The Project Gutenberg eBook ofNestlings

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofNestlingsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: NestlingsAuthor: Ella Fraser WellerRelease date: January 15, 2008 [eBook #24298]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from imagesgenerously made available by The Internet Archive/AmericanLibraries.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NESTLINGS ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: NestlingsAuthor: Ella Fraser WellerRelease date: January 15, 2008 [eBook #24298]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from imagesgenerously made available by The Internet Archive/AmericanLibraries.)

Title: Nestlings

Author: Ella Fraser Weller

Release date: January 15, 2008 [eBook #24298]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from imagesgenerously made available by The Internet Archive/AmericanLibraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NESTLINGS ***

FROM PICTURES OF CHILDREN IN THE AUTHOR'SIMMEDIATE CIRCLE OF FRIENDSSAN FRANCISCOCALIFORNIAN PUBLISHING CO.1892Copyright, 1892, by Ella Fraser Weller

These selections have come of occasions. They were not meant for the public eye. The thought of a possible book had given them greater unity, and the vision of a possible critic had probably modified their form. The mother-love for children called for them and they came; there is a conspiracy of mother-loves and the fugitive poems became a book.

The accompanying illustrations are shadows of real faces and may be readily duplicated in any limited circle.

"Nestlings" may serve as an album for some innocent faces, and perpetuate some possibly helpful sentiment.

S. H. WELLER

Los Angeles, California

1234567ArthurEdithHarold M.LesterAlfredKennthElliot}Frontispiece

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CorneliaFront CoverBetween pages1Author and Child12Audrey5 and 63Carl11 and 124Ethelwin15 and 165Mother and Babe20 and 216Harold and Earl25 and 267Helen30 and 318Harold W.34 and 359Edith39 and 4010Warren and Albert44 and 45

PAGEMy Baby's Feet1Two Little Seeds3Edith6The Theft8Who's Afraid12Lullaby14Two of Them15In the Meadow16Beatrice19My Boy21The Fairy's Motto23A Reverie26My Choice28Elliott30Three Little Kittens31What is the Use of Trying33Only Five35Unreconciled37The Naughty Dolly40Mabel's Lesson41Baby Kathleen43Two Boys45

"As I came o'er the distant hillsI heard a nestling sing:'Oh, pleasant are the primrose budsIn the perfumed breath of spring!And pleasant are the mossy banksBeneath the birchen bowers—But a home wherein no children playIs a garden shorn of flowers.'"

"MY BABY'S FEET"

Within my palm, like roseleaves, dainty, sweet,I fold with tenderest love two little feet—Two little feet, twin flow'rets come to bringTo mother's heart the first sweet breath of spring.Wearied with play, at last they lie at rest,One satin sole against its fair mate pressed.Dear little feet, fain would this hand 'ere shieldThy tender flesh from thorns which lie concealedAlong the path which, stretching through the years,Leads on to God, through joy and silent tears,Oh, would that I could pluck from thy dear wayWhate'er might tempt these little feet to stray,What though my hands be torn by thorn and stone,Thy joy, for all my pain would soon atone;If but thy mother planned thy life for thee,No other path so bright as thine should be.But what am I, that I my love should countGreater than that of Him, who is love's fount—Who sent from heaven, these dainty baby feetTo make thy mother's life and love complete?What truer hand than His could mark thy path?What greater love than God, thy Father, hath?What greater wisdom shields thee from all strife?What greater mercy grants eternal life?When shadows come, and clouds obscure thy wayHe knows that darkness only heralds day.If bruised thy flesh, though mother's heart may bleed,He, in His mercy, knows thy greatest need.Then, little feet, though mother's prayers may rise,In love and trust, that never doubt impliesThat God, thy steps may lead in ways aright,And keep thy soul from sin's unholy blight,I'll leave thy future in His hands alone,And know, at last, He'll bring thee safely home.

