' - ff^ \%\i'ii' ^:mM ?aU I diff III I A M-X^ I NT! -i U I Dance, Polly, now, and Molly, And little dimpied Dolly, Adoiun the gentle grassy slope, to the green nook below, Where, ^^ every year before," they say, " Quite early in the month o' May, The pinkest flowers and sweetest flowers and thickest used to grow." Their dainty limbs a-swinging. Their wild young voices singing Free bits o' song, like robins, just on account of spring ; Their hearts all innocent and fair. Unknowing of the world, or care. And wanting lots d' sweet May-posies more than anything. Dance, Polly, now, and Molly, And little dimpled Dolly, And you shall find the flowers a-blowing as they used to blow. Just as pink and just as sweet ; For, quite as well as food to eat. Do children need the blessed flowers o' spring to make them grow. Exulting now they're crying. And every minute spying Beneath the dusty, withered leaves a lovelier starry spray; Queens and jeivels there may be, But what is there so sweet to see As flowers and children meeting in the darling month o' May 2 W '/'" ^t*!^ Wake from your sleep, sweet Christians, now, and listen : A little song We have, so sweet it like a star doth glisten. And dance along. Now wake and hark : all brightly it is glowing With yule-flames merry. And o'er it many a holly sprig is grooving. And scarlet berry. A bough of evergreeti, with wax-lights gleaming. It bravely graces ; And o'er its lines the star that 's eastward beaming Leaves golden t?-aces. Also, our little song, it sweetly praiseth. Like birds in flocks When mornijtgfrom her bed of roses raiseth Her golden locks. But this it is that makes , most sweet our story, When all is said : It holds a little Child, with rays of glory Around His head. THE POET AND THE CHILDREN CAREFULLY SELECTED POEMS FROM THE WORKS OF THE BEST AND MOST POPULAR WRITERS FOR CHILDREN EDITED BY MATTHEW HENRY LOTHROP ILLUSTRATED WITH NEARLY TWO HUNDRED ENGRAVINGS FROM ORIGINAL DESIGNS BY J. WELLS CSAMPNEY, MISS L. B. HUMPHREY, JESSIE CURTIS SHEPHERD, WALTER SHIRLAW, F. H. LUNGREN, G. F. BARNES AND OTHER DISTINGUISHED ARTISTS BOSTON D. LOTHROP AND COMPANY FRANKLIN STREET .\ *^V !i Ki I \' ? R U \ t Y I f -RARV CoPYKIGHT, J882, By D. Lothhop ano Companv. Presswork by Rockivell & Churchill. vrji'«'Tvi/ii|.ii. CONTENTS, A-Maying Ill The Christ Child IV The Poet and the Children John Q. Whittier 3 True Honors Adelaide A. Procter 4 One by One Adelaide A. Procter 7 Our happy Secret Margaret Sidney 8 The Voice of the Wind Adelaide A. Procter 9 The Puritan Maiden's Ma3'-day Margaret J. Preston 10 A deep Sea Dream Mary A. Lathbury 11 The Mermaid Alfred Tennyson 12 The Skipping Rope Alfred Tennyson , 12 By the Cowyard Bars Carrie Y. Shav) 15 The truant Fireflies Clara Doty Pates 17 A Child's Mood Jidiet C. Marsh 18 The dead Kitten Sidney Dare 18 The September Gale Oliver Wendell Holmes 21 Down in tlie Clover Mary JE. Wilkins 22 The Gi-eek Boy .' William Cullen Pryant 25 Oh, fairest of the rural Maids William Cullen Pryant 25 Poems of Christmas Tide Mary E. Wilkins I. The Brownie's Xmas : 26 II. The spoiled Darling 29 III. Two Boys 30 IV. The Christmas Ball 32 V. The Puritan Doll 33 VI. The Gift that None could see 34 A little Sister's Story Mary E. Plaice 37 Sleeping and Watching Elizabeth Parrett Protming 39 Exaggeration Elizabeth Parrett Prov:ning 39 Song amid the Holly Berries Margaret Sidney 40 March Celia Thaxter 43 Mrs. Bee explains Margaret Eytinge 43 The Rose and the Waif May Palmer Daly 44 A King's merry Christmas Mrs. 8. M. P. Piatt 46 A great Shame Pose Terry Cooke 49 Little Robin Adair : Fannie E. Bobinson : 50 Two of Them Mrs. Lucy M. Plinn 51 Once upon a Time Mary E. Wilkins.*. 51 The last of the Pippins ^rs. Clara Doty Pates 52 Two Faces under a Hood M. E P 54 A little Milkmaid -4«wa Poynton Averill 55 7 Contents. Catkins Clara Doty Bates 56 On Fast Day. — A. D., 1648 Mrs. Marcjaret J. Preston 57 " Obbie Dobbie " Ilattie F. Bell 58 A Dandy Lion 31. K B 58 The mountain Dance Wallace E. Mather 61 Pier Name Anna F. Burnhaiu 61 There was once a little Maiden Mary A. Lathhury . ., 62 Who holdeth up the Sky ? Emilie Tolman 62 Ted's rubber Boots Mrs. Clara Doty Bates 68 Grandmamma's Valentine Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney 64 A Child's Thought M. F. Butts 65 Sliding down Hill Mary E. Wilkins 65 There's more than one Way Mrs. M. B. C. Slade 66 Snow Stories Mrs. ( Hara Doty Bates 66 A Valentine for Baby Mary E. Wilkins 69 T«o little Pilgrims Juliet C. Marsh 69 Behind the Arras. — A. D., 1486 Margaret J. Brest m 70 The Return J//,s. L. C. Whito..~. 71 Shadow and Echo ' 3[rs. M. F. Butts 72 An Acquaintance declined Margaret Eytinge 72 What the Circus did 21. E. B 75 March Edgar Fatocett 75 Gold Locks' Kindergarten Mrs. Clara Doty Bates 76 The Rain and the Flowers 77 Midget's Bedtime 77 Coasting Wallace E. Mather 78 Sunshine in the House Clara Louise Burnlta -> 78 A Rogue Mrs. Mary D. Wyatt 78 The siher Boat Mrs. M. F. Butts 79 The Baby's Footprint Mary E. Willuis 80 A Bird speaks Mrs. M. F. Butts ', 83 A little April Fool . . .' C. L. C. . ... 83 Contrary Town Clara Louise Burnham ...'.... 83 A Day in Winter Mrs. L. C. Whiton 84 Why little Birds hop and Others walk L. J. Bates 84 Hearts of Gold Helen T. Clark 85 In the Cradle Boat George Cooper 86 The Way the Rain behaves Ruth Argyle §7 The Fire-cracker and Torpedo Clara L. Buruham 87 A Song for a Birthday Boy M. E. B j^g Baby Thankful Caroline MetcaJf qq Ilomesick Anna F. Burnhaui 9(3 Shopping Laura Ledyard 92 The Land of Used-to-be James Whitcomb Rih-i/ 93 Lost Pins Agnes Carr g^ " Saint Emily " G. F. Frye 94 A little Girl's Questions Mrs. Luther Keene 97 The Cornstalk's Lesson Mrs. Christine Chaj>lin Brnsh ' gg To Betty from the Country Charlotte M. Packard ^ " 99 Edith's Lesson Mrs. Margaret E. Songster . [' jgO Contents. The Brook behind the Waumbek House Martha P. Lowe 101 The silken Shoe Paul H. Ilayne 102 In the black Forest Celia Thaxter 103 Eight O'clock Margaret E. Johnson 104 Mary in the Morning-glories Mary Clemmer 106 Dorris' Spinning Margaret J. Preston 106 A young Inquirer Charlotte M. Packard Ill Roasting Corn Mrs. Clara Doty Pates 112 A Midsummer Song Mary E. WilMns 113 In Mourning Anna F. Purnham 1 14 A York Music-box Sarah P. Clark 115 The Mother Apple-blossom Christine Chaplin Prush 115 Master Sweet-tooth Rev. Theron Prown 117 On St. Valentine's Day Mrs. M. P. C. Slade 118 The Tithing-man Mary E. Wilkins 118 Release Mary A. Pathbury 121 An old Saw Celia Thaxter 122 A Tale of a Comet J. T. Trowbridge 122 On Christ-day Night ' JVora Perry 126 The story of Nobody's Cat Clara Poty Pates 128 Gracie's Fancies Prenda Aubert . ; . 129 The Peacock that sailed away Mrs. L. C. Whiton 130 The Roman Boy's Trophies . .■ Margaret J. Preston 130 Christmas Carol Jidiet C. Marsh 133 Willie Wee Mrs. A. M. Piaz 133 Mother Goose James Whitcomb Riley 136 The Baby's Prayer Elizabeth Stuart Phelps 136 A Baby Show S. 11. 138 A truly Church Charlotte M. Packard 140 Out of Tune Mrs. S. M. P. Piatt 142 A little Shopper Mrs. M. F. Putts 142 Courtesy ^rs. L. C. Whiton 145 The first Thanksgiving-day . , Mrs. Margaret J. Preston 146 Waiting a Winter's Tale . '. Mrs. S. M. P. Piatt 148 Blue and Gold Mrs. Clara Poty Pates 150 How Birds keeiJ Cool 151 Two little Paths Sophie Sweet 152 The Child and the Gentian Mrs. M. F. Putts 153 Nobody Anna F. Purnham 153 The Centipede's Dilemma E. F. L. C. 154 A joyous little Maid Mrs. L. C. Whiton 154 An Appeal Jessie Scott 154 Supposing • • La%cra J^edyard 158 " Tatts " Annie X. Jack 158 The Weed's Mission Margaret Eytinge 160 All-Hallow E'en Mary E. Wilkins 16] A fashionable Lady Mrs. Clara Poty Pates 163 Ned's Wonderings.. Emma E. Provm 164 Boys and Banties Rev. J. E- JSfuttiny 164 Where the Brook and River meet Emma E. Prown 166 Contents. Peggy's Doubt Rose Graham l"t> The Ferns and the Flakes Emma E. Brown 169 Little Titian's Palette Margaret J. Preston 169 In Midsummer Mrs. L. C. Whitoa 171 Saarchinkold Bev. J. K. J^utting 172 " Do you know you ai-e two Yefirs old To-day ? " 178 A Letter and a Crown . . Jennie M. Burr 178 Annis Vane— A. D. 1558 Mrs. Margaret J. Preston 181 The Frost-elf F. 8. Saltus 183 A Catastrophe ; M. E B 184- If Wishes were Horses M. E. B 185 The little Brook Mrs. L. C. ^Milton 186 May Miracles Mrs. M. F. Butts 187 A Spring Song Margaret Sidney 187 A Spring Snowstorm Mary A. Lathbury 188 Song of Spring . John Vance Cheney 189 The true Story of a Storm Mrs. S. M. B. Piatt 189 In October Mrs. L. C. Whiton 190 A Bird's House Anna F. Burnham. . . .'. 190 St. Botolph's Bells — A. D. 1640 , Mrs. Margaret J. Preston 19S Some Morning Orders Mrs. Sall-'e M. B. Piatt 395 Maid Cicely's Steeple-cap — A. D. 1480 Mrs. Margaret J. Preston 195 Pussy Willow and the South Wind Emily A. Braddoek 197 The Silent Children .■ . . . Elizabeth Stuart Phelj^s 197 Before the Shower Margaret Johnson 199 Michael's Mallet Margaret J. Preston . 199 The Child Angel Mrs. L. C. Whiton 2(11 Birds of no Feather Mrs. Maggie B. Peeh o()2 The first St. Martin's Summer Emma E. Brown 205 A Nosegay Mary JsT. Prescott ' 205 March and the Boys Mary I). Brine 206 If I were a little Baby M. E. B 207 Jamie, the Gentleman Mabel C. Dowd 207 My beautiful " Tick-a-tock " Louise S. Vpham 208 In the early Morning Adelaide G. Waters 209 The new Sister Paul IT. Hayne 209 I Our Grandmothers Clara Doty Bate;; 210 The Army of Spring Mary B. Bodge 211 A Summer Day Mrs. L. C. Whiton 212 The Scarecrow Mrs. Celia Thaxter 212 The Crab Catchers Mrs. Celia Thaxter 215 The Voice of the Chestnut-tree Mrs. M. F. Butts .)lg Fairies, or Fireflies ? Mrs. S. M. B. Piatt 217 Little Lottie's Grievance Paul 11. Hayne ojy Corporal Clover 3frs. M. F. Butts 218 Grandmother's Cu]) M. E. JV. Hathaway 219 John S. Crow Eirke Monroe .).iq How the Laurel went to Church Emily A. Braddock. . O2o A youthful Martyr..... 21. E. B o.v. Baby Bobolink's Cradle L. G. Warner .' !^2G Contents. A Bird Story M. E. B Conspiracy of the Weather-cocks R. S. P An Incursion of the Danes Anna F. Burnlumi " Twelve O'clock, and All's well ! " M. S. E. JP Willie's Mishap Elizabeth W. Dennison. . . . Pretty Polly Pansy " Anna F. Mumham Griselda in Pound Mrs. Margaret J. Preston. The Ground Squirrel Paul H. Hayne The Wolf and the Goat Palmer Cox A little Boy's Troubles Carlotta Perry A Riddle. M. E. B The Bedpost Doll Kate Lavirence The Dame School Anna F. Biirnham The Circus-day Parade James Whitcomb Riley . . . . 