"And some they brought the brown lint-seed,And flung it down from the Low;'And this!' they said, 'by the sunrise,In the weaver's croft shall grow.
"'Oh! the poor, lame weaver,How he will laugh outrightWhen he sees his dwindling flax-fieldAll full of flowers by night!'
"And then outspoke a brownie,With a long beard on his chin;'I have spun up all the tow,' said he,'And I want some more to spin.
"'I've spun a piece of hempen cloth,And I want to spin another;A little sheet for Mary's bed,And an apron for her mother.'
"With that I could not help but laugh,And I laugh'd out loud and free;And then on the top of the Caldon LowThere was no one left but me.
"And all on the top of the Caldon LowThe mists were cold and gray,And nothing I saw but the mossy stonesThat round about me lay.
"But, coming down from the hill-top,I heard afar below,How busy the jolly miller was,And how the wheel did go.
"And I peep'd into the widow's field,And, sure enough, were seenThe yellow ears of the mildew'd corn,All standing stout and green.
"And down by the weaver's croft I stole,To see if the flax were sprung;And I met the weaver at his gate,With the good news on his tongue.
"Now this is all I heard, mother,And all that I did see;So, pr'ythee, make my bed, mother,For I'm tired as I can be."
Now he who knows old Christmas,He knows a carle of worth;For he is as good a fellowAs any upon earth.
He comes warm cloaked and coated,And buttoned up to the chin;And soon as he comes a-nigh the doorWe open and let him in.
And with sprigs of holly and ivyWe make the house look gay,Just out of an old regard for him,For it was his ancient way.
He must be a rich old fellow,What money he gives away!There is not a lord in EnglandCould equal him any day.
Good luck unto old Christmas,And long life, let us sing,For he doth more good unto the poorThan many a crowned king.
* * * * *
The pig and the hen,They both got in one pen,And the hen said she wouldn't go out."Mistress Hen," says the pig,"Don't you be quite so big!"And he gave her a push with his snout.
"You are rough, and you're fat,But who cares for all that;I will stay if I choose," says the hen."No, mistress, no longer!"Says pig, "I'm the stronger,And mean to be boss of my pen!"
Then the hen cackled outJust as close to his snoutAs she dare: "You're an ill-natured brute,And if I had the corn,Just as sure as I'm born,I would send you to starve or to root!"
"But you don't own the cribs;So I think that my ribsWill be never the leaner for you:This trough is my trough,And the sooner you're off,"Says the pig, "why the better you'll do!"
"You're not a bit fair,And you're cross as a bear;What harm do I do in your pen?But a pig is a pig,And I don't care a figFor the worst you can say," says the hen.
Says the pig, "You will careIf I act like a bearAnd tear your two wings from your neck,""What a nice little penYou have got!" says the hen,Beginning to scratch and to peck.
Now the pig stood amazedAnd the bristles, upraisedA moment past, fell down so sleek."Neighbor Biddy," says he,"If you'll just allow me,I will show you a nice place to pick!"
So she followed him off,And they ate from one trough—
They had quarreled for nothing, they saw;And when they had fed,"Neighbor Hen," the pig said,"Won't you stay here and roost in my straw?"
"No, I thank you; you seeThat I sleep in a tree,"Says the hen; "but Imustgo away;So a grateful good-by.""Make your home in my sty,"Says the pig, "and come in every day."
Now my child will not missThe true moral of thisLittle story of anger and strife;For a word spoken softWill turn enemies oftInto friends that will stay friends for life.
A boy named PeterFound once in the roadAll harmless and helpless,A poor little toad;
And ran to his playmate,And all out of breathCried, "John, come and help,And we'll stone him to death!"
And picking up stones,The two went on the run,Saying, one to the other,"Oh, won't we have fun?"
Thus primed and all ready,They'd got nearly back,When a donkey cameDragging a cart on the track.
Now the cart was as muchAs the donkey could draw,And he came with his headHanging down; so he saw,
All harmless and helpless,The poor little toad,A-taking his morning napRight in the road.
He shivered at first,Then he drew back his leg,And set up his ears,Never moving a peg.
Then he gave the poor toad,With his warm nose a dump,And he woke and got offWith a hop and jump.
And then with an eyeTurned on Peter and John,And hanging his homely headDown, he went on.
"We can't kill him now, John,"Says Peter, "that's flat,In the face of an eye andAn action like that!"
"For my part, I haven'tThe heart to," says John;"But the load is too heavyThat donkey has on:
"Let's help him"; so both ladsSet off with a willAnd came up with the cartAt the foot of the hill.
And when each a shoulderHad put to the wheel,They helped the poor donkeyA wonderful deal.
When they got to the topBack again they both run,Agreeing they neverHad had better fun.
The leaves are fading and falling,The winds are rough and wild,The birds have ceased their calling,But let me tell you, my child,
Though day by day, as it closes,Doth darker and colder grow,The roots of the bright red rosesWill keep alive in the snow.