Two little seeds sank deep in the earth,Down through the narrow darkening way,Side by side in a slow descent,Away from the light, on an April day.Two little seeds—you scarce could tellOne from the other—both brown and round,Planted, that day by the self-same handIn the mellow depths of the self same ground.Nestling together they chattered thus,As close in their cozy nest they lay:"What are we here for down in the darkHidden so deep from the light of day?""What are we here for? I, for one,"Said the first little seed, in a gruesome tone,"Shall just go to sleep, and sleep right on,Close by the side of this round smooth stone.I shall not stir, but I'll sweetly sleep,Until old Mother Earth must surely seeThat here, in the damp of the chilly ground,Is never the place for the like of me."Proud and idle, it went to sleep,And it slept right on, though the warm rain fell,And Nature found, when she came to look,Nothing at all but an empty shell.The other seed mused—"It cannot be rightThus in the earth to so idly lie,This life of ours will wasted beAnd soon in this gloom, unused, must die.Ishall not sleep—from this narrow shellI'll find my way, and out of this nightI shall reach right up, until day by dayI nearer and nearer approach the light.Already I feel the welcome heatWarming the loam that around me lies,Already I see in my sweetest dreamsThe genial sun and the azure skies.Oh! slumber then in your slothful ease,By your foolish fancies alone deceived,While the grandest victories Earth e'er knewAre only waiting to be achieved."So out from his shell the wee seed burst,And stretched to the full of its graceful length,While the light and warmth of the Summer sunAdded each day to its beauty and strength.Its slender fingers of tender greenCatches the trellis here and there,Higher and higher reaching up,Branching out in the Summer air.Oh, fair are the blossoms it bears for all,And fragrant the breath of its golden bells;Glad is the music they ring for you,From the perfumed depths where the dewdrop dwells.They wake you out of your sluggish sleep—Their voices are ringing—Arise! Arise!God gave you your life to use for Him,And can you the gift of a King despise?Your strength will waste if it is not used,The life He has lent He will ask again,Can you bring but the empty shell to Him,And tell Him His gift has been in vain?

"EDITH"

One flower within my garden grows—My friend's is crowded,But mine is rarer than the rose,My skies unclouded.I shield it when the north winds blowSo harsh across it,I cannot let them kiss it so,And rudely toss it.So beautiful it is and frail,I almost dreadThe butterflies that soar and sailSo near its bed.I envy not the wealth of flowersAcross the way;My radiant flower exhales perfumeFor me each day.My gratitude to Heaven for this,My one late flower;And such a sense of rapturous blissAscends each hour.Dear Heaven, still a gift bestowAnd grant to meThe grace to train my flower to growFor Heaven and Thee.And yet, because I love it soMy heart will fail,When life's rude tempests 'gin to blowMy blossom frail.Help me to shield it from the rain—From winter's blast—And I will give it back againTo Thee at last.

A crow flew down from a tall oak tree,Just as important as he could be;For a Congress of birds was to meet that day,And he had determined to have his say.He plumed his feathers and looked severe,As the birds flew in from far and near.A Mocking Bird sat on a limb near by,With a desperate look in his round, dark eye;He was the culprit—a thief he had been,The Thrush and the Blackbird had "run him in."He had stolen the nest of the little brown WrenFrom the tangled depth of a shady glen.The Hawk was the Judge, and sat in state,Ready to seal the prisoner's fate."A thief is worse," said the Bobolink,"Than anything else on earth, I think."But—"Order in Court"—rang close to his ear,Robin, the Sheriff, was standing near.Then the Crow began in his deep sub-bass,And his pompous manner to plead the case.He spoke of the prisoner's youth at first,But a murmur of scorn from the audience burst,So he changed his tactics and said: "I hearOf late the prisoner has acted queer.In fact, I can make it to you quite plainThat most of his ancestors were insane.Young as he is, and with such a taint,'Tis folly to make against him complaint."He talked till the Mocking Bird felt secure,Feeling acquittal was coming sure.Then the Owl rose up, and his blinking eyes,Droll and uncanny, looked wondrous wise:"Tu whit, tu whoo! You will find it vainTo plead that the prisoner's now insane;Insane, did you say? Oh, well, perhaps—But there is a prison for all such chaps,The Mocking Bird's record has always beenSoiled and blotted by many a sin.If this were the first of his insane tricks—But the family trait to the fellow sticks.Only last week—but you all have heard—How he broke up the home of the Humming Bird.Stealing and hiding the theft by a lieIs the poorest rule for a bird to try.We have borne with him for many a year,But now we must act. Have I made it clear?"And he loudly read from the law a clause,Then flew to his perch, amid loud applause.The charge to the jury was something fine,Pathos and power in every line.They were out but a moment, then entered again,Nor had the eloquent charge been vain;For the verdict "Guilty," rang out clear,Filling the pris'ner with abject fear.Then the Judge rose up, and shaking his head,Solemnly, thus the sentence read:"Let every bird from yon prisoner's breast,A feather pluck for the Wren's new nest."Scarce had they heard the words pronouncedEre they all in a mob on the culprit pounced,Each plucking a feather, he flew to the glenEager to comfort the poor little Wren.The Mocking Bird shivered with cold and pain,"Oh! never," he cried, "will I steal again,And I'll try, oh! I'll try to do what is right,Nor ever be found in such a sad plight."The dear, gentle Dove, who had lingered behind,Came close to the prisoner, loving and kind,And she whispered so low, "Come home to my nest;I'll care for you tenderly, give you my best.I know you are sorry, I know you will try,So come, let us home to my warm nest fly."So nursed by the Dove, one fair summer day,He kissed her and blessed her, and then flew away.But whether he truly became a good birdI'm sure I can't say, as I never have heard.But I know on his record there'll ever remain,Though the act be repented, its dark, ugly stain;And he'll find o'er and o'er such tricks do not pay,For punishment comes, and oft comes to stay.No matter how small is the act that we do,This thing, little children, you'll find always true:That somehow or some way it does come about,The wrong that we do will soon find us out,And we're filled with such sorrow and in such a plight,We see very clearly, "'Tis best to do right."