227 228 230 231 232 235 235 287 238 238 241 241 243 243 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. A-maying Christ Child Henry W. Longfellow " I didn't listen " A Puritan Flower A deep-sea Dream He gazed at the dawning Stars The truant Fireflies A dead Kitten Down in the Clover The poor little friendly Brownie In the western Window In the cold white Wood She thought the Presents were all for Her Patsey dreams a Christmas Dream A fairyland Crew came whirling airily into the Room Ruth takes her Gift .... And all of This on the Window-pane And where are You going, etc. . The little Sister and her Brothers I've come to sing your Christmas Song The March Winds do blow In the shop-light Glare Now choose for yourself the prettiest One White and still The King is dead ! Long live the King ! . She reads him a " Once upon a Time " Story There is just enough for one more Feast White as the drifted Snow .... Apples When She smiles When She cries . .... As we go homeward through the Dew Gold Locks and her oldest Doll Pert Looks that send my Hair on End Oh, he was a Dandy Lion . There was once a little Maiden They seem to make a Man of Him " Two little Bidders " On the kitchen Broom Winter Birds .... Is the Dove a pretty One '' Pussy, ar'n't you cold ? " She said Gold Locks' Kindergarten . The silver Boat " Flowers to her dimpled Knees " A little April Fool " A nameless Hero evermore " . The Fire-cracker and Torpedo . A Song for a birthday Boy F. H. Lungren Miss L. B. Humphrey Froniis. IV W. P. Bodfish Miss Mary A. Lathbury F. S. Church . Will L. Taylor and Mary A. Lathbury Adclejid L. Ferris G. F. Barnes . Miller and Hayden Miller and Hayden Miller and Hayden Mrs. A. L. Ferris . F. S. Church F. H. Lungren Jessie Curtis vShepherd Miss L. B. Humphrey Miss L. B- Humphrey Miss L. B. Humphrey G. F. Barnes F. H. Lungren K. H. Lungren F". H. Lungren Robert Lewis G. F. Barnes . W. P. Bodfish W. P. Bodfish G. F. Barnes . Miss Mary A. Lathbury Miss Mary A. Lathbury W. P. Bodfish Miss Mary A. Lathbury W. P. Bodfish Robert Lewis Miss Mary A. Lathbury Miller and Hayden F. T. Merrill . W. P. Bodfish F. H. Lungren Miss L. B. Humphrey G. F. Barnes . Miss L. B. Humphrey Miss L. B. Humphrey Miller and Hayden Miss Caroline Hansell F. S. Church "Boz" . G. F. Barnes . List of Illustrations. Baby Thankful . . . . Not a Breath of Air .... Shopping . . . . " Saint Emily " . . . . In idle Mood A Dreamer The Brook behind the W4unbeck House The silken Shoe .... Light was his burden to Merry Max Eight O'clock .... Mary in the Morning Glories " So she minded her Wheel " A young Inquirer In Grandpa's Cornfield Around the Meadow sweet In Mourning .... The Mother Apple Blossom Close to her tip-toed the Tithing-man Release A Tale of a Comet Dulcet Sounds And on her cold Lips dropped a Kiss After the Fete The Story of Nobody's Cat Grade's Fancies The Roman Boy's Spoils . Christmas Carol " You tell very big Stories ! " Mother Goose " For whose Sake, Mamma ? • A Baby Show " Johnny McDougal, what's that .' " " And here I am in the Store " Summer speaking to Spring " Hail ! Pie of the Pumpkin ! " Santa Klaus, High Lord and Master of all Blue and Gold . How Birds keep cool . Two little Paths The Child and the Gentian A joyous little Maid . And well He knows every Sort of Craft Supposing . " They saw it was no Use then ' The Weed's Mission . All-Hallowe'en . Boys and Banties Where the Brook and River meet Little Titian's Palette The Silence of the Morning's Splendor Saarchinkold I In the Sterlitz Garden Annis Vane The Frost Elf When the Cat's away, etc The little Brook A Spring Song . A Spring Snow Storm "I wish Louis had told." Fairi' Miss Katie Pierson G. F. Barnes . Miss Mary A. Lathbury Miss L. B. Humphrey Miss L. B. Humphrey F. H. Lungren Miller and Hayden Miss L. B. Humphrey F. H. Lungren Miss Jessie McDermott Miss Mary A. Lathbury Miss Caroline Hansell Miller and Hayden W. P. Bodfish Miss Jessie McDermott Miss Caroline Hansell Miss L. B. Humphrey G. F. Barnes . . Miss Mary A. Lathbury Livingston Hopkins F. H. Lungren F. H. Lungren F. H. Lungren G. F. Barnes . G. F. Barnes . G. F. Barnes , Robert Lewis Miss Mary A. Lathbury G. F. Barnes . Miss C. A. Lord IMiss Jessie McDermott Miss Mary A. Lathbury Robert Lewis Miss Mary A. Lathbury W. P. Bodfish Miss L. B. Humphrey Miss L. B. Humphrey Robert Lewis Mrs. Jessie C. Shepherd Miller and Haycfbn Walter Shirlaw Mrs. Caroline Hansell G. F. Barnes . Miss Mary A. Lathburv Mrs. Jessie C. Shepherd W. P. Bodfish Miss L. B. Humphrey Miss L. B. Humphrey E. P. Hayden G. F. Barnes G. F. Barnes . G. F. Barnes "Boz" . Miss Mary A. Lathbury Miss Mary A. Lathbury G F. Barnes . Miss Mary A. Lathbury Miss L. B. Humphrey List of Illustrattons. In October Willing to fight for Let to pray . Maid Cicely " I show you now a Womler," etc Baby Michael ... The Child Angel Four little Birds in a Nest March and the Boys . The beautiful " Tick-a-tock." Our Grandmothers A Summer Day . . The Crab-catchers To Bed at Eight O'clock . Corporal Clover Grandmother's Cap John's Crow Bric-a-brac Child Reinie and the Laurel The Conspiracy of the Weather-cocks Telephoning Santa Down over the Dam, etc Patient Griselda looked over the Wall The Ground Squirrel " Why don't They come down " . The Dame School .... Miller and Hayden G. F. Barnes G. F. Barnes J. W. Champney Miss L. B. Humphrey G. F. Barnes G. F. Barnes Miss L. B. Humphrey Miss Caroline Hansell Miller and H:'yden W. P. Bodfish Miss Mary A. Lathbury Miss Mary A. Lathbury G. F. Barnes G. F. Barnes Miss L. B. Humphrey Miss L. B. Humphrey Robert Lewis W. P. Bodfish Miss L. B. Humphrey W. P. Bodfish "Boz" . Palmer Cox Jessie McDermott . 191 194 196 198 200 201 203 206 208 2IO 213 215 217 218 219 220 222 223 228 231 236 237 239 243 BORN FEB. 27, 1S07. DIED M \R 2\, 1882. THE POET AND THE CHILDREN. By John G. Whittier. With a glory of winter sunshine Over his locks of gray, In the old historic mansion He sat on his last birthday, All their beautiful consolations, Sent forth like birds of cheer, Came flocking back to his windows, And sang in the Poet's ear. With his books and his pleasant pictures And his household and his kin. While a sound as of myriads singing From far and near stole in. Grateful, but solemn and tender, The music rose and fell With a joy akin to sadness And a greeting like farewell. It came from his own fair city, From the prairie's boundless plain. From the Golden Gate of sunset. And the cedarn woods of Maine. With a sense of awe he listened To the voices sweet and young ; The last of earth and the first of heaven Seemed in the songs they sung. And his heart grew warm within him, And his moistening eyes grew dim. For he knew that his country's children Were singing the songs of him : And waiting a little longer For the wonderful change to come, He heard the Summoning Angel Who calls God's children home ! The lays of his life's glad morning, The psalms of his evening time, Whose echoes shall float forever On the winds of every clime. And to him, in a holier welcome. Was the mystical meaning given Of the words of the blessed Master : " Of such is the kingdom of Heaven ! " TRUE HONORS. TRUE HONORS, By Adelaide A. Procter. IS my darling tired already, Tired of her day of play ? Draw your little stool beside me, Smooth this tangled hair away. Can she put the logs together, Till they make a cheerful blaze ? Shall her blind old uncle tell her Something of his youthful days ? Then I raised my eyes, and, shining Where the moon's first ray was bright, Stood a winged Angel-warrior Clothed and panoplied in light : So with Heaven's love upon him. Stern in calm and resolute will, Looked St. Michael, — does the picture Hang in the old cloister still .'' Hark ! The wind among the cedars Waves their white arms to and fro ; I remember how I watched them Sixty Christmas Days ago : Then I dreamt a glorious vision Of great deeds to crown each year ; Sixty Christmas Days have found me Useless, helpless, blind^ — and here! Yes, I feel my darling stealing Warm soft fingers into mine : Shall I tell her what I fancied In that strange old dream of mine ? I was kneeling by the window, Reading how a noble band, With the red cross on their breastplates, Went to gain the Holy Land. Threefold were the dreams of honor That absorbed my heart and brain ; Threefold crowns the Angel promised, Each one to be bought by pain : While he spoke, a threefold blessing Fell upon my soul like rain. Helper of the poor and suffering ; Victor in a glorious strife ; Singer of a noble poem : Such the honors of my life. Ah, that dream ! Long years that gave me Joy and grief as real things Never touched the tender memory Sweet and solemn that it brings, — Never quite effaced the feeling Of those white and shadowing wings. While with eager eyes of wonder Over the dark page I bent, Slowly twilight shadows gathered Till the letters came and went ; Slowly, till the night was round me ; Then my heart beat loud and fast, For I felt before I saw it That a spirit near me passed. Dc those blue eyes open wider ? Does my faith too foolish seem ? Yes, my darling, years have taught me It was nothing but a dream. Soon, too soon, the bitter knowledge Of a fearful trial rose. Rose to crush my heart, and sternly Bade my young ambition close. TRUE HONORS. More and more my eyes were clouded, Till at last God's glorious light Passed away from me forever, And I lived and live in night. Dear, I will not dim your pleasure, Christmas should be only gay : — In my night the stars have risen, And I wait the dawn of day. And 1 gave it. Philip's bounty (We were orphans, dear) made toil Prosper, and want never fastened On the tenants of the soil. Philip's name ( O, how I gloried, He so young, to see it rise ! ) Soon grew noted among statesmen As a patriot true and wise. Spite of all I could be happy ; For my brothers' tender care In their boyish pastimes ever Made me take or feel a share. Philip, even then so thoughtful. Max so noble, brave and tall, And your father, little Godfrey, The most loving of them all. And his people all felt honored To be ruled by such a name ; I was proud too that they loved me ; Through their pride in him it came. He had gained what I had longed for, I meanwhile grew glad and gay, 'Mid his people, to be serving Him and them in some poor way. Philip reasoned down my sorrow, Max would laugh my gloom away, Godfrey's little arms put round me Helped me through my dreariest day ; While the promise of my Angel, Like a star, now bright, now pale, Hung in blackest night above me. And I felt it- could not fail. How his noble earnest speeches, With untiring fervor came ; Helper of the poor and suffering ; Truly he deserved the name !,. Had my Angel's