And when the winter is over,The boughs will get new leaves,The quail come back to the clover,And the swallow back to the eaves.
The robin will wear on his bosomA vest that is bright and new,And the loveliest wayside blossomWill shine with the sun and dew.
The leaves to-day are whirling,The brooks are all dry and dumb,But let me tell you, my darling,The spring will be sure to come.
There must be rough, cold weather,And winds and rains so wild;Not all good things togetherCome to us here, my child.
So, when some dear joy losesIts beauteous summer glow,Think how the roots of the rosesAre kept alive in the snow.
Across the German Ocean,In a country far from our own,Once, a poor little boy, named Gottlieb,Lived with his mother alone.
They dwelt in the part of a villageWhere the houses were poor and small,But the home of little Gottlieb,Was the poorest one of all
He was not large enough to work,And his mother could do no more(Though she scarcely laid her knitting down)Than keep the wolf from the door.
She had to take their threadbare clothes,And turn, and patch, and darn;For never any woman yetGrew rich by knitting yarn.
And oft at night, beside her chair,Would Gottlieb sit, and planThe wonderful things he would do for her,When he grew to be a man.
One night she sat and knitted,And Gottlieb sat and dreamed,When a happy fancy all at onceUpon his vision beamed.
'Twas only a week till Christmas,And Gottlieb knew that thenThe Christ-child, who was born that day,Sent down good gifts to men.
But he said, "He will never find us,Our home is so mean and small.And we, who have most need of them,Will get no gifts at all."
When all at once a happy lightCame into his eyes so blue,And lighted up his face with smiles,As he thought what he could do.
Next day when the postman's lettersCame from all over the land;Came one for the Christ-child, writtenIn a child's poor trembling hand.
You may think he was sorely puzzledWhat in the world to do;So he went to the Burgomaster,As the wisest man he knew.
And when they opened the letter,They stood almost dismayedThat such a little child should dareTo ask the Lord for aid.
Then the Burgomaster stammered,And scarce knew what to speak,And hastily he brushed asideA drop, like a tear, from his cheek.
Then up he spoke right gruffly,And turned himself about:"This must be a very foolish boy,And a small one, too, no doubt."
But when six rosy childrenThat night about him pressed,Poor, trusting little GottliebStood near him, with the rest.
And he heard his simple, touching prayer,Through all their noisy play;Though he tried his very best to putThe thought of him away.
A wise and learned man was he,Men called him good and just;But his wisdom seemed like foolishness,By that weak child's simple trust.
Now when the morn of Christmas cameAnd the long, long week was done,Poor Gottlieb, who scarce could sleep,Rose up before the sun,
And hastened to his mother,But he scarce might speak for fear,When he saw her wondering look, and sawThe Burgomaster near.
He wasn't afraid of the Holy Babe,Nor his mother, meek and mild;But he felt as if so great a manHad never been a child.
Amazed the poor child looked, to findThe hearth was piled with wood,And the table, never full before,Was heaped with dainty food.
Then half to hide from himself the truthThe Burgomaster said,While the mother blessed him on her knees,And Gottlieb shook for dread;
"Nay, give no thanks, my good dame,To such as me for aid,Be grateful to your little son,And the Lord to whom he prayed!"
Then turning round to Gottlieb,"Your written prayer, you see,Came not to whom it was addressed,It only came to me!
"'Twas but a foolish thing you did,As you must understand;For though the gifts are yours, you know,You have them from my hand."
Then Gottlieb answered fearlessly,Where he humbly stood apart,"But the Christ-child sent them all the same,He put the thought in your heart!"
Here's a hand to the boy who has courageTo do what he knows to be right;When he falls in the way of temptation,He has a hard battle to fight.Who strives against self and his comradesWill find a most powerful foe;All honor to him if he conquers—A cheer for the boy who says "No!"
There's many a battle fought dailyThe world knows nothing about;There's many a brave little soldierWhose strength puts a legion to rout.
And he who fights sin single-handedIs more of a hero, I say,Than he who leads soldiers to battle,And conquers by arms in the fray.
Be steadfast, my boy, when you're temptedAnd do what you know to be right;Stand firm by the colors of manhood,And you will overcome in the fight."The Right" be your battle-cry ever,In waging the warfare of life;And God, who knows who are the heroes,Will give you the strength for the strife.
Come up, April, through the valley,In your robes of beauty drest,Come and wake your flowery childrenFrom their wintry beds of rest;Come and overblow them softlyWith the sweet breath of the south;Drop upon them, warm and loving,Tenderest kisses of your mouth.
Touch them with your rosy fingers,Wake them with your pleasant tread,Push away the leaf-brown covers,Over all their faces spread;
Tell them how the sun is waitingLonger daily in the skies,Looking for the bright upliftingOf their softly-fringed eyes.
Call the crow-foot and the crocus,Call the pale anemone,Call the violet and the daisy,Clothed with careful modesty;Seek the low and humble blossoms,Of their beauties unaware,Let the dandelion and fennel,Show their shining yellow hair.
