A bunch of golden keys is mineTo make each day with gladness shine."Good morning!" that's the golden keyThat unlocks every door for me.When evening comes, "Good night!" I say,And close the door of each glad day.When at the table "If you please"I take from off my bunch of keys.When friends give anything to me,I'll use the little "Thank you" key."Excuse me," "Beg your pardon," too,When by mistake some harm I do.Or if unkindly harm I've given,With "Forgive me" key I'll be forgiven.On a golden ring these keys I'll bind,This is its motto: "Be ye kind."I'll often use each golden key,And so a happy child I'll be.
I know a place where the sun is like gold,And the cherry blooms burst like snow;And down underneath is the loveliest nook,Where the four-leaf clovers grow.One leaf is for faith, and one is for hope,And one is for love, you know;And God put another one in for luck—If you search, you will find where they grow.But you must have faith and you must have hope,You must love and be strong, and soIf you work, if you wait, you will find the placeWhere the four-leaf clovers grow.Ella Higginson.
NOTE: A remarkable custom, brought from the Old Country, formerly prevailed in the rural districts of New England. On the death of a member of the family, the bees were at once informed of the event, and their hives dressed in mourning. This ceremonial was supposed to be necessary to prevent the swarms from leaving their hives and seeking a new home.
Here is the place; right over the hillRuns the path I took;You can see the gap in the old wall still.And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.There is the house, with the gate red-barred,And the poplars tall;And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard,And the white horns tossing above the wall.There are the beehives ranged in the sun;And down by the brinkOf the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun,Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink.A year has gone, as the tortoise goes,Heavy and slow;And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows,And the same brook sings of a year ago.There's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze;And the June sun warmTangles his wings of fire in the trees,Setting, as then, over Fernside farm.I mind me how with a lover's careFrom my Sunday coatI brushed off the burs, and smoothed my hair,And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.Since we parted, a month had passed,—To love, a year;Down through the beeches I looked at lastOn the little red gate and the well-sweep near.I can see it all now,—the slantwise rainOf light through the leaves,The sundown's blaze on her window-pane,The bloom of her roses under the eaves.Just the same as a month before,—The house and the trees,The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door,—Nothing changed but the hives of bees.Before them, under the garden wall,Forward and back,Went drearily singing the chore-girl small,Draping each hive with a shred of black.Trembling, I listened; the summer sunHad the chill of snow;For I knew she was telling the bees of oneGone on the journey we all must go!Then I said to myself, "My Mary weepsFor the dead to-day:Haply her blind grandsire sleepsThe fret and pain of his age away."But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill,With his cane to his chin,The old man sat; and the chore-girl stillSung to the bees stealing out and in.And the song she was singing ever sinceIn my ear sounds on:—"Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence!Mistress Mary is dead and gone!"John G. Whittier.
Not understood, we move along asunder,Our paths grow wider as the seasons creepAlong the years. We marvel and we wonder,Why life is life, and then we fall asleep,Not understood.Not understood, we gather false impressions,And hug them closer as the years go by,Till virtues often seem to us transgressions;And thus men rise and fall and live and die,Not understood.Not understood, poor souls with stunted visionsOften measure giants by their narrow gauge;The poisoned shafts of falsehood and derisionAre oft impelled 'gainst those who mould the age,Not understood.Not understood, the secret springs of actionWhich lie beneath the surface and the showAre disregarded; with self-satisfactionWe judge our neighbors, and they often goNot understood.Not understood, how trifles often change us—The thoughtless sentence or the fancied slight—Destroy long years of friendship and estrange us,And on our souls there falls a freezing blight—Not understood.Not understood, how many hearts are achingFor lack of sympathy! Ah! day by dayHow many cheerless, lonely hearts are breaking,How many noble spirits pass awayNot understood.O God! that men would see a little clearer,Or judge less hardly when they cannot see!O God! that men would draw a little nearerTo one another! They'd be nearer Thee,And understood.