promise failed me .' Had that word of hope grown dim ? Why, my Philip had fulfilled it. And I loved it best in him ! Years passed on, my brothers left me. Each went out to take his share In the struggle of life ; my portion Was a humble one — to bear. Here I dwelt, and learnt to wander Through the woods and fields alone. Every cottage in .the village Had a corner called my own. Max meanwhile — ah, you, my darling. Can his loving words recall — 'Mid the bravest and the noblest, Braver, nobler than them all. How I loved him ! how my heart thrilled When his sword clanked by his side, When I touched his gold embroidery. Almost saw him in his pride ! Old and young, all brought their troubles, Great or small, for me to hear ; I have often blessed my sorrow That drew others' grief so near. Ah, the people needed helping — Needed love — (for Love and Heaven Are the only gifts not bartered. They alone are freely given ) — So we. parted ; he all eager To uphold the name he bore. Leaving in my charge — he loved me — Some one whom he loved still more : I must tend this gentle flower, I must speak to her of him. For he feared — Love still is fearful — That his memory might grow dim. TRUE HONORS. I must guard her from all sorrow, I must play a brother's part, Shield all grief and trial from her, ^ If it need be with my heart. Years passed, and his name grew famous ; We were proud, both she and I, And we lived upon his letters. While the slow days fleeted by. Told her — now I dared to do it — That I felt the day would rise When he would return to gladden My weak heart and her bright eyes. And I pleaded — pleaded sternly — In his name, and for his sake : Now, I can speak calmly of it. Then I thought my heart would break. Then at last — you know the story, How a fearful rumor spread. Till all hope had slowly faded. And we heard that he was dead. Dead ! O, those were bitter hours ; Yet within my soul there dwelt A warning, and while others mourned him, Something like a hope I felt. Soon — ah. Love had not deceived me, ( Love's true instincts never err,) Wounded, weak, escaped from prison. He returned to me, — to her. I could thank God that bright morning. When I felt my Brother's gaze, That my heart was true and loyal, As in our old boyish days. His was no weak life as mine was. But a life, so full and strong — No, I could not think he perished Nameless 'mid a conquered throng. How she drooped ! Years passed ; no tidings Came, and yet that little flame Of strange hope within my spirit Still burnt on, and lived the same. Bought by wounds and deeds of daring. Honors he had brought away ; Glory crowned his name — my Brother's ; Mine too ! — we were one that day. Since the crown on him had fallen, " Victor in a noble strife," I could live and die contented With my poor ignoble life. Ah ! my child, our hearts will fail us, When to us they strongest seem : I can look back on those hours As a fearful, evil dream. She had long despaired; what wonder That her heart had turned to mine ? Earthly loves are deep and tender. Not eternal and divine ! Well, my darling, almost weary Of my story ? Wait awhile ; For the rest is only joyful ; I can tell it with a smile. One bright promise still was left me. Wound so close about my soul, That, as one by one had failed me, This dream now absorbed the whole. Can I say how bright a future Rose before my soul that day ? O, so strange, so sweet, so lender ! And I had to turn away. Hard and terrible the struggle. For the pain not mine alone ; I called back my Brother's spirit. And I bade him claim his own. " Singer of a noble Poem," — Ah, my darling, few and rare Burn the glorious names of Poets, Like stars in the purple air. That too, and I glory in it. That great gift my Godfrey won ; I have my dear share of honor, Gained by that beloved one. ONE B Y ONE. One day shall my darling read it; Now she cannot understand All the noble thoughts that lighten Through the genius of the land. I am proud to be his brother, Proud to think that hope was true ; Though I longed and strove so vainly, What I failed in, he could do. And, it cheers my heart to hear it. Where the far-off settlers roam. My poor words are sung and cherished, Just because they speak of home. And the little children sing them, (That, I think, has pleased me best,) Often, too, the dying love them. For they tell of Heaven and rest. It was long before I knew it, Longer ere I felt it so ; Then I strung my rhymes together Only for the poor and low. And it pleases me to know it, (For I love them well indeed,) They care for my humble verses, Fitted for their humble need. So my last vain dream has faded ; (Such as I to think of fame ! ) Yet I will not say it failed me, For it crowned my Godfrey's name. No ; my Angel did not cheat me, For my long life has been blest ; He did give me Love and Sorrow, He will bring me Light and Rest. ONE BY ONE, ONE by one the sands are flowing. One by one the moments fall ; Some are coming, some are going ; Do not strive to grasp them all. Do not look at life's long sorrow ; See how small each moment's pain, God will help thee for to-morrow, So each day begin again. One by one thy duties wait thee. Let thy whole strength go to each. Let no future dreams elate thee, Learn thou tirst what these can teach. Every hour that fleets so slowly Has its tasks to do or bear ; Luminous the crown and holy. When each gem is set with care. One by one (bright gifts from Heaven) Joys are sent thee here below ; Take them readily when given. Ready too to let them go. Do not linger with regretting. Or for passing hours despond ; Nor, the daily toil forgetting. Look too eagerly beyond. One by one th/ griefs shall meet thee, Do not fear an arm^d band ; One will fade as others greet thee ; Shadows passing through the land. Hours are golden links, God's token, Reaching heaven ; but one by one Take them, lest the chain be broken Ere the pilgrimage be done. OUR HAPPY SECRET. OUR HAPPY SECRET, By Margaret Sidney. O' ^H, I couldn't help it ! It came to me, Out of the midst Of an old apple-tree. Came to me soft With a chirping note — Out popped the secret From dear little throat : "Just here, just here the nest shall be. Nobody knows it ! Oh, happy are we !" I didn't listen \ I tell you true ; They told it — and I Say — what could I do ? They sang it, and sang it. Not looking at me, Who sat just beneath That old apple-tree : "Just here, just here the nest shall be. Nobody knows it ! Oh, happy are we 1" " I DIDN'T LISTF.N, 1 TELL YOU TRUE.' Do you think I'd tell, Oh, dear me, no ! Just where that we'e nest Is going to grow ? You couldn't find If a week you tried. My apple-tree, where That home shall hide. Just where, just where that nest shall be. Nobody knows — only we three ! THE VOICE OF THE WIND. THE VOICE OF THEWIND. By Adelaide A. Procter. LET us throw more logs on the fire ! We have need of a cheerful light, And close round the hearth to gather, For the wind has risen to-night. With the mournful sound of its wailing It has checked the children's glee. And it calls with a louder clamor Than the clamor of the sea. Hark to the voice of the wind ! Let us listen to what it is saying, Let us hearken to where it has been ; For it tells in its terrible crying, The fearful sights it has seen. It clatters loud at the casements, Round the house it hurries on. And shrieks with redoubled fury When we say, " The blast is gone ! " Hark to the voice of the wind ! It has been on the field of battle. Where the dying and wounded lie ; And it brings the last groan they uttered. And the ravenous vulture's cry. It has been where the icebergs were meet- ing. And closed with a fearful crash : On shores where no foot has wandered It has heard the waters dash. Hark to the voice of the wind ! It has been on the desolate ocean When the lightning struck the mast; It has heard the cry of the drowning, Who sank as it hurried past ; The words of despair and anguish. That were heard by no living ear, The gun that no signal answered — It brings them all to us here. Hark to the voice of the wind ! It has been on the lonely moorland, Where the treacherous snowdrift lies. Where the traveller, spent and weary. Gasped fainter and fainter cries ; It has heard the bay of the bloodhounds On the track of the hunted slave. The lash and the curse of the master, And the groan that the captive gave. Hark to the voice of the wind ! It has swept through the gloomy forest, Where flie sledge was urged to its speed. Where the howling wolves were rushing On the track of the panting steed. Where the pool was black and lonely, It caught up a splash and a cry, — Only the bleak sky heard it. And the wind as it hurried by. Hark to the voice of the wind ! Then throw more logs on the fire. Since the air is bleak and cold, And the children are drawing nigher, For the tales that the wind has told. So closer and closer gather Round the red and crackling light ; And rejoice (while the wind is blowing) We are safe and warm to-night. Hark to the voice of the wind ! THE PURITAN MAIDEN'S MAY-DAY.— A. D. i6S6. A PURITAN FLOWER THE PURITAN MAIDEN'S MAY DAY.