Bid the little homely sparrowsChirping, in the cold and rain,Their impatient sweet complaining,Sing out from their hearts again;Bid them set themselves to mating,Cooing love in softest words,Crowd their nests, all cold and empty,Full of little callow birds.
Come up, April, through the valley,Where the fountain sleeps to-day,Let him, freed from icy fetters,Go rejoicing on his way;Through the flower-enameled meadowsLet him run his laughing race,Making love to all the blossomsThat o'erlean and kiss his face.
But not birds and blossoms only,Not alone the streams complain,Men and maidens too are calling,Come up, April, come again!Waiting with the sweet impatienceOf a lover for the hoursThey shall set the tender beautyOf thy feet among the flowers!
Shorter and shorter now the twilight clipsThe days, as through the sunset gates they crowd,And Summer from her golden collar slipsAnd strays through stubble-fields and moans aloud.
Save when by fits the warmer air deceives,And, stealing hopeful to some sheltered bower,She lies on pillows of the yellow leaves,And tries the old tunes over for an hour.
The wind, whose tender whisper in the MaySet all the young blooms listening through the grove,Sits rustling in the faded boughs to-dayAnd makes his cold and unsuccessful love.
The rose has taken off her 'tire of red—The mullein-stalk its yellow stars have lost,And the proud meadow-pink hangs down her headAgainst earth's chilly bosom, witched with frost.
The robin, that was busy all the June,Before the sun had kissed the topmost bough,Catching our hearts up in his golden tune,Has given place to the brown cricket now.
The very cock crows lonesomely at morn—Each flag and fern the shrinking stream divides—Uneasy cattle low, and lambs forlornCreep to their strawy sheds with nettled sides.
Shut up the door: who loves me must not lookUpon the withered world, but haste to bringHis lighted candle, and his story-book,And live with me the poetry of spring.
* * * * *
Three fishers went sailing away to the west—Away to the west as the sun went down;Each thought on the woman who loved him the best,And the children stood watching them out of the town;For men must work, and women must weep;And there's little to earn, and many to keep,Though the harbor bar be moaning.
Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,And they trimm'd the lamps as the sun went down;They look'd at the squall, and they look'd at the shower,And the night-rack came rolling up, ragged and brown;But men must work, and women must weep,Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,And the harbor bar be moaning.
Three corpses lay out on the shining sandsIn the morning gleam as the tide went down,And the women are weeping and wringing their handsFor those who will never come home to the town;For men must work, and women must weep—And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep—And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.
When all the world is young, lad,And all the trees are green;And every goose a swan, lad,And every lass a queen,—Then hey for boot and horse, lad,And round the world away;Young blood must have its course, lad,And every dog his day.
When all the world is old, lad,And all the trees are brown;And all the sport is stale, lad,And all the wheels run down,—Creep home, and take your place there,The spent and maimed among:God grant you find one face thereYou loved when all was young.
My fairest child, I have no song to give you;No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray;Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave youFor every day.
Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;Do noble things, not dream them, all day long:And so make life, death, and that vast foreverOne grand, sweet song.
I once had a sweet little doll, dears,The prettiest doll in the world;Her cheeks were so red and white, dears,And her hair was so charmingly curled.But I lost my poor little doll, dears,As I played in the heath one day;And I cried for her more than a week, dears,But I never could find where she lay.
I found my poor little doll, dears,As I played in the heath one day;Folks say she is terribly changed, dears,For her paint is all washed away,And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears,And her hair not the least bit curled;Yet for old sakes' sake, she is still, dears,The prettiest doll in the world.
* * * * *
November woods are bare and still;November days are clear and bright;Each noon burns up the morning's chill;The morning's snow is gone by night.Each day my steps grow slow, grow light,As through the woods I reverent creep,Watching all things lie "down to sleep."
I never knew before what beds,Fragrant to smell, and soft to touch,The forest sifts and shapes and spreads;I never knew before how muchOf human sound there is in suchLow tones as through the forest sweep,When all wild things lie "down to sleep."
Each day I find new coverlidsTucked in, and more sweet eyes shut tight;Sometimes the viewless mother bidsHer ferns kneel down full in my sight;I hear their chorus of "good-night";And half I smile, and half I weep,Listening while they lie "down to sleep."
November woods are bare and still;November days are bright and good;Life's noon burns up life's morning chill;Life's night rests feet which long have stood;Some warm soft bed, in field or wood,The mother will not fail to keep,Where we can "lay us down to sleep."
The goldenrod is yellow,The corn is turning brown,The trees in apple orchardsWith fruit are bending down;
The gentian's bluest fringesAre curling in the sun;In dusty pods the milkweedIts hidden silk has spun;
The sedges flaunt their harvestIn every meadow nook,And asters by the brooksideMake asters in the brook;
From dewy lanes at morningThe grapes' sweet odors rise;At noon the roads all flutterWith yellow butterflies—
By all these lovely tokensSeptember days are here,With summer's best of weatherAnd autumn's best of cheer.