Run, little man, or old Jack FrostWill catch you ere you know it,I am sure you are half afraid of him,Though your manner does not show it.With your soft warm cap and your overcoat,You think you can safely meet him.The harsh old fellow will have to look sharp,Or the coy little man will cheat him.See how bravely he faces the piercing wind,Not afraid of the cold is he,And the roses bloom on his rounded cheek,As he romps in his boyish glee.Heigh-ho, little man, if you meet the storms,That blow o'er the hills of life,With half the courage you show to-day,You are sure to win in the strife.Then go, little man, and never you fearBut look the world in the face,And you'll find on the heights of life, my boy,That world will make you a place.'Tis only the brave that fortune finds,'Tis only the good who win;The sluggards' bulwarks are tumbled down,And he falls in the gutters of sin.So up, little man, and never say fail,Though frosts of adversity fall;With courage your armor, and hope for a sword,There is naught your heart can appall.

Slumber sweet, noddlekins,Nurse is full of prickly pins,Mamma's full of kisses sweetFor dimpled hands and rosy feet.Slumber comes—close your eyes,Angels watch you from the skies,Little dreams come drifting downTo veil those roguish eyes of brown.Nestling close on Mamma's arm,You are safe from every harm.Close I clasp you—all my joy,Centers in you—darling boy.Now your eyelid fringes meet,Kissed by slumbers, soft and sweet.Who can wonder, angels keepTender watch when babies sleep?For I'm sure no lovelier sightEver graces realms of light,They are golden links of loveBinding earth to Heaven above.Sleep, my baby, sleep and rest,Nestled close on Mother's breast;Harm can never reach you here,God and Mother guard you, dear.

Where is the little boy Tommy?Not in the parlor with hammer and tacks,Not in the kitchen with sharp little axe,Not on the lawn where patient old BoseLies half asleep with a fly on his nose;Not in the garden planting his seeds,Pulling up flowers as often as weeds,No little Tommy.Nor in the barn do I see his short legs,Climbing the ladder to hunt for the eggs;Nor yet in the meadow where cowslips are yellow,Half hid by the grass, do I see the wee fellow,I am sure he was here but a moment ago—I wonder why boys are gotten up so!Queer little Tommy.Oh! down in the orchard where apples are greenA moment ago Master Tommy was seen—High in the top of a gnarled old treeStuffing his pockets, and hiding from me;Playing me tricks, for he knows full wellThat his mamma's away, and that I won't tell.I won't tell, and you wonder why?Well, Tommy's a boy—and so was I.