— A. D.'i686. By Margaret J. Preston. AH, well-a-day ! The grandames say That they had merry times When they were young, and gayly rung The May-day morning chimes ; Ah me, the sight of such delight. The joy, the whirl, the din, Such merriment, such, glad content — How could it be a sin ? Before the dark was gone, the lark Had left her grassy nest, And, soaring high, set all the sky A-throb from east to west ; When children crowned the May-pole round With daisies from the sod, What was it, pray, but their child's way Of giving thanks to God ? The hawthorn-bloom with rich perfume Was whitening English lanes, The dewy air was everywhere Alive with May-day strains ; And laughing girls with tangled curls And eyes that gleamed and glanced. And ruddy boys with mirth and noise, Around the May-pole danced. The wild bee sups from buttercups The honey at the brim : May I not take their buds and make A posy up for Him ? If, as I pass knee-deep through grass This May-day cool and bright And see away on Boston Bay The lines of shimmering light, A DEEP SEA DREAM. I gather there great bunches fair Of May-flower as I roam, And with them round my forehead crowned, Go ladened witli them liome, And then, if Bess and I should dress A May-pole with our wreath. And just for play, this holiday, Should dare to dance beneath. My father's brow would frown enow : — '■^ Child ! why hast thou a mind For Popish days, and English ways, And lusts we've left behind 2 " Our grandame says that her May-days, With mirth, and song, and flowers. And lilt of rhymes and village chimes, Were happier far than ours. If, as I ween, upon the green She danced with merry din. Yet lived to be the saint I see, — How can / count it sin ? A DEEP SEA DREAM. O MOTHER, mother, hear the sea ! it calls across the sands ; I saw it tossing up the spray like white, imploring hands Last night before the moon went down ; and when I fell asleep, I saw it crawl and kiss my feet — I heard it moan and weep! It cried, "O little maid! come down, come down! nor say us nay! There's not a soul in all the sea to think, or love, or prayl Come, that our lower world may see the shining of God's face ; He lives in loving, human hearts, and not in seas and space." And so it drew me down and down, below the restless waves, Through leagues and leagues of still green depths, through arching coral caves. And fairy gardens set with flowers — ^the like were never seen — And feathery forests, tint o'er tint, of rose, and gold, and green. And there were plants like plumy palms, that melted into gray, ■Or mists of gold, or clouds of rose, they were so far away; And there were flowers, like garden-pinks and poppies, in the sea, And, mother, they were all alive, and waved their hands to me ! And shining fish and dolphins came to gaze in still surprise ; And strange sea-monsters crowded near with cold and hungry eyes ; And all grew dark, and then I called, " O mother, mother, come ! '' And, mother, mother, I'm so glad to be with you at home ! 12 THE MERMAID. THE SKIPPING ROPE. THE MERMAID, By Alfred Tennyson. WHO would be A mermaid fair, Singing alone, Combing her hair Under the sea. In a golden curl With a comb of pearl, On a throne ? I would be a mermaid fair ; I would sing to myself the whole of the day ; With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair ; And still as I comb'd I would sing and say, " Who is it loves me ? who loves not me ? " I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall Low adown, low adown, From under my starry sea-bud crown Low adown and around, And I should look like a fountain of gold Springing alone With a shrill inner sound, Over the throne In the midst of the hall ; Till that great sea-snake under the sea From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps Would slowly trail himself sevenfold Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate With his large calm eyes for the love of me. And all the mermen under the sea Would feel their imm.ortality Die in their hearts for the love of me. But at night I would wander away, away, I would fling on each side ray low-flowing locks, And lightly vault from the throne and play With the mermen in and out of the rocks ; We would run to and fro, and hide and seek. On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson shells Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea. But if any came near I would call, and shriek, And adown the steep like a wave I would leap From the diamond-ledges that jut from the dells ; For I would not be kiss'd by all who would list. Of the bold merry mermen under the sea ; They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me. In the purple twilights under the sea ; But the king of them all would carry me, Woo me, and win me, and marry me, In the branching jaspers under the sea; Then all the dry pied things that be In the hueless mosses under the sea Would curl round my silver feet silently. All looking up for the love of me. And if I should carol aloud, from aloft All things that are forked, and horned, and soft Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea, All looking down for the love of me. THE SKIPPING-ROPE. SURE never yet was Antelope Could skip so lightly by. Stand off, or else my skipping-rope Will hit you in the eye. How lightly whirls the skipping-rope ! How fairy-like you fly ! Go, get you gone, you muse and mope- I hate that silly sigh. Nay, dearest, teach me how to hope. Or tell me how to die. There, take it, take my skipping-rope, And hang yourself thereby. A DEEP SEA DREAM. £V THE COW-YARD BARS. BY THE COW-YARD BARS, By Carrie V. Shaw. w HILE the kine looked on with reproachful eyes, And waited outside of the cow-yard bars, On the dewy grass, at the milking hour, He lay as he gazed at the dawning stars. And who knows what they were saying to him ? For his wondering eyes grew bright — grew dim, While they danced m glee and seemed to keep time To his quickened heart \\ith its thi eb- bing rhjme Of the heights to which he would some day rise, His stupid boy with the dreamy eyes t How could the father, my children, know That the greatest astronomer earth can show. HE GAZED AT THE DAWNING STARS. " Is the milking done ? " said his father's voice ; '• What ! here are the cattle outside the bars. And that stupid boy lies there in the dew. With his face upturned to the moon and stars ! ' And the boy stood up and was scolded well ; For how could the father, impatient, tell Stood faltering there in his little son. Who was late in getting the milking done ? But weary of honors in after years, A man looked back through smiles and tears To the old home scene and the silver stars. And the dreaming boy by the cow-yard bars. LITTLE Boy Blue, the cows are late, They've broken into the fairies' clover You left the latch of the pasture gate — I've told you not to, over and over. Run, now, run. And carry your lantern, too, my son ! " Thus Mrs. Lampyris said. And away went little Boy Blue, Waving his lantern round his head. Off through the dusk and dew.- "Little Bo Peep, where are your sheep? I fear they've strayed to the elfin water ; No doubt again you fell asleep, And they and their tails are lost, my daughter Go and look, With vour lantern, down by the meadow brool- llius Mis Lamp) rib cried, And aw 1) with skip and leap, Swin^m^ hti lantern it her side, ScimpLied little L!o Peep. M\i The clock struck nine, the clock struck ten, But came no sound of the cow-bell's tinkle, Though here and there, in field and lane, Glimmered the lanterns, twinkle, twinkle ; All through the dark Flickered and roamed spark after spark. Then Mrs. Lampyris sighed : " I must take my lantern too, And go and search for little Bo Peep, And hunt up little Boy Blue." THE TRUANT FIREFLIES. 17 She dragged her tired feet through the grabb , The village church-tower chimed eleven , In a tiny pool, like a looking-glass, She saw the whole of the starry heaven. Her step was slow. For her path was tangled, her wick was low. And Mrs. Lampvns groaned " Alas, my son and daughter ' The fairies will milk my cows to-night. My sheep drink elfin water." But at last she spied her truants twair, And how and where do you think she found Dancing with all their might and main, With a host of gambolling neighbors round Whose toes and heels Were clattering in hornpipes, waltzes, reels And Mrs. Lampyns laughed " Ah, this is what you do To find your sheep, Miss Sleepy-head, And you your cows, Boy Blue ' " bo home she went, for her light was out , But all night long, with fickle glancing. Wavered the lantern flames about Where the runaway little folks were dancing ; And not till dawn Was the last of the merry-makers gone. And Mrs. Lampyns dreamed All through her troubled sleep, That little Boy Blue had found his cows. And little Bo Peep her sheep. i8 A CHILD'S MOOD. THE DEAD KITTEN. A CHILD'S MOOD. (At the end of the day ) By Juliet C. Marsh. I WANT that rose the wind took yesterday, I want it more than this : It had no thorn, — it was the best that grew. I want my last night's kiss. And yesterday the bees on all the heads Of clover swung so slow, I saw them take their honey ; but to-day They only sting and go. I want that butterfly with spotted wings That brushed across my hand Last night between the sunset and the dew — It came from fairy-land. That star that always came before the moon. Dropped out of heaven last night ; I hunted where I saw it fall — and found A worm with yellow light. It would have stayed, I guess, it wavered so, Where all those pansies bloom : They gave it wings to get away from me, I lost it in the gloom. I want the sun to go, and let the dark Hide everything away. That was the sweetest rose in all the world The wind took yesterday. THE DEAD KITTEN. By Sydney Dayre. DON'T talk to me of parties. Nan, I really can- not go ; When folks are in afifliction they don't go out, you know. I have a new brown sash, too, it seems a pity — eh ? That such a dreadful trial should have come just yes- terday ! The play-house blinds are all pulled down as dark as it can be ; It looks so very solemn, and so proper, don't you see? And I have a piece of crape pinned on every dolly's hat; 1, j-.3E2!lT-^g|Pj Tom says it is ridiculous for only iust a cat — But boys are all so horrid ! They always, every one. Delight in teasing little girls and kitties, " just for fun." The way he used to pull her tail — it makes me angry now — And scat her up the cherry tree, to make the darling " meow ! " A CUNNING LITTLE DOT SHE WAS, THE DEAD KITTEN. I've had her all the summer. One day, away last spring, I heard a frightful barking, and I saw the little thing In the corner of a fence ; 'twould have made you laugh outright To see how every hair stood out, and how she tried to fight. 