O suns and skies and clouds of June,And flowers of June together,Ye cannot rival for one hourOctober's bright blue weather.
When loud the bumble-bee makes haste,Belated, thriftless, vagrant,And golden-rod is dying fast,And lanes with grapes are fragrant;
When gentians roll their fringes tightTo save them for the morning,And chestnuts fall from satin burrsWithout a sound of warning;
When on the ground red apples lieIn piles like jewels shining,And redder still on old stone wallsAre leaves of woodbine twining;
When all the lovely wayside thingsTheir white-winged seeds are sowing,And in the fields, still green and fair,Late aftermaths are growing;
When springs run low, and on the brooks,In idle golden freighting,Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hushOf woods, for winter waiting;
When comrades seek sweet country haunts,By twos and twos together,And count like misers hour by hour,October's bright blue weather.
O suns and skies and flowers of June,Count all your boasts together,Love loveth best of all the yearOctober's bright blue weather.
* * * * *
I saw a ship a-sailing,A-sailing on the sea;Her masts were of the shining gold,Her deck of ivory;And sails of silk, as soft as milk,And silver shrouds had she.
And round about her sailing,The sea was sparkling white,The waves all clapped their hands and sangTo see so fair a sight.They kissed her twice, they kissed her thrice,And murmured with delight.
Then came the gallant captain,And stood upon the deck;In velvet coat, and ruffles white,Without a spot or speck;And diamond rings, and triple stringsOf pearls around his neck.
And four-and-twenty sailorsWere round him bowing low;On every jacket three times threeGold buttons in a row;And cutlasses down to their knees;They made a goodly show.
And then the ship went sailing,A-sailing o'er the sea;She dived beyond the setting sun,But never back came she,For she found the lands of the golden sands,Where the pearls and diamonds be.
The door was shut, as doors should be,Before you went to bed last night;Yet Jack Frost has got in, you see,And left your window silver white.
He must have waited till you slept;And not a single word he spoke,But pencilled o'er the panes and creptAway again before you woke.
And now you cannot see the hillsNor fields that stretch beyond the lane;But there are fairer things than theseHis fingers traced on every pane.
Rocks and castles towering high;Hills and dales, and streams and fields;And knights in armor riding by,With nodding plumes and shining shields.
And here are little boats, and thereBig ships with sails spread to the breeze;And yonder, palm trees waving fairOn islands set in silver seas,
And butterflies with gauzy wings;And herds of cows and flocks of sheep;And fruit and flowers and all the thingsYou see when you are sound asleep.
For, creeping softly underneathThe door when all the lights are out,Jack Frost takes every breath you breathe,And knows the things you think about.
He paints them on the window-paneIn fairy lines with frozen steam;And when you wake you see againThe lovely things you saw in dream.
The world's a very happy place,Where every child should dance and sing,And always have a smiling face,And never sulk for anything.
I waken when the morning's come,And feel the air and light aliveWith strange sweet music like the humOf bees about their busy hive.
The linnets play among the leavesAt hide-and-seek, and chirp and sing;While, flashing to and from the eaves,The swallows twitter on the wing.
The twigs that shake, and boughs that sway;And tall old trees you could not climb;And winds that come, but cannot stay,Are singing gaily all the time.
From dawn to dark the old mill-wheelMakes music, going round and round;And dusty-white with flour and meal,The miller whistles to its sound.
And if you listen to the rainWhere leaves and birds and bees are dumb,You hear it pattering on the paneLike Andrew beating on his drum.
The coals beneath the kettle croon,And clap their hands and dance in glee;And even the kettle hums a tuneTo tell you when it's time for tea.
The world is such a happy placeThat children, whether big or small,Should always have a smiling face,And never, never sulk at all.
* * * * *
Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,And Phoebus 'gins arise,His steeds to water at those springsOn chaliced flowers that lies;And winking Mary-buds beginTo ope their golden eyes:With everything that pretty bin,My lady sweet, arise:Arise, arise!
Under the greenwood treeWho loves to lie with me,And tune his merry noteUnto the sweet bird's throat,Come hither, come hither, come hither!Here shall he seeNo enemyBut winter and rough weather.Who doth ambition shun,And loves to live i' the sun,Seeking the food he eats,And pleased with what he gets,Come hither, come hither, come hither!Here shall he seeNo enemyBut winter and rough weather.
FIRST FAIRYYou spotted snakes with double tongue,Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong,Come not near our fairy queen.
ChorusPhilomel, with melodySing in our sweet lullaby;Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!Never harm,Nor spell, nor charm,Come our lovely lady nigh!So good-night, with lullaby.
SECOND FAIRYWeaving spiders, come not here;Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence;Beetles black, approach not near;Worm, nor snail, do no offence.