The woman was old, and ragged, and gray,And bent with the chill of a winter's day;The streets were white with a recent snow,And the woman's feet with age were slow.At the crowded crossing she waited long,Jostled aside by the careless throngOf human beings who passed her by,Unheeding the glance of her anxious eye.Down the street with laughter and shout,Glad in the freedom of "school let out,"Come happy boys, like a flock of sheep,Hailing the snow piled white and deep;Past the woman, so old and gray,Hastened the children on their way.None offered a helping hand to her,So weak and timid, afraid to stir,Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feetShould trample her down in the slippery street.At last came out of the merry troopThe gayest boy of all the group;He paused beside her, and whispered low,"I'll help you across, if you wish to go."Her aged hand on his strong young armShe placed, and so without hurt or harm,He guided the trembling feet along,Proud that his own were young and strong;Then back again to his friends he went,His young heart happy and well content."She's somebody's mother, boys, you know,For all she's aged, and poor, and slow;And some one, some time, may lend a handTo help my mother—you understand?—If ever she's poor, and old, and gray,And her own dear boy is far away.""Somebody's mother" bowed low her head,In her home that 'night, and the prayer she saidWas: "God, be kind to that noble boy,Who is somebody's son, and pride and joy."Faint was the voice, and worn and weak,But the Father hears when His children speak;Angels caught the faltering word,And "Somebody's Mother's" prayer was heard.
Whither, midst falling dew,While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursueThy solitary way?Vainly the fowler's eyeMight mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,As, darkly seen against the crimson sky,Thy figure floats along.Seek'st thou the plashy brinkOf weedy lake, or marge of river wide,Or where the rocking billows rise and sinkOn the chafed ocean-side?There is a Power whose careTeaches thy way along that pathless coast—The desert and illimitable air—Lone wandering, but not lost.All day thy wings have fanned,At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere;Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,Though the dark night is near.And soon that toil shall end;Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heavenHath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heartDeeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,And shall not soon depart.He who, from zone to zone,Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,In the long way that I must tread alone,Will lead my steps aright.William Cullen Bryant.
Who fed me from her gentle breastAnd hushed me in her arms to rest,And on my cheek sweet kisses prest?My mother.When sleep forsook my open eye,Who was it sung sweet lullabyAnd rocked me that I should not cry?My mother.Who sat and watched my infant headWhen sleeping in my cradle bed,And tears of sweet affection shed?My mother.When pain and sickness made me cry,Who gazed upon my heavy eye,And wept, for fear that I should die?My mother.Who ran to help me when I fellAnd would some pretty story tell,Or kiss the part to make it well?My mother.Who taught my infant lips to pray,To love God's holy word and day,And walk in wisdom's pleasant way?My mother.And can I ever cease to beAffectionate and kind to theeWho wast so very kind to me,—My mother.Oh, no, the thought I cannot bear;And if God please my life to spareI hope I shall reward thy care,My mother.When thou art feeble, old and gray,My healthy arms shall be thy stay,And I will soothe thy pains away,My mother.And when I see thee hang thy head,'Twill be my turn to watch thy bed,And tears of sweet affection shed,—My mother.
The sun was shining on the sea,Shining with all his might:He did his very best to makeThe billows smooth and bright—And this was odd, because it wasThe middle of the night.The moon was shining sulkily,Because she thought the sunHad got no business to be thereAfter the day was done—"It's very rude of him," she said,"To come and spoil the fun!"The sea was wet as wet could be,The sands were dry as dry.You could not see a cloud, becauseNo cloud was in the sky:No birds were flying overhead—There were no birds to fly.The Walrus and the CarpenterWere walking close at hand:They wept like anything to seeSuch quantities of sand:"If this were only cleared away,"They said, "it would be grand!""If seven maids with seven mopsSwept it for half a year,Do you suppose," the Walrus said,"That they could get it clear?""I doubt it," said the Carpenter,And shed a bitter tear."O Oysters, come and walk with us!"The Walrus did beseech."A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,Along the briny beach:We cannot do with more than four,To give a hand to each."The eldest Oyster looked at him,But never a word he said:The eldest Oyster winked his eye,And shook his heavy head—Meaning to say he did not chooseTo leave the oyster-bed.But four young Oysters hurried up,All eager for the treat:Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,Their shoes were clean and neat—And this was odd, because, you know,They hadn't any feet.Four other Oysters followed them,And yet another four;And thick and fast they came at last,And more, and more, and more—All hopping through the frothy waves,And scrambling to the shore.The Walrus and the CarpenterWalked on a mile or so,And then they rested on a rockConveniently low:And all the little Oysters stoodAnd waited in a row."The time has come," the Walrus said,"To talk of many things:Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—Of cabbages and kings—And why the sea is boiling hot—And whether pigs have wings.""But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,"Before we have our chat;For some of us are out of breath,And all of us are fat!""No hurry!" said the Carpenter.They thanked him much for that."A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,"Is what we chiefly need:Pepper and vinegar besidesAre very good indeed—Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear,We can begin to feed.""But not on us!" the Oysters cried,Turning a little blue."After such kindness, that would beA dismal thing to do!""The night is fine," the Walrus said,"Do you admire the view?"It was so kind of you to come!And you are very nice!"The Carpenter said nothing but"Cut us another slice.I wish you were not quite so deaf—I've had to ask you twice!""It seems a shame," the Walrus said,"To play them such a trick.After we've brought them out so far,And made them trot so quick!"The Carpenter said nothing but"The butter's spread too thick!""I weep for you," the Walrus said;"I deeply sympathize."With sobs and tears he sorted outThose of the largest size,Holding his pocket-handkerchiefBefore his streaming eyes."O Oysters," said the Carpenter,"You've had a pleasant run!Shall we be trotting home again?"But answer came there none—And this was scarcely odd, becauseThey'd eaten every one.Lewis Carroll.