19- "WELL — IF I'M EQUAL TO IT,' I shooed the dog away, and she jumped upon my arm ; The pretty creature knew I wouldn't do her any harm ; I hugged her close, and carried her to mamma, and .she said She should be my own wee kitty if I'd see that she was fed. A cunning little dot she was, with silky, soft gray fur : She'd lie for hours on my lap, and I could hear her purr ; And then she'd frolic after when I pulled a string about, Or try to catch her tail, or roll a marble in and out. 20 THE DEAD KITTEN. Such comfort she has been to me I'm sure no one could tell, Unless some other little girl who loves her pussy well. I've heard about a Maltese cross, i)ut my dear little kit Was always sweet and amiable, and never cross a bit ! But oh, last week I missed her ! I hunted all around ; My darling little pussy-cat was nowhere to be found. I knelt and whispered softly, when nobody could see : " Take care of little V\\X^ , please, and bring her back to me ! " I found her lying, yesterday, behind the lower shed ; I thought my heart was broken when I found that she was dead. Tom promised me another one, but even he can see No other kitty ever will be just the same to me ! I canH go to your party, Nannie. — Maccaroons, you say ? And ice-cream? — I know I ought to try and not give way ; And I feel it would be doing wrong to disappoint you so ! — Well — if I'm equal to it by to-morrow — I may go ! IN PUliSUlT. THE SEPTEMBER GALE. 21 THE SEPTEMBER GALE: By Oliver Wendall Holmes. I'M not a chicken ; I have seen Full many a chill September, And though I was a youngster then, That gale I well remember ; The day before, my kite-string snapped. And I, my kite pursuing, The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat; - For me two storms were brewing ! It came as quarrels sometimes do, When married folks get clashing ; There was a heavy sigh or two, Before the tire was flashing, — A little stir among the clouds, Before they rent asunder, — A little rocking of the trees. And then came on the thunder. Lord ! how the ponds and rivers boiled ! They seemed like bursting craters ! And oaks lay scattered on the ground As if they were p'taters ; And all above was in a howl, And all below a clatter, — The earth was like a frying-pan, Or some such hissing maftter. It chanced to be our washing-day, And all our things were drying ; The storm came roaring through the lines, And set them all a flying; I saw the shirts and petticoats Go riding off like witches ; I lost, ah ! bitterly I wept, — I lost my Sunday breeches ! I saw them straddling through the air, Alas ! too late to win them ; I saw them chase the clouds, as if The devil had been in them ; They were my darlings and my pride. My boyhood's only riches, — " Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,: — " My breeches ! O my breeches ! That night I saw them in my dreams. How changed from what I knew them ! The dews had steeped their faded threads, The winds had whistled through them ! I saw the wide and ghastly rents Where demon claws had torn them ; A hole was in their amplest part. As if an imp had worn them. I have had many happy years. And tailors kind and clever. But those young pantaloons have gone Forever and forever ! And not till fate has cut the last Of all my earthly stitches. This aching heart shall cease to mourn My loved, my long-lost breeches ! 22 DOWN IN THE CLOVER. DOWN IN THE CLOVER. ^A Duet, with Sheep Obligato.) By Mary E. Wilkins. MID feeding Iambs and springing grass There sat a little lad and lass, A green umbrella overhead, The flickering shade of boughs instead, And read a book of fairy rhyme, All in their gay vacation time. Quoth he : " The dearest, queerest story Was that one of the fairy prince. Who sailed down stream in his pearl dory, Neath boughs of rose and flowering quince, To save the lovely princess whom The wicked, white-haired, old witch-lady Kept in a tower of awful gloom. Deep in a magic forest shady : How proud he tossed his plumed head Before the witch's door, and said " — Sheep : Ba-a, ba-a! Honey-sweet the clover's blowing. Ba-a, ba-a ! Juicy-green the grass is grow- "I think," quoth she, "there's one that's bet- ter: About that little fairy girl. Who bound the ogre with a fetter Of spider-wort and grass and pearl ; Then singing in the gateway sat, Till up the road the prince came pranc- ing, A jewelled feather in his hat. And set the cherry-boughs a-dancing. How low he bent his handsome head Before the fairy girl, and said " — Sheep : Ba-a, ba-a ! Who the day so sweetly passes As a lamb who never stops. But from dawn to twilight crops Clover-heads and dewy grasses ? " " Well, by and by I think I'll be A fairy prince as brave as he : I'll wind a silver bugle clear. Low and dim you'll hear it, dear ; A sword with jewelled hilt I'll bear, A cap and heron-plume I'll wear. And I will xQscut you," quoth he. " Fast to the witch's tower I'll fly. And beat upon the gate, and cry " — Sheep : Ba-a, ba-a ! Sweet the simple life ive're leading, In the sweet green pasture feeding ! Then quoth the little reader fair, "I've changed my mind, for I don't dare To stay there in the witch's tower; I'll be the dame who, found a flower Of gold and rubies -V in the tale — And sold it for a fairy veil. Which made her look so sweet and true That she was dearly loved ; then you " — Sheep : Ba-a, ba-a ! Turn the juicy morsel over. Who would be a lad or lass, If he could his summer pass As the sheep amongst the clover ? Grasshoppem on daisies teeter. Dew-drops clovers sioeetcn sweeter. Who can care for stupid tales, Fairy horns and fairy veils, Fairy princess, faity prince ? Yet we must not blame them, since {Turn the juicy morsel over) They cannot be sheep in clover. ALL IN THEIR GAY VACATION TIME. THE GREEK BOY. O, FAIREST OF THE RURAL MAIDS/ 25 THE GREEK BOY. By William Cullen Bryant. GONE are the glorious Greeks of old, Glorious in mien and mind ; Their bones are mingled with the mould, Their'dust is on the wind ; The forms they hewed from living stone Survive the waste of years, alone, And, scattered with their ashes, show What greatness perished long ago. Boy ! thy first looks were taught to seek Their heaven in Hellas's skies ; Her airs have tinged thy dusky cheek. Her sunshine lit thine eyes ; Thine ears have drunk the woodland strains Heard by old poets, and thy veins Swell with the blood of demigods, That slumber in thy country's sods. Yet fresh the myrtles there — the springs Gush brightly as of yore ; Flowers blossom from the dust of kings, As many an age before. There nature moulds as nobly now. As e'er of old, the human brow : And copies still the martial form That braved Plateea's battle storm. Now is thy nation free — though late — Thy elder brethren broke • — Broke, ere thy spirit felt its weight, The intolerable yoke. And Greece, decayed, dethroned, doth see Her youth renewed in such as thee : A shoot of that old vine that made The nations silent in its shade. OH FAIREST OF THE RURAL MAIDS. OH fairest of the rural maids ! Thy birth was in the forest shades : Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky, Were all that met thine infant eye. Thy- sports, thy wanderings, when a child, Were ever in the sylvan wild ; And all the beauty of the place Is in thy heart and on thy face. The twilight of the trees and rocks Is in the light shade of thy locks ; Thy step is as the wind, that weaves Its playful way among the leaves. Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene And silent waters heaven is seen ; Their lashes are the herbs that look On their young figures in the brook. The forest depths by foot unpressed, Are not more sinless than thy breast ; The holy peace, that fills the air Of those calm solitudes, is there. 36 POEMS OF CHRISTMAS-TIDE. POEMS OF CHRISTMAS-TIDE. By Mary E. Wilkins. THE POOR LITTLE FRIENDLY DROWNIE. T HE Brownie who lives in the forest, Oh, the Christmas bells they ring! He has done for the farmer's children Full many a kindly thing : When their cows were lost in the gloaming He has driven them safely home ; He has led their bees to the flowers, To fill up their golden comb ; At her spinning the little sister Had napped till the setting sun — She awoke, and the kindly Brownie Had gotten it neatly done ; Oh, the Christmas bells they are ringing ! The mother she was away. And the Brownie'd played with the baby And tended it all the day ; The Brownie who lives in the forest, Oh, the Christmas bells they ring I He has done for the farmer's children Full many a kindly thing. 'Tis true that his face they never For all their watching could see ; Yet who else did the kindly service, I pray, if it were not he ! But the poor little friendly Brownie, His life was a weary thing ; For never had he been in holy church And heard the children sing ; And never had he had a Christmas ; Nor had bent in prayer his knee ; He had lived for a thousand years, And all weary-worn was he. POEMS OF CHRISTMAS-TJDE. 27 Or that was the story the children Had heard at their mother's side ; And together they talked it over, One merry Christmas-tide. The pitiful little sister With her braids of paly gold, And the little elder brother, And the darling five-year-old, All stood in the western window — 'Twas toward the close of day — And they talked about the Brownie While resting from their play. " The Brownie, he has no Christmas," The dear little sister said, And a-shaking as she spoke Her glossy, yellow head ; " The Brownie, he has no Christmas ; While so many gifts had we, To the floor last night they bended The boughs of the Christmas-tree." Then the little elder brother. He spake up in his turn, With both of his blue eyes beaming, While his cheeks began to burn : " Let us do up for the Brownie A Christmas bundle now. And leave it in the forest pathway Where the great oak branches bow. '' We'll mark it, ' For the Brownie,' And ' A Merry Christmas Day ! ' And sure will he be to find it. For he goeth home that way ! " And " We wish a Merry Christmas ! " And then, in the dusk, the three Went to the wood and left it Under the great oak tree. While the farmer's fair little children Slept sweet on that Christmas night, Two wanderers through the forest Came in the clear moonlight. And neither one was the Brownie, But sorry were both as he ; And their hearts, with each fresh footstep. Were aching steadily. IN THE WESTERN WINDOW. Then the tendei- little sister With her braids of paly gold, And the little elder brother. And the darling five-year-old, A slender man with an organ Strapped on by a leathern band, And a girl with a tambouri ie A-holding close to his hand. Tied up in a little bundle Some toys, with a loving care. And marked it, " For the Brownie," In letters large and fair. And the girl with the tambourine Big sorrowful eyes she had , In the cold white wood she shivered In her ragged raiment clad. POEMS OF CHRISTMAS-TIDE. " And what is there here to do ? " she said ; " I 'ni froze i' the light o' the moon ! Shall we play to these sad old forest trees Some merry and jigging tune ? " And, father, you know it is Christmas-time, And had we staid i' the town And I gone to one o' the Christmas-trees, A gift might have fallen down ! " You cannot certainly know it would not ! I'd ha' gone right under the tree ! Are you sure that none o' the Christmases Were meant for you and me ? " 1 \\^^^^^^*^L; ,( »' ' -i-f^ii IN THE COLD WHITE WOOD. " Though to-night be the Christ's oWn birthday night, And all the world hath grace. There is not a home in all the world Which holdeth for us a place." Slow plodding adown the forest path, "And now, what is this? " he said; And the children's bundle he lifted up, And " For the Brownie," read. And " We wish a Merry Christmas Day ! " " Now if this be done," said he, " Somewhere in the world perhaps there is A place for you and me ! " And the bundle he opened softly : "This is children's tender thought; Their own little Christmas presents They have to the Brownie brought. " If there liveth such tender pity Toward a thing so dim and low. There is kindness sure remaining Of which I did not know. " Oh children, there's never a Brownie — That sorry uncanny thing ; But nearest and next are the homeless When the Christmas joy-bells ring." Out laughed the little daughter, And she gathered the toys with glee : " My Christmas present has fallen ! This oak was my Christmas-tree ! " Then away they went through the forest. The wanderers, hand in hand ; And the snow, they were both so merrj'. It glinted like golden sand. Down the forest the elder brother. In the morning clear and cold, Came leading the little sister And the darling five-year-old. " These dry dead leaves," he answered her, sad, " Which the forest casteth down. Are more than you'd get from a Christmas-tree In the merry and thoughtless town. " Oh," he cries, " he's taken the bundle ! " As carefully round he peers ; " And the Brownie has gotten a Christmas After a thousand years ! " POEMS OF CHRJSTMAS-TIDE. 29 ir 1 I _r SHE THOUGHT THAT THE PRESKNTS WERE ALL FOR HER. II. _ THE SPOILED DARLING. OH the ruffles there were on that Httle dress, Fanny ! Her mamma does dress her so sweetly, you know ; And the prettiest sash of pale rose-colored satin Tied at her waist in a butterfly-bow. And her soft, flossy hair, almost a rose-yellow. Like the roses we had in our garden last year, Cut short round the fairest blue-veined little fore- head — Oh if Miss Marion wasn't a dear ! Just perfect she was, the mite of a darling, From her flower of a head to her pink slipper-toes ! You will laugh, but she seemed as I looked at her, Fanny, A little girl copied right after a rose ! Well, you know how it is : they have petted the darling. Her papa and mamma, her uncles and aunts — Till, saving the moon, which they can't get for princes. There isn't a thing but she has if she wants. And so, last night at the Christmas-tree, Fanny, — It was so funny I laugh at it now — There was Miss Marion sweeter than honey. All in her ruffles and butterfly-bow; 30 POEMS OF CHRISTMAS-TIDE. She had presents, I thought, enough for a dozen, But she seemed heavy-hearted in spite of it all ; Her sweet little mouth was all of a quiver, And there was a teardrop just ready to fall. The aunts and the cousins all round her came crowding ; " And what is the matter, my darling, my dear ? " She didn't look sulky, but grieved ; and I saw it Roll down her pink cheek, that trembling tear ; And she lisped' out so honest, " Mamie and Bessie, And the rest, have pwesents — and 'twas my Tristmas-tree ; And when I tame in, I fought that the pwesents — The whole of them onit — of tourse, were f or me ! " I scarcely could blame her — she didn't seem angry, But grieved to the haart, the queer little mite ! And 'twasn't her fault — she'd been fed so much honey, All the sweet in the world she took as her right. III.— TWO BOYS. IT was one of those swell stone churches, Jim, I hadn't been there before ; But I saw it all lit up last night, And I stole inside the door. And there was wreaths hung all around. And strings of evergreen. And three of the biggest Christmas-trees — O Jim, you'd oughter seen ! And I s'pose that's why I dreamed About a tree, last night, Which was so tall, the topmost boughs Seemed sort o' lost in light. And all the branches hanging full ! Such things you never see ! Why, everything from all the shops, And everything for me ! And when they called the names out loud. They'd all go up, you know. And take the present from the man, With such a ginteel bow. And there was some called lots of times ; One boy, named Walter Blake, I couldn't tell the heaps of things That he went up to take. Thinks I, how mighty grand 'twould be If I should hear him call Out, " Patsey Long ! " but that, of course, He didn't do at all. And seeing them all look so pleased And smiling round the tree — I'm a pretty jolly kind of chap, But it sort o' come to me How I'd been allers knocked about, Nothing but kick and fling ; And I kinder pitied Patsey Long Who hadn't got a thing. And some one called out, " Patsey Long! " And I'd go up, you know, And take my present in my hand. And make a ginteel bow. O Jim, you'd oughter seen the knives, The sleds and balls and bats ! And there was dogs, and suits of clo'es. And shoes and cakes and hats. They kept a-calling, " Patsey Long ! " And I'd go up for more ; They seemed to shake the branches, Jim, And the presents down would pour. "O Patsey Long ! " and " Patsey Long ! " Till I sung out — 'twas rough — " Please stop, I can't hold any more, My arms ain't big enough ! " {Jimmy speaks^ " My, is that all ? I see you look So chipper-like, sez I, POEMS OF CHRISTMAS-TIDE. 31 He's had a fortune left him sure, Wot makes him look so high. Sez I, he'll dine on stufifed roast goose, And soda and ice-creams ; And, my ! he'd nothing in the world But jest a pack of dreams ! {Patsey speaks?) Now what's the use of laffin', Jim ? I ain't that kind, you see ; Some folks, I know, have fortunes come. But they never comes to me. I ain't the kind to eat roast goose, Nor soda, nor ice-cream ; But wot's the use o' growlin', Jim ? 'Twas a werry pretty dream. { Jiiiiiiiy sftaks.) But dreams is awful sill\- things, There ain't no countin' on ! Now wa'n'c you Ijlue when you wol^^^C^> 3. PERT LOOKS THAT SEND MY HAIR ON END I ON FAST DAY.— A. D. 1648. SHAME, shame upon ye, godless lads ! To take your matchlocks down And scour the forest round for game, While all the folk in town Were gathered at the meeting-house, In Sabbath gear arrayed, To fast and pray this solemn day. As Governor Winthrop bade. Ye deem, perchance, I failed to mark Your empty places there : Nay, nay! I do my duty, lads. Though ye may mock and stare. Despite your saucy smirks, I ween. When all is said and done, You'll find the hare ye dangle there Was hardly worth the fun. I've copied fair your names, young sirs : — " Trespass — one shilling tiine." And, Governor's grandsons though ye be, I wot you'll pay the fine ! It should be doubled for the sin Of such example set; I'm sorely sad a Boston lad So strangely should forget. Ye did not 2 Ha! the bold offence Was a deliberate one .'' Ye meant to scout the Fast-day when Ye went with dog and gun 1 Out on such worldly lawlessness ! Ye well deserve to be Left in the lurch with King and Church, In Suffolk by the sea ! * * Suffolk, the English home of the Winthrops. 58 OBBIE DOBBIE." A DAND V LION. It ought to make the crimson shame Your braggart faces flood, When ye remember that your veins Are warm, with Winthrop blood! Now, had ye been Sir Harry's chicks,* To do and dare with such Pert looks as send my hair on end, I had nor cared so much. But Governor Winthrop's grandsons ! Heigh ! How godless folk will prate ! He cannot make his household keep The Fast-days of the Stale ! How? Do I hear aright? Ye say He gave you leave to go This day, and track — alack ! alack ! — The rabbits through the snow ? Ye look so roguish, scarce I think Ye mean the word ye spake ; But since you've dared with bold affront The statute set to break — Though even the Governor's self forget His bounden duty — mine Is clear: — You' II pay this very day Each farthing of your fine ! "OBBIE DOBBIE." O' iBBIE DOBBIE ■' was a baby — Funny name, I think, don't you ? This -is what her papa called her. And she had another, too.. Funny name and funny baby. With a cunning little face ; And the other name they called her Was the prettier one of " Grace." One day little " Obbie Dobbie " Laughed and laughed with all her might, Looking up into her dress-sleeve. Eyes and nose all hid from sight. Mamma said, " Why, what's the matter ? Is it real, or make believe, All this fun ? " The baby answered, "I am 'aughin' 'in my s'eeve.' " In a moment I remembered I had said those words one day. Little thinking baby prattle Would repeat them o'er in play With such literal translation, ( What an impress light words leave ! ) Papa's little " Obbie Dobbie," Laughing in her baby sleeve ! A DANDY LION, By M. E. B. OH, he was a dandy Lion, And a dandy Lion was he ! With a great broad face and tawny mane Yellow as yellow could be; He stood in the midst of a field so fair, And sniffed the fresh spring breeze, And tossed his liead and ruffled his hair As gallant and bold as you please ! Oh, he was a dandy Lion, Upright and brave and bright, Staring straight at the face of the sun, Till he closed his eyes at night. King of the meadow and field was he, Lord of the mild May days, Stalwart and strong as a king should be In the pride of his royal ways ! Oh, he was a dandy Lion ! But up to the spot where he stood, A wee little maid with a knife in her hand, Came walking from out the wood ; She cut him down with a single stroke, And his tawny mane grew thinner. Then brought him home and ate as a joke This Dandelion for dinner I OH, HE WAS A DANDY LION. HER NAME. THE MOUNTAIN DANCE BY WALLACE E. MATHER. JOLLY old fellows the mountains are ! Here they come from near and far ; Come and see the mountains dance ! Each to his station now advance : Kunchinginga — Kilimanjaro, Aconcagua ■ — Tupungato, Thian Shan and yorullo. Step to the measure, as you go. See them now to the motion swinging ! Music down from the stars is ringing ; Big and little hand in hand, Don't they make a merry band ! Illimani — Anfisana, Cotopaxi — Eusi Yama, Matterhorn and Gran Sasso, Step to the measure as you go. Here we are, the Globe surrounding ! Listen now, the music's sounding ! One more whirl and away we go. Each one back to his place, you know: Arequipa — Corcobado, Jndrapura — Chimborazo, 2'eneriffe and Velino, Step to the measure as you go. HER NAME. By Anna F. Burnham. IM losted! Could you find me, please ? " Poor little frightened baby! The wind had tossed her golden fleece. The stones had scratched her dimpled knees. I stooped, and lifted her with ease, And softly whispered, "Maybe; " Tell me your name, my little maid, I can't find you without it." " My name is Shiny-eyes" she said. " Yes, but your last? " She shook her head : " Up to my house 'ey never said A single fing about it." " But, dear," I said, " what is your name ? " " Why, di'n't you hear me told you ? Dust Shiny-eyes." A bright thought came : " Yes, when you're good ; but when they blame You, little one — is't just the same When mamma has to scold you ? " " My mamma never scolds," she moans, A little blush ensuing, " 'Cept when I've been a-frowing stones. And then she says (the culprit