Over hill, over dale,Thorough bush, thorough brier,Over park, over pale,Thorough flood, thorough fire,I do wander everywhere,Swifter than the moon's sphere;And I serve the fairy queen,To dew her orbs upon the green.The cowslips tall her pensioners be!In their gold coats spots you see;Those be rubies, fairy favors,In those freckles live their savors:I must go seek some dewdrops here,And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
When icicles hang by the wallAnd Dick the shepherd blows his nail,And Tom bears logs into the hall,And milk comes frozen home in pail,When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul,Then nightly sings the staring owl,To-who;Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all around the wind doth blow,And coughing drowns the parson's saw,And birds sit brooding in the snow,And Marian's nose looks red and raw,When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,Then nightly sings the staring owl,To-who;Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
* * * * * * * * * *
I shan't tell you what's his name:When we want to play a game,Always thinks that he'll be hurt,Soil his jacket in the dirt,Tear his trousers, spoil his hat,—Fraidie-Cat! Fraidie-Cat!
Nothing of the boy in him!"Dasn't" try to learn to swim;Says a cow'll hook; if sheLooks at him he'll climb a tree;"Scart" to death at bee or bat,—Fraidie-Cat! Fraidie-Cat!
Claims there're ghosts all snowy whiteWandering around at nightIn the attic; wouldn't goThere for anything, I know;B'lieve he'd run if you said "Scat!"Fraidie-Cat! Fraidie-Cat!Clinton Scollard.
Jack in the pulpitPreaches to-day,Under the green treesJust over the way.Squirrel and song-sparrow,High on their perch,Hear the sweet lily-bellsRinging to church.Come, hear what his reverenceRises to say,In his low painted pulpitThis calm Sabbath-day.Fair is the canopyOver him seen,Penciled by Nature's hand,Black, brown, and green.Green is his surplice,Green are his bands;In his queer little pulpitThe little priest stands.
In black and gold velvet,So gorgeous to see,Comes with his bass voiceThe chorister bee.Green fingers playingUnseen on wind-lyres,Low singing bird voices,—These are his choirs.The violets are deacons—I know by the signThat the cups which they carryAre purple with wine.And the columbines bravelyAs sentinels standOn the look-out with all theirRed trumpets in hand.
Meek-faced anemones,Drooping and sad;Great yellow violets,Smiling out glad;Buttercups' faces,Beaming and bright;Clovers, with bonnets,—Some red and some white;Daisies, their white fingersHalf-clasped in prayer;Dandelions, proud ofThe gold of their hair;Innocents,—childrenGuileless and frail,Meek little facesUpturned and pale;Wild-wood geraniums,All in their best,Languidly leaningIn purple gauze dressed:—All are assembledThis sweet Sabbath-dayTo hear what the priestIn his pulpit will say.
Look! white Indian pipesOn the green mosses lie!Who has been smokingProfanely so nigh?Rebuked by the preacherThe mischief is stopped,But the sinners, in haste,Have their little pipes dropped.Let the wind, with the fragranceOf fern and black birch,Blow the smell of the smokingClean out of the church!So much for the preacher:The sermon comes next,—Shall we tell how he preached it,And where was his text?Alas! like too manyGrown-up folks who playAt worship in churchesMan-builded to-day,—We heard not the preacherExpound or discuss;
But we looked at the people,And they looked at us.We saw all their dresses,Their colors and shapes;The trim of their bonnets,The cut of their capes.We heard the wind-organ,The bee, and the bird,But of Jack in the pulpitWe heard not a word!Clara Smith.
A silly young cricket, accustomed to singThrough the warm, sunny months of gay summer and spring,Began to complain, when he found that at homeHis cupboard was empty and winter was come.Not a crumb to be foundOn the snow-covered ground;Not a flower could he see,Not a leaf on a tree.
"Oh, what will become," says the cricket, "of me?"At last by starvation and famine made bold,All dripping with wet and all trembling with cold,Away he set off to a miserly antTo see if, to keep him alive, he would grantHim shelter from rain.A mouthful of grainHe wished only to borrow,He'd repay it to-morrow;If not helped, he must die of starvation and sorrow.
Says the ant to the cricket: "I'm your servant and friend,But we ants never borrow, we ants never lend.Pray tell me, dear sir, did you lay nothing byWhen the weather was warm?" Said the cricket, "Not I.My heart was so lightThat I sang day and night,For all nature looked gay.""You sang, sir, you say?Go then," said the ant, "and sing winter away."
Thus ending, he hastily lifted the wicketAnd out of the door turned the poor little cricket.Though this is a fable, the moral is good—If you live without work, you must live withoutfood.Anonymous.
Ring-Ting! I wish I were a Primrose,A bright yellow Primrose, blowing in the spring!The stooping boughs above me,The wandering bee to love me,The fern and moss to creep across,And the Elm tree for our king!
Nay—stay! I wish I were an Elm tree,A great, lofty Elm tree, with green leaves gay!The winds would set them dancing,The sun and moonshine glance in,The birds would house among the boughs,And sweetly sing.