The weary teacher sat aloneWhile twilight gathered on:And not a sound was heard around,—The boys and girls were gone.The weary teacher sat alone;Unnerved and pale was he;Bowed 'neath a yoke of care, he spokeIn sad soliloquy:"Another round, another roundOf labor thrown away,Another chain of toil and painDragged through a tedious day."Of no avail is constant zeal,Love's sacrifice is lost.The hopes of morn, so golden, turn,Each evening, into dross."I squander on a barren fieldMy strength, my life, my all:The seeds I sow will never grow,—They perish where they fall."He sighed, and low upon his handsHis aching brow he pressed;And o'er his frame ere long there cameA soothing sense of rest.And then he lifted up his face,But started back aghast,—The room, by strange and sudden change,Assumed proportions vast.It seemed a Senate-hall, and oneAddressed a listening throng;Each burning word all bosoms stirred,Applause rose loud and long.The 'wildered teacher thought he knewThe speaker's voice and look,"And for his name," said he, "the sameIs in my record book."The stately Senate-hall dissolved,A church rose in its place,Wherein there stood a man of God,Dispensing words of grace.And though he spoke in solemn tone,And though his hair was gray,The teacher's thought was strangely wrought—"I whipped that boy to-day."The church, a phantom, vanished soon;What saw the teacher then?In classic gloom of alcoved roomAn author plied his pen."My idlest lad!" the teacher said,Filled with a new surprise;"Shall I behold his name enrolledAmong the great and wise?"The vision of a cottage homeThe teacher now descried;A mother's face illumed the placeHer influence sanctified."A miracle! a miracle!This matron, well I know,Was but a wild and careless child,Not half an hour ago."And when she to her children speaksOf duty's golden rule,Her lips repeat in accents sweet,My words to her at school."The scene was changed again, and lo!The schoolhouse rude and old;Upon the wall did darkness fall,The evening air was cold."A dream!" the sleeper, waking, said,Then paced along the floor,And, whistling slow and soft and low,He locked the schoolhouse door.And, walking home, his heart was fullOf peace and trust and praise;And singing slow and soft and low,Said, "After many days."W.H. Venable.
Girt round with rugged mountains, the fair Lake Constance lies;In her blue heart reflected shine back the starry skies;And watching each white cloudlet float silently and slow,You think a piece of heaven lies on our earth below!Midnight is there: and silence, enthroned in heaven, looks downUpon her own calm mirror, upon a sleeping town:For Bregenz, that quaint city upon the Tyrol shore,Has stood above Lake Constance a thousand years and more.Her battlement and towers, from off their rocky steep,Have cast their trembling shadow for ages on the deep;Mountain, and lake, and valley, a sacred legend know,Of how the town was saved, one night three hundred years ago.Far from her home and kindred, a Tyrol maid had fled,To serve in the Swiss valleys, and toil for daily bread;And every year that fleeted so silently and fast,Seemed to bear farther from her the memory of the past.She served kind, gentle masters, nor asked for rest or change;Her friends seemed no more new ones, their speech seemed no more strange;And when she led her cattle to pasture every day,She ceased to look and wonder on which side Bregenz lay.She spoke no more of Bregenz, with longing and with tears;Her Tyrol home seemed faded in a deep mist of years;She heeded not the rumors of Austrian war and strife;Each day she rose, contented, to the calm toils of life.Yet when her master's children would clustering round her stand,She sang them ancient ballads of her own native land;And when at morn and evening she knelt before God's throne,The accents of her childhood rose to her lips alone.And so she dwelt: the valley more peaceful year by year;When suddenly strange portents of some great deed seemed near.The golden corn was bending upon its fragile stock,While farmers, heedless of their fields, paced up and down in talk.The men seemed stern and altered, with looks cast on the ground;With anxious faces, one by one, the women gathered round;All talk of flax, or spinning, or work, was put away;The very children seemed afraid to go alone to play.One day, out in the meadow with strangers from the town,Some secret plan discussing, the men walked up and down,Yet now and then seemed watching a strange uncertain, gleam,That looked like lances 'mid the trees that stood below the stream.At