and working all day long.Mabel had risen late that morn;The breakfast was over, and everything cold;Mamma was busy and Harry was ill,And Bridget did nothing at all but scold.Long ere the light, the Thrush had been out,Catching his breakfast as best he could;Working and singing with right good will—Never was bird in a merrier mood.Mabel had started the day all wrong,Had hurriedly dressed and forgotten to pray;The bird sang on and she heard his song,And the wonderful things he seemed to say."I waked," he sang, "as one by oneThe stars slipped out of the purple night,Ere the slender fingers of infant dawnCould catch the thread of their faint pure light.I bathed in the brook that sings near by,And borne on the breath of the opening day,Joyously up to the brightening sky,I sent to my Maker a grateful lay.And so I go on and I build my nest,Happy and busy as bird can be;For I know though the winds blow cold and chill,My Heavenly Father guardeth me."Mabel looked up with a penitent face,The bird had flown, but the lesson stayed,And Mabel went in from the garden gateA better, and wiser, and happier maid.For bright, or dark is this life of ours,Just as we make it, children dear—With naughty deeds come the chilling showersWhile the skies of the good are bright and clear.
Into my life, out of Paradise,She came like a bird, and the low-hung skiesWith the muttered threats of their tempest cloud,That had covered my life with its dismal shroudVanished like dew, when the new day springsFrom her rosy couch, and unfolds her wings.Unfolds her wings for her airy flightFrom the mist hung dawn to the purple night,She hovered so near I could almost reach—My trembling heart was o'erfull for speech,When joy! oh! joy, on my throbbing breastShe folded her wings for a moment to rest,For a moment the gates of pearl were ajarAll earth was alight with the radiant star,That shone o'er Bethlehem's manger low,On that wonderful night of the long ago.But I recked for naught of the glowing skies,While the lovelight shone from her starry eyes;But my beautiful song bird, blithe and freeWith her plumage white was too fair for me,Adown through the shining gates there cameVoices of angels, calling her name.I had felt the thrill that her presence brought,I had learned the lesson her love had taught,She came, and my life was a garden fair,She fled, and that life was a desert bare,But my beautiful bird I will find once moreWhen I wing my flight to the far off shore,And Heaven, Ah! Heaven will be so brightWhen I find my bird with her plumage white,When I look once more in her starry eyes,I shall know I have entered Paradise.
Into my life, out of Paradise,She came like a bird, and the low-hung skiesWith the muttered threats of their tempest cloud,That had covered my life with its dismal shroudVanished like dew, when the new day springsFrom her rosy couch, and unfolds her wings.Unfolds her wings for her airy flightFrom the mist hung dawn to the purple night,She hovered so near I could almost reach—My trembling heart was o'erfull for speech,When joy! oh! joy, on my throbbing breastShe folded her wings for a moment to rest,For a moment the gates of pearl were ajarAll earth was alight with the radiant star,That shone o'er Bethlehem's manger low,On that wonderful night of the long ago.But I recked for naught of the glowing skies,While the lovelight shone from her starry eyes;But my beautiful song bird, blithe and freeWith her plumage white was too fair for me,Adown through the shining gates there cameVoices of angels, calling her name.I had felt the thrill that her presence brought,I had learned the lesson her love had taught,She came, and my life was a garden fair,She fled, and that life was a desert bare,But my beautiful bird I will find once moreWhen I wing my flight to the far off shore,And Heaven, Ah! Heaven will be so brightWhen I find my bird with her plumage white,When I look once more in her starry eyes,I shall know I have entered Paradise.
Two boys beside my kneeWith eyes so dark and deep;Two snow-white souls, the God of LoveHas given to me to keep.My cup of joy o'er-ranThat Summer's day,I knew they were my own—My own alway.My fair twin boys—Ah! me,I look for youOut o'er life's trodden paths,And turn anewTo Him, who never yetHas failed to hearA mother's prayer for thoseShe holds so dear.Oh! eyes so dark and sweet,May Heaven's lightShine o'er the paths you treadAnd make them bright.You could not go astray—For all alongA wall of prayer, I buildSo high and strong,The tempters cannot scaleIts dizzy height,And lead my darlings out,To endless night.These dimpled baby handsGod gave to youThrough rock-ribbed hills of lifeTheir way to hew.Nor would I, though I mightSave you the test;For well I know, beyondLies Heaven and rest.This kiss, a pledge I giveTo live for you;And know full well, that GodThe rest will do.
Two boys beside my kneeWith eyes so dark and deep;Two snow-white souls, the God of LoveHas given to me to keep.My cup of joy o'er-ranThat Summer's day,I knew they were my own—My own alway.My fair twin boys—Ah! me,I look for youOut o'er life's trodden paths,And turn anewTo Him, who never yetHas failed to hearA mother's prayer for thoseShe holds so dear.Oh! eyes so dark and sweet,May Heaven's lightShine o'er the paths you treadAnd make them bright.You could not go astray—For all alongA wall of prayer, I buildSo high and strong,The tempters cannot scaleIts dizzy height,And lead my darlings out,To endless night.These dimpled baby handsGod gave to youThrough rock-ribbed hills of lifeTheir way to hew.Nor would I, though I mightSave you the test;For well I know, beyondLies Heaven and rest.This kiss, a pledge I giveTo live for you;And know full well, that GodThe rest will do.
The San Francisco Printing Co.411 MARKET ST