Oh no! I wish I were a Robin,A Robin or a little Wren, everywhere to go;Through forest, field, or garden,And ask no leave or pardon,Till winter comes with icy thumbsTo ruffle up our wing!
Well—tell! Where should I fly to,Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell?Before a day was over,Home comes the rover,For mother's kiss—sweeter thisThan any other thing.William Allingham.
Good-bye, good-bye to Summer!For Summer's nearly done;The garden smiling faintly,Cool breezes in the sun!Our thrushes now are silent,—Our swallows flown away,—But Robin's here in coat of brown,And scarlet breast-knot gay.Robin, Robin Redbreast,O Robin dear!Robin sings so sweetlyIn the falling of the year.
Bright yellow, red, and orange,The leaves come down in hosts;The trees are Indian princes,But soon they'll turn to ghosts;The scanty pears and applesHang russet on the bough;It's autumn, autumn, autumn late,'Twill soon be winter now.Robin, Robin Redbreast,O Robin dear!And what will this poor Robin do?For pinching days are near.
The fireside for the cricket,The wheat-stack for the mouse,When trembling night-winds whistleAnd moan all round the house.The frosty ways like iron,The branches plumed with snow,—Alas! in winter dead and dark,Where can poor Robin go?Robin, Robin Redbreast,O Robin dear!And a crumb of bread for Robin,His little heart to cheer.William Allingham.
A wee little nut lay deep in its nestOf satin and brown, the softest and best,And slept and grew while its cradle rocked—As it hung in the boughs that interlocked.
Now, the house was small where the cradle lay,As it swung in the winds by night and day;For a thicket of underbrush fenced it round,This lone little cot by the great sun browned.
This little nut grew, and ere long it foundThere was work outside on the soft, green ground;It must do its part, so the world might knowIt had tried one little seed to sow.
And soon the house that had kept it warmWas tossed about by the autumn storm;The stem was cracked, the old house fell,And the chestnut burr was an empty shell.
But the little nut, as it waiting lay,Dreamed a wonderful dream one day,Of how it should break its coat of brown,And live as a tree, to grow up and down.Anonymous.
Robins in the tree-top,Blossoms in the grass,Green things a-growingEverywhere you pass;Sudden little breezes,Showers of silver dew,Black bough and bent twigBudding out anew;Pine-tree and willow-tree,Fringed elm and larch,—Don't you think that May-time'sPleasanter than March?
Apples in the orchardMellowing one by one;Strawberries upturningSoft cheeks to the sun;
Roses faint with sweetness,Lilies fair of face,Drowsy scents and murmursHaunting every place;Lengths of golden sunshine,Moonlight bright as day,—Don't you think that summer'sPleasanter than May?
Roger in the corn-patchWhistling negro songs;Pussy by the hearth-sideRomping with the tongs;Chestnuts in the ashesBursting through the rind;Red leaf and gold leafRustling down the wind;Mother "doin' peaches"All the afternoon,—Don't you think that autumn'sPleasanter than June?
Little fairy snow-flakesDancing in the flue;Old Mr. Santa Claus,What is keeping you?Twilight and firelightShadows come and go;
Merry chime of sleigh-bellsTinkling through the snow;Mother knitting stockings(Pussy's got the ball),—Don't you think that winter'sPleasanter than all?Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
Just as the moon was fadingAmid her misty rings,And every stocking was stuffedWith childhood's precious things,
Old Kriss Kringle looked around,And saw on the elm-tree bough,High hung, an oriole's nest,Lonely and empty now.
"Quite a stocking," he laughed,"Hung up there on a tree!I didn't suppose the birdsExpected a present from me!"
Then old Kriss Kringle, who lovesA joke as well as the best,Dropped a handful of snowflakesInto the oriole's empty nest.Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
"Little by little," an acorn said,As it slowly sank in its mossy bed,"I am improving every day,Hidden deep in the earth away."
Little by little, each day it grew;Little by little, it sipped the dew;Downward it sent out a thread-like root;Up in the air sprung a tiny shoot.
Day after day, and year after year,Little by little the leaves appear;And the slender branches spread far and wide,Till the mighty oak is the forest's pride.
Far down in the depths of the dark blue sea,An insect train work ceaselessly.Grain by grain, they are building well,Each one alone in its little cell.
Moment by moment, and day by day,Never stopping to rest or to play,Rocks upon rocks, they are rearing high,Till the top looks out on the sunny sky.
The gentle wind and the balmy air,Little by little, bring verdure there;Till the summer sunbeams gayly smileOn the buds and the flowers of the coral isle.
"Little by little," said a thoughtful boy,"Moment by moment, I'll well employ,Learning a little every day,And not spending all my time in play.And still this rule in my mind shall dwell,Whatever I do, I will do it well.