eve they all assembled, then care and doubt were fled;With jovial laugh they feasted; the board was nobly spread.The elder of the village rose up, his glass in hand,And cried, "We drink the downfall of an accursed land!"The night is growing darker,—ere one more day is flown,Bregenz, our foeman's stronghold, Bregenz shall be our own!"The women shrank in terror, (yet Pride, too, had her part,)But one poor Tyrol maiden felt death within her heart.Before her stood fair Bregenz, once more her towers arose;What were the friends beside her? Only her country's foes!The faces of her kinsfolk, the days of childhood flown,The echoes of her mountains, reclaimed her as their own!Nothing she heard around her, (though shouts rang forth again,)Gone were the green Swiss valleys, the pasture, and the plain;Before her eyes one vision, and in her heart one cry,That said, "Go forth, save Bregenz, and then, if need be, die!"With trembling haste and breathless, with noiseless step, she sped;Horses and weary cattle were standing in the shed;She loosed the strong white charger, that fed from out her hand,She mounted, and she turned his head towards her native land.Out—out into the darkness—faster, and still more fast;The smooth grass flies behind her, the chestnut wood is past;She looks up; clouds are heavy: Why is her steed so slow?—Scarcely the wind beside them can pass them as they go."Faster!" she cries. "Oh, faster!" Eleven the church-bells chime;"O God," she cries, "help Bregenz, and bring me there in time!"But louder than bells' ringing, or lowing of the kine,Grows nearer in the midnight the rushing of the Rhine.Shall not the roaring waters their headlong gallop check?The steed draws back in terror, she leans upon his neckTo watch the flowing darkness,—the bank is high and steep;One pause—he staggers forward, and plunges in the deep.She strives to pierce the blackness, and looser throws the rein;Her steed must breast the waters that dash above his mane.How gallantly, how nobly, he struggles through the foam,And see—in the far distance shine out the lights of home!Up the steep bank he bears her, and now they rush againToward the heights of Bregenz, that tower above the plain.They reach the gate of Bregenz, just as the midnight rings,And out come serf and soldier to meet the news she brings.Bregenz is saved! Ere daylight her battlements are manned;Defiance greets the army that marches on the land.And if to deeds heroic should endless fame be paid,Bregenz does well to honor the noble Tyrol maid.Three hundred years are vanished, and yet upon the hillAn old stone gateway rises, to do her honor still.And there, when Bregenz women sit spinning in the shade,They see in quaint old carving the charger and the maid.And when, to guard old Bregenz, by gateway, street, and tower,The warder paces all night long, and calls each passing hour:"Nine," "ten," "eleven," he cries aloud, and then (O crown of fame!)When midnight pauses in the skies he calls the maiden's name!Adelaide A. Procter.
Better than grandeur, better than gold,Than rank and title a thousand fold,Is a healthy body, a mind at ease,And simple pleasures that always please;A heart that can feel for a neighbor's woeAnd share his joys with a genial glow,—With sympathies large enough to enfoldAll men as brothers,—is better than gold.Better than gold is a conscience clear,Though toiling for bread in an humble sphere:Doubly blest with content and health,Untried by the lusts or cares of wealth.Lowly living and lofty thoughtAdorn and ennoble a poor man's cot;For mind and morals, in Nature's plan,Are the genuine test of a gentleman.Better than gold is the sweet reposeOf the sons of toil when their labors close;Better than gold is the poor man's sleep,And the balm that drops on his slumbers deep.Bring sleeping draughts to the downy bed,Where luxury pillows his aching head;His simple opiate labor deemsA shorter road to the land of dreams.Better than gold is a thinking mindThat in the realm of books can findA treasure surpassing Australian ore,And live with the great and good of yore.The sage's lore and the poet's lay,The glories of empires pass'd away,The world's great drama will thus unfoldAnd yield a pleasure better than gold.Better than gold is a peaceful home,Where all the fireside charities come;—The shrine of love and the heaven of life,Hallowed by mother, or sister, or wife.However humble the home may be,Or tried with sorrow by Heaven's decree,The blessings that never were bought or sold,And center there, are better than gold.Alexander Smart.