owns), ' Mchitabel SappJiira Jones, What has you been a-doing ? ' " WHO HOLDETH UP THE SKY1 THERE was once a little maiden, They called her " Honey Nellie," Who pounds of sugar saved her folks When they were making jelly ^ For her smile had so much sweetness That the currants and gooseberries. If she but smiled upon them once. Turned sweet as ripest cherries. WHO HOLDETH UP THE SKY? FROM the grass a Daisy looked, And with a glance quite shy, "Oh dear Miss Rose," she asked, "Do you hold up the sky? " " Dear Daisy," said the Rose, ■' I cannot reach so high ; And very far above me Is the blue and lovely sky; "But if you wish to know, To find out I will try ; For maybe 'tis the Fir-tree That's holding up the sky." Then the Rose to the Fir-tree Upraised her radiant eye, And said with a blush, " Good sir, Do you hold up the sky.'" The Fir-tree shook his head. And answered with a sigh, " Oh no, indeed, sweet Rose, It surely is not I." And then he asked the Elm, Who stood to him quite nigh : The Elm her branches waved. And said, "It is not I. "■But a Mountain very tall In the distance I espy ; And on his shoulders rests, I think, the wondrous sky." And the Elm-tree sent the Wind, And the Wind did swiftly hie ; And said, " Your highness, sir, Do you hold up the sky ? " Returned the Mountain, " Who would Into these secrets pry .? I've stood here many an age, But I never touched the sky." " Sweet Daisy," sighed the Rose, " I fear before we die We never shall find out Who holdeth up the sky." But as she spoke, a Bird So far above did fly, They thought he sureh' touched That very same blue sky. When flew the little Bird To the Fir-tree by and b}'. They asked, " Oh, tell us, please, Who holdeth up the sky .' " Perched on the swinging bough, Then sang the happy Bird, While Elm and Fir and Mountain And Rose and Daisy heard : " 'Tis He who made the Daisy, And he who made the Rose ; 'Tis He who made the Fir-tree, The Elm, and all that grows ; " 'Tis He who ma;de the Mountain, And made the Bird to fly — The good and Heavenly Father, Who holdeth up the sky." TED'S RUBBER BOOTS. 63 TED'S RUBBER BOOTS. By Mrs. Clara Doty Bates. THEY SEEM TO MAKE A MAN OF HIM. WHAT do you think boots do for Ted, Made of rubber, shiny and gay ? They probably keep him dry, you say, For if it should rain the whole day, yet His scarlet stockings need not be wet, c^ ciir/a thpir surface is to shed Sliower or spatter, torrent or spray. But that isn't what they do for Ted. \\'hat wonderful thing then can they do? Can they, when east winds blow a blast, x'Vnd the flakes fall damp and thick and fast. And the paths are almost lost and blank, And the snow is drifted in heap and bank, \\\W\ their little owner struggle through ? Indeed, they cannot be surpassed I'or tracks ; but that isn't what they do! Perhaps they are such as ogres wear. Like those that took a seven-league stride, And over the country, far and wide, To the east or west would go and come At the wish of little Hop o' my Thumb — If Ted could tramp that way through air He surely would rather walk than ride ; ];ut no : his are not what ogres wear! I w ill tell you what boots do for Ted — Those high-topped boots, so big and grim : They make him stalwart, strong of limb, And taller, by half an inch or so, Which to him is the easiest way to grow ; They put no knowledge in his head, Yet they seem to make a man of him. That's what his rubber boots do for Ted. 64 GRANDMAMMA'S VALENTINE. GRANDMAMMA'S VALENTINE By Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney. rw'o i.n'TLi': h'liddilhs." TWO little birdies after one H\-! Wonder if maybe they nienn nou and I ■ Will-Bo)' and Jim.? Two little b'uckler.s, that \"on can see ; And if one of 'em's \-ou, and (he other is me, ^^'onder who's him I IJutterilies is such ex-culiar thin^js ! Nothing at all but just two little winijs. Guess thev must be Quick winkie-thinkies ! Wonder if this Isn't a think, or a dear flying kiss, F'om G'annie to we ? S'pose we can catch it? And then if we do, Is one half for I and the other for you? Or — s'pose we just look: A fly doesn't want to be tored into two, And a kiss is as good, when you know it has flew, As if it was took ! SLIDING DOWN HILL. A CHILD'S THOUGHT. By M. F. Butts. THERE is a beautiful snow-white wing Across the heavens lying; It must be one of the day's great wings, For they say the hours are flying. SLIDING DOWN HILL. By Mary E. Wilkins. THERE is ice on the hill, hurrah, hurrah ! We can slide quite down to the pasture-bar Where the cows at night, in the summer weather, Would stand a-waiting and lowing together. "Tie your tippet closer, John," That was what their mother said ; " All of you put mittens on — The broom will answer for a sled ! " They had never a sled, but dragged in its room, Just as gayly, behind them, the worn kitchen-broom ; John, Sammy and Tom, and their sweet little sis- ter. With her cheeks cherry-red, where the wind had kissed her. " You can watch, sis, that's enough," That was what her brothers said ; "Keep your hands warm in your muff — Girls can't slide without a sled ! " Oh, where in the world is there aught so nice As to slide down the pasture-hill on the ice ? Quite down to the bar, sis, see we are going, Where the cows each night in summer stood lowing.'' " If I were a boy, like you,'' This was what their sister said. ,*V^ \ liir^^ l»'^|K4^\ vV \ \ ON THE KITCHEN BROOM. Watching as they downward fiew, " I would make a girl a sled ! ' 66 SJVOTV STORIES. "THERE'S MORE THAN ONE AVAY." EY MRS. M. B. C. SLADE. THE robin had built in tlie apple-tree liigh ; Low down in the moss dwelt the sparrow so shy ; The wren wove her nest in the jessamine fair; The oriole hung up his castle-in-air — Heigh-ho ! how do they know Every summer to build them just so ? When robin and oriole, sparrow and wren Had finished their work and were resting — just then Dame Lazy-bird sat in the juniper high And sang, ''Not a nest all the summer build 1 ! " Heigh-ho ! how does she know Every summer to idle just so ? Bright yellow-bird's nest was all fashioned with grace And down in the dew she was washing her face, When Lazy-bird spying the nest all alone Just laid her brown egg there, as if 'twas her own ! Heigh-ho 1 how does she know Every summer to manage just so ? Now out of her nest in the barberry-bush Poor yellow-bird tries the intruder to push ; But, finding she cannot, with fern-cotton light She works till she buries it out of her sight ! Heigh-ho ! how did she know From her dilemma to come out just so ? Dame Lazy-bird saw it. and moping all day Sat silent, ashamed of her indolent way ; While yellow-bird twittered, " I've often heard that Ther^ s more than one way, ma'am, to kill — kill a cat !" Heigh-ho ! how did she know The very best proverb to quote to her foe ? SNOW STORIES By Mrs. Clara Doty Bates. WHEN over the earth, all shivering, bare. The sky drops down a thick white fleece. We say that up in the clouds somewhere A little old woman picks her geese — A feather here and a feather there, Handfuls downy and soft and fair. Gray while falling, but white below, She flings to all the winds that blow. But there are children over the sea. Mid Scotland's rugged mountains bred, Who, fond of a fairy tale as we, Call it the fairies making bread — Bread for their breakfast or their tea, And say that they work so carelessly, And scatter the wheaten flour so, It powders all the winds that blow. Which is the prettier legend, Ted ? The little old woman picking geese, Or the heedless fairies making bread ? Choose of the two which one you please, And with tippet and overcoat and sled Go out till your cheeks are rosy red. And your whole little body all aglow ! - Feathers or flour, you like the snow. WINTER BIRDS. A VALENTINE FOR BABY. TWO LITTLE PILGRIMS. 6^ A VALENTINE FOR BABY. " T/ie rose is red, the violet's blue. Pinks are pretty, and so are you." THE rose is red, my rosy dear; But that you hardly yet can know, Since you have only been with us Four of the times when roses blow. The violet's blue, my blue-eyed love ; Yet that, perhaps, you hardly knew. Since you have only passed four times The violets in their hoods of blue. The pinks are pretty, baby queen, And so are you ; but that, also. From being here so short a time, Perhaps you've hardly learned to know. TWO LITTLE PILGRIMS. By Juliet C. Marsh. SO many hundred years to go About the world, forever young! So many hundred years to be Read over, talked of, sung And still in that enchanted wood, The robins flying — one by one Within the red and amber light Of the October sun — ^y nursery fires, that, warm and bright. Burn when the bitter north wind blows ; By open casements, when the night Is weighted sweet with rose ! Cover the darlings from the night, And changes of the frost and dew, With laces of the faded fern. And leaves of brilliant hue. So many hundred years of fame ! So many hundred years since Fate Drove them together, hand in hand, To wander far and late, So many hundred years to wear The face of youth, forever sweet! So many years about the world To go with tireless feet ! Two baby pilgrims, boy and girl. That, after long and weary quest. Folded within each other's arms. Lay down to dreams and rest ! When mothers trim their nursery lights, Singing a half-forgotten rhyme To children in their dreaming-robes At story-telling time — So many hundred years to sleep Within that forest's deep eclipse, With soiled and brier-torn little hands, And berry-stained lips ! Into their midst these softly come, Accept the place forever good. Sit by the fire, and take the kiss — Tlie two "Babes in the Wood!" 70 BEHIND THE ARRAS— A. D. i486. BEHIND THE ARRAS. — A. D. i486. By Margaret J. Preston. S THE DOVE A PRETTY ONE?" NAY, father, 'tis weary day by day, In stones and in metals to work away At the goldsmith's tiresome trade — " "Ah, so? A 'tiresome trade!' I'd have thee know That silver and gold are precious things, And the gems we cut are gems for kings To wear in their crowns — " "But, father, hear! Thou e'er hast been so kind and dear, That now I am bold to do what yet I never have ventured — ask thy let To follow my bent ; for I would paint Pictures — oh, many and many a saint For the shrines where people kneel; .and when I come to be famous, father, then Thy heart will flutter with inward joy. To think that the painter is thy boy." " The whim of a lad ! \\'hat proof have I Of the bent thou boastest ? " " Let me try The strength there is in me. Let me take A panel just like Van Eyck's, and make No holy Madonna thereon, nor Christ, Nor such as the masters have sufficed. But only myself : for I will place Yon Flemish mirror before my face. And copy the form I find therein ; And then, if the portrait fails to win The recognition of those who go To school with me every day — why, so I'll bend to thy will, and own I'm made To follow my father's goldsmith trade. Do the terms content thee ? " " Yea, if thou, Unaided, dost paint a portrait now. Which all at St. Sebald's school agree Can only be thine — well, then we'll see Which craftman's tools are the tools for thee." " My picture is finished, father. Call The boys of St. Sebald, one and all, Straight into the shop. On a panel there. Near the head Van Eyck has painted, where They well can see it, my work is hung, With an antiaue bit of arras flung THE RETURN. 11 Round it, whereby, in sooth, I meant To make them believe it came from Ghent." " Well, well, as thou wilt. My silver dove Is finished, and ready to perch above St. Barbara's shrine. (The one, I wis. Let loose by Noah was like to this. As it flew from the ark so pure and white.) The scholars will want to come to-night. For I promised them all, the other day, They should see it before it was sent away. And then, as I said, if they declare That thine are the eyes, the mouth, the hair — Just thine and none other's — why, thou mayst use Thy will, and have leave which craft to choose. — Ah, here are the boys ! — My task is done. Sweet lads ! Is the dove a pretty one .' " " One lovelier never cleaved the sky ! Aye, marry, it seems about to fly r Look, Jan ! it verily winks its eye At Albrecht yonder, who hides, I ween, A little beyond the arras screen ! " " No Albrecht is there : he left the door Just only a moment or two before Ye entered — " " Who then, who then, is he That under the arras stares at me .-' 'Tts Albrecht Dilrer, beyond a doubt ! Ho, comrades, I think we can drag him out ! " " Ah, me ! That settles the pact I made : The boy will give up an honest trade For the silly brush ; yet, mayhap, some day The world shall hear of him — who can say! " THE RETURN, By Mrs. L. C. Whiton. SPRING has come back again, divinely fair. And trees are budding 'neath the violet skies. And faint, sweet odors throng the sunny air. And yellowrwinged, elusive butterflies Flit here and there ; And hark ! the blue-birds, climbing heavenward, sing, And it is spring ! spring ! spring ! Watching the grass grow green, that snowdrops grew And died in other springs I half forget ; The skies intoxicate; I live anew; And from my beating heart drops all regret. While life pours through ; For hark ! the blue-birds, climbing heavenward, sing. And it is spring, spring, spring ! With every fragrant violet that I see I am a little child again, pierced through With the same throbbing, golden ecstasy As when I saw therein no mystery. Only the blue ! Oh, hark ! the blue-birds, climbing heavenward, sing. And it is spring, spring, spring ! AN ACQUAINTANCE DECLINED. SHADOW AND ECHO. By Mrs. M. F. Butts. THE girl that lives in the looking-glass, Oho ! oho ! what a mystery ! She belongs to a very ancient race, With many, many miles of history. Oh, the girl that lives in the looking-glass, Wouldn't you like to know her name ? She nods and she smiles, she stamps and scolds. And then goes back to her home in the frame. The boy that lives in the lonely hills — Oho ! oho ! oho ! oho ! Who will catch him ? Here's a reward Of five or six thousand dollars or so. The girl that lives in the looking-glass Is tired and lone — oh, poor Shadow! And where could we find a mate for her Like that dear little musical boy, Echo .■' AN ACQUAINTANCE DECLINED. (For Very Little Folks.) By Margaret Eytinge. ONE sunny day, upon the snow Heaped on a garden wall. There sat a cat so round and fat She looked quite like a ball. Me-ow ! She looked quite like a ball. A little girl was passing by. Her hair was brown and gold ; She stopped, and leaning on the gate. Said, " Pussy aren't you cold .'' " Me-ow ! Said, " Pussy aren't you cold 1 " Don't look so grave ; come here to me ; At home I've kittens two, And I should like — indeed I should — To make a friend of you. Me-ow ! To make "z. friend of you." Puss did not stir while "Thank you. Miss, For your kind words," she said ; " But, truth to speak, I do not like That thing upon your head. Me-ow ! That thing upon your head. " For much it looks to me as though Your very furry hat. So line and soft, might once have been A very furry cat. Me-ow ! A very furry cat ! " ' PUSSY, AR'NT you cold ? " SHE SAID. WHAT THE CIRCUS DID. MARCH. 75- WHAT THE CIRCUS DID. By M. E. B. WE were a quiet and sober set, Little accustomed to noise and fret, Decent and modest at worlc or play, And oh ! so proper in every way. Before we went to the Circus ! Nobody ever had seen us go At all too fast, or at all too slow ; No matter how gayly we talked or sang, We never had used a word of slang Before we went to the Circus ! We went to church, or we went to school. By the very most orthodox kind of rule ; For we were a people of Dutch descent. And rather phlegmatic in temperament Until we went to the Circus ! Alas and alas ! 'tis a woful sight The way we are changed at the time I write ! Father is swaying against the breeze, Hung by the toes from a high trapeze, Trying to copy the Circus ! The boys on their heads, with feet in air. Are riding wild horses on each high chair; Or down on their backs on the sidewalk brick Are balancing tubs for a juggling trick; And the girls have painted hands and face, And got themselves up for an Indian race. As they saw them do at the Circus ! Mother high up on the table stands, Swinging the baby with both her hands. Swinging the baby with many a rub. And brandishing him like an Indian club ; While baby himself, in a terrible fright, Howls like a Zulu from morn till night. Since we went to the Circus ! Alas and alas ! I can only say, I wish in the night, I wish in the day, I wish with my heart, I wish with my head, I wish with my ears which are nearly dead, I wish with a sort of mute despair, I wish with a SHRIEK that would rend the ait. We never had gone to the Circus ! MARCH. By Edgar Fawcett. HOW stern is March, with blasts that warn or chide; Now, like some peevish grandame, fuming, sputtering; Now fierce to whirl the erratic dust-clouds wide; Now bright with sunny gleams, though discords muttering ! Yet spirits of leaves, that in bare boughs abide. Mysterious happiness are mutely uttering. And under many a streamlet's barren side. The violets' hidden hearts are softly fluttering! 76 GOLD LOCK'S KINDERGARTEN. GOLD LOCKS' KINDERGARTEN. w ''HY, who are her pupils, pray, This storm-bound winter day ? Well, there is old Turk, the cat, So large, and fond of sleep That he curls up in a heap Right in the midst of the nicest lesson — think of that ! Doll Rosy is next to him. So fair, and blonde, and slim, And with eyes so wide and blue ! She will neither speak nor stir, Even though you scold at her^ But will merely stay where you place her, prim and sweet, and smile at you. And next is Tony ! I think He does not even wink. So eager he is to mark Whatever Gold Locks may do ; He's a deal of trouble, too, For when with a finger up she warns him, he is sure to bark. Ah, if you could but see What a winning dignity Can the little school-ma'am wear^ As now she turns and stirs OIcl Turk until he purrs, To whisper a tender word ; or to Rosy gives a care ! She is forced to be discreet With Tony, though, or his feet, White-curled to the very toes. Are dancing about her dress, Coaxing for a caress On his brown and fringy ears or on the tip of his saucy nose. I will make a prophecy Of each one ! By and by — In an hour, perhaps, or more — When all are supposed at work, I shall find both Tony and Turk Asleep not far from each other in the corner, on the floor! And with forehead on her chair. And the long braid of her hair Down dropping like a gleam Of sunlight, cheek in palm. Will the little tired school-ma'am, If teaching a Kindergarten be teaching it in a dream. MIDGET'S BEDTIME. 11 THE RAIN AND THE F.LOWERS, By George Cooper. TO the great brown house where the flowerets hve, Came the ram with its tap, tap, tap ! And whispered: "Violet, Snowdrop, Rose, Your pretty eyes you must now unclose From your long, long wintry nap ! " Said the rain with its tap, tap, tap ! From the doors they peeped with a timid grace, Just to answer this tap, tap, tap ! Miss Snowdrop curtseyed a sweet " Good-day ! " Then all came nodding their heads so gay, And they said : " We've ha.d our nap : Thank you, rain, for your tap, tap, tap ! " MIDGET'S BEDTIME. By the Author of " My Boy and I, or On the Road to Slumberland." HAS anybody seen a little Midget Who always works herself into a fidget When bedtime comes ? She doesn't like to go With other birdies to the nest. Oh, no ! But when her little nightie I unfold, This little Midget then begins to scold, And makes with tiny feet in the poor floor A hole, where she stands stamping o'er and o'er. " Midget no do to bed ! " she cries ; ah me. How naughty little girls can sometimes be ! In vain I point to where the stars are peeping, To see if little Midget sweet is sleeping ; In vain I say the birdies are in bed ; She only shakes her curly golden head : " Midget no seepy ! Mamma, p'ease do 'way ! Midget ain't ha' f fro' wis de day /" And now, dear me ! the night has come again. I've searched for Baby Midget all in vain. Where can she be ? I've looked beneath the chair : No ! baby is too wise to hide her there. Under the table ? No ! Where can she be ? Will some one find the truant wee for me ? Here is the little nightie clean and white, Waiting to be slipped o'er the head so bright. The fairy chariot waits my little one To bear her to the Land of Nod. The sun Has shone " good-night " to all on earth, and so To bed my Midget surely ought to go. But where is she .' Can anybody tell ? We've hunted for the baby long and well ! Ah ! what is this — this little silent bunch — > Behind the bed, all lying in a hunch, With dimpled arms beneath the curly head And lips from which the naughty pout has fled ? Only the long-lost Midget, found at last, Already by the Sandman's power held fast ; For while she hid away from me and night, Behold, the drooping lids so soft and white Grew heavy with the silence, and fell down Over the wilful eyes of misty brown ; And thus my Midget with the birds has gone To Land of Nod, to stay until the dawn. 78 A ROGUE. COASTING. By Wallace E. Mather. A HILL ; a sled all painted red, The name in yellow ; A boy in cap, mittens and wrap — A happy fellow