I heard the grasses talking, talking,Down in the meadow, one summer day,The prettiest things I heard them whisper,Nodding their heads in a quaint wise way.Whether they knew that I was listening,And would tell to you their story sweet,I know not; but surely they would not chide me;For the gossiping winds their words repeat.They told how they loved the golden sunshine;How once in the gloom of a strange long nightThey feared they were lost, until angel fingersTouched them with life, and they found the light.And how the tints of emerald landscapeWere caught from the sunlight on cloud and sky;How dewdrops, gems from the crystal fountains,Were showered o'er earth from realms on high.I heard them say, how the cowslips yellowWere bits of the sun, dropped here and thereHow the lilies pure, with their snow white petals,Were down from the wings of angels fair.And the blue-eyed violets, shy and tender,With breath from the censer of heaven sent,Were bits of the sky, by the summer borrowed,And just for the season to Flora lent.They told how the daisies and buttercups yellow,Marked where the feet of the swift hours trod;When fickle they fled from the pussy-willow,To the newer love of the golden rod.How the bolder touches of gorgeous colorFrom the crimson glory of sunset came,And touching with blood the swaying poppies,Set hill and valley and field aflame.Oh, they told me things that set me thinking,Thoughts that never were mine before;And the love of Christ for his wayward childrenFilled me with wonder more and more.How even the flowers and grasses know Him,How He loves and cares for their needs alway,That they take no thought for the coming morrow,But live and trust in the bright to-day.And may not we, who are Christ's own Children,Blotting the present with anxious tears,Live our joy, and leave to His mercyThe shadowy doubts of future years?The somber gloom of the distant mountainReveals no path that our feet may tread,But at its foot upwinding everIt stretches out like a silver thread.Down in the meadows, among the grasses,My pillow of daisies and violets blue,The sweetest stories of all the summerI hear, and come and whisper to you.I may not tell you all they told me.Go press your ear to the fragrant sod—The pulse that beats in Nature's bosomThrobs in the heart of Nature's God.

Dimpled hands and dimpled cheeks,Dimpled chin beguiling;Rows of gleaming, pearly teeth,Rosy lips a smiling.Rings of dark and shining hair,Around a white brow clinging;Hazel eyes where gladness shines,And sets the heart to singing.Dainty feet with dimpled toes,Little hands caressing;Gurgling laugh and lisping tongueHelplessness confessing.Roguish glances, sidelong, sweet,What is Baby doing?Face half hidden in my breast,All my kisses wooing.Softly, softly slumber comes,See her eyes are closing;Cupid, shorn of bow and wings,In my arms reposing.Blessed home where baby comes,What a void without her;Joy and love and sunshine bright,Lingers all about her.Not a shadow comes to me,But at once 'tis lifted,Just because this Baby sweet,Down from Heaven drifted.

Oh, where did you come from, baby mine,With your face like a cherub's sweet?Did the angels scatter with flowers, the pathThat was pressed by your little feet?Or, did you fly from the realms of love?On your shoulders methinks I seeIn the crumpled roseleaf dimples there,The place where the wings should be.The angels were loth to leave you, my child,I know they were filled with fear,I almost fancy I hear their wingsHovering somewhere near.Oh, they need not doubt that your mother's heartHolds less of love than their own,And though I may lack of their wisdom my pet,My love for the lack shall atone.Oh, gift of the angels—Gift of God,What a trust for a mortal to hold!A boy to guide in the paths of right,A soul for Heaven to mold.My darling, I fain would shelter you here,Close, close on my own fond breast,For my heart shrinks back from the terrors of lifeWhen my bird flies out of the nest.If only Christ gave me the power, my boy,To suffer and toil in your stead,I'd pluck every thorn from your path in lifeAnd toss you its roses instead.And the selfish love of your mother, boy,Would rob you of life's best boon,And drown the chorus of angel choirs,By setting the world attune.So I'll send back the tears of a mother's love,I will crush out a mother's fear,And push you with tender, trembling handsOut into Life's highway, dear.Yet strongly armored by truth, my boy,And shod by your mother's prayer,I'll know that your Heavenly Father's loveO'ershadows you everywhere.And that sometime, after life's battle is o'erIn the land of our promised rest—I shall meet you, my baby, to part never more,And hold you once more on my breast.

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