"Little by little, I'll learn to knowThe treasured wisdom of long ago;And one of these days, perhaps, we'll seeThat the world will be the better for me";And do you not think that this simple planMade him a wise and useful man?Anonymous.
Come, follow, follow me—You, fairy elves that be,Which circle on the green—Come, follow Mab, your queen!Hand in hand let's dance around,For this place is fairy ground.
When mortals are at rest,And snoring in their nest,Unheard and unespied,Through keyholes we do glide;Over tables, stools, and shelves,We trip it with our fairy elves.
And if the house be foulWith platter, dish, or bowl,Upstairs we nimbly creep,And find the sluts asleep;There we pinch their arms and thighs—None escapes, nor none espies.
But if the house be swept,And from uncleanness kept,We praise the household maid,And duly she is paid;For we use, before we go,To drop a tester in her shoe.
Upon a mushroom's headOur tablecloth we spread;A grain of rye or wheatIs manchet, which we eat;Pearly drops of dew we drink,In acorn cups, fil'd to the brink.
The brains of nightingales,With unctuous fat of snails,Between two cockles stew'd,Is meat that's easily chew'd;Tails of worms, and marrow of mice,Do make a dish that's wondrous nice.
The grasshopper, gnat, and fly,Serve us for our minstrelsy;Grace said, we dance a while,And so the time beguile;And if the moon doth hide her head,The glow-worm lights us home to bed.
On tops of dewy grassSo nimbly do we pass,The young and tender stalkNe'er bends when we do walk;Yet in the morning may be seenWhere we the night before have been.Anonymous.
The bluff March wind set out from homeBefore the peep of day,But nobody seemed to be glad he had come,And nobody asked him to stay.
Yet he dried up the snow-banks far and near,And made the snow-clouds roll,Huddled up in a heap, like driven sheep,Way off to the cold North Pole.
He broke the ice on the river's backAnd floated it down the tide,And the wild ducks came with a loud "Quack, quack,"To play in the waters wide.
He snatched the hat off Johnny's headAnd rolled it on and on,And oh, what a merry chase it ledLittle laughing and scampering John!
He swung the tree where the squirrel layToo late in its winter bed,And he seemed to say in his jolly way,"Wake up, little sleepy head!"
He dried the yard so that Rob and TedCould play at marbles there,And he painted their cheeks a carmine redWith the greatest skill and care.
He shook all the clothes-lines, one by one,What a busy time he had!But nobody thanked him for all he had done;Now wasn't that just too bad?Anonymous.
Oh, such a commotion under the groundWhen March called, "Ho, there! ho!"Such spreading of rootlets far and wide,Such whispering to and fro;And, "Are you ready?" the Snowdrop asked,"'Tis time to start, you know.""Almost, my dear," the Scilla replied;"I'll follow as soon as you go."Then, "Ha! ha! ha!" a chorus cameOf laughter soft and low,From the millions of flowers under the ground—Yes—millions—beginning to grow.
"I'll promise my blossoms," the Crocus said,"When I hear the bluebirds sing."And straight thereafter, Narcissus cried,"My silver and gold I'll bring.""And ere they are dulled," another spoke,"The Hyacinth bells shall ring."And the Violet only murmured, "I'm here,"And sweet grew the air of spring.Then, "Ha! ha! ha!" a chorus cameOf laughter soft and low,From the millions of flowers under the ground—Yes—millions—beginning to grow.
Oh, the pretty, brave things! through the coldest days,Imprisoned in walls of brown,They never lost heart though the blast shrieked loud,And the sleet and the hail came down,But patiently each wrought her beautiful dress,Or fashioned her beautiful crown;And now they are coming to brighten the world,Still shadowed by Winter's frown;And well may they cheerily laugh, "Ha! ha!"In a chorus soft and low,The millions of flowers hid under the ground—Yes—millions—beginning to grow.Anonymous.
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 themAnd 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.
"Will you walk a little faster?" said a whitingto a snail,"There's a porpoise close behind us, andhe's treading on my tail.See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles alladvance!They are waiting on the shingle—will you comeand join the dance?Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, willyou join the dance?Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won'tyou join the dance?
"You can really have no notion how delightfulit will beWhen they take us up and throw us, with thelobsters, out to sea!"But the snail replied, "Too far, too far!" andgave a look askance—Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but hewould not join the dance.Would not, could not, would not, could not,would not join the dance.Would not, could not, would not, could not, couldnot join the dance.
"What matters it how far we go?" his scalyfriend replied,"There is another shore, you know, upon theother side.The further off from England the nearer is toFrance—Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come andjoin the dance.Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, willyou join the dance?Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won'tyou join the dance?"Lewis Carroll.
He is a roguish little elf,A gay audacious fellow,Who tramps about in doublet greenAnd skirt of brightest yellow;In ev'ry field, by ev'ry road,He peeps among the grasses,And shows his sunny little faceTo ev'ry one that passes.
Within the churchyard he is seen,Beside the headstones peeping,And shining like a golden starO'er some still form there sleeping;Beside the house door oft he springs,In all his wanton straying,And children shout in laughing gleeTo find him in their playing.
At eve he dons his nightgown green,And goes to bed right early,At morn, he spreads his yellow skirtsTo catch the dewdrops pearly;A darling elf is Dandelion,A roguish wanton sweeting;Yet he is loved by ev'ry child,All give him joyous greeting.Kate L. Brown.
The sun descending in the west,The evening star does shine;The birds are silent in their nest,And I must seek for mine.The moon, like a flowerIn heaven's high bower,With silent delightSits and smiles on the night.
Farewell, green fields and happy grove,Where flocks have ta'en delight;Where lambs have nibbled, silent moveThe feet of angels bright;Unseen they pour blessing,And joy without ceasing,On each bud and blossom,And each sleeping bosom.
They look in every thoughtless nestWhere birds are cover'd warm,They visit caves of every beast,To keep them all from harm:—If they see any weepingThat should have been sleepingThey pour sleep on their head,And sit down by their bed.William Blake.
When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy,And the dimpling stream runs laughing by;When the air does laugh with our merry wit,And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;
When the meadows laugh with lively green,And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene;When Mary, and Susan, and Emily,With their sweet round mouths sing, "Ha, ha, he!"
When the painted birds laugh in the shade,Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread:Come live, and be merry, and join with meTo sing the sweet chorus of "Ha, ha, he!"William Blake.
"Awake, awake, my little boy!Thou wast thy mother's only joy;Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep?O wake! thy father does thee keep."
—"O what land is the Land of Dreams?What are its mountains, and what are its streams?O father! I saw my mother there,Among the lilies by waters fair.
"Among the lambs, clothed in white,She walk'd with her Thomas in sweet delight:I wept for joy; like a dove I mourn:—O when shall I again return!"
—"Dear child! I also by pleasant streamsHave wander'd all night in the Land of Dreams:—But, though calm and warm the waters wide,I could not get to the other side."
—"Father, O father! what do we here,In this land of unbelief and fear?—The Land of Dreams is better far,Above the light of the morning star."William Blake.
Merrily swinging on briar and weed,Near to the nest of his little dame,Over the mountain-side or mead,Robert of Lincoln is telling his name.Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink,Snug and safe is that nest of ours,Hidden among the summer flowers.Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed,Wearing a bright, black wedding-coat;White are his shoulders, and white his crest,Hear him call in his merry note,Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink,Look what a nice, new coat is mine;Sure there was never a bird so fine.Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,Passing at home a patient life,Broods in the grass while her husband sings:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink,Brood, kind creature, you need not fearThieves and robbers while I am here.Chee, chee, chee.
Modest and shy as a nun is she;One weak chirp is her only note;Braggart, and prince of braggarts is he,Pouring boasts from his little throat,Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink,Never was I afraid of man,Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can.Chee, chee, chee.
Six white eggs on a bed of hay,Flecked with purple, a pretty sight:There as the mother sits all day,Robert is singing with all his might,Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink,Nice good wife, that never goes out,Keeping house while I frolic about.Chee, chee, chee.
Soon as the little ones chip the shell,Six wide mouths are open for food;Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,Gathering seeds for the hungry brood:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink,This new life is likely to beHard for a gay young fellow like me.Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln at length is madeSober with work, and silent with care,Off is his holiday garment laid,Half forgotten that merry air:Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink,Nobody knows but my mate and I,Where our nest and our nestlings lie,Chee, chee, chee.
Summer wanes; the children are grown;Fun and frolic no more he knows,Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum drone;Off he flies, and we sing as he goes,Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,Spink, spank, spink,When you can pipe that merry old strain,Robert of Lincoln, come back again.Chee, chee, chee.William Cullen Bryant.
They say that God lives very high;But if you look above the pinesYou cannot see our God; and why?
And if you dig down in the mines,You never see Him in the gold,Though from Him all that's glory shines.
God is so good, He wears a foldOf heaven and earth across His face,Like secrets kept, for love, untold.
But still I feel that His embraceSlides down by thrills, through all things made,Through sight and sound of every place;
As if my tender mother laidOn my shut lids her kisses' pressure,Half waking me at night, and said,"Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser?"Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
I see you, on the zigzag rails,You cheery little fellow!While purple leaves are whirling down,And scarlet, brown, and yellow.I hear you when the air is fullOf snow-down of the thistle;All in your speckled jacket trim,"Bob White! Bob White!" you whistle.
Tall amber sheaves, in rustling rows,Are nodding there to greet you;I know that you are out for play—How I should like to meet you!Though blithe of voice, so shy you are,In this delightful weather;What splendid playmates you and I,"Bob White," would make together!
There, you are gone! but far awayI hear your whistle falling.Ah! may be it is hide-and-seek,And that's why you are calling.Along those hazy uplands wideWe'd be such merry rangers;What! silent now, and hidden too?"Bob White," don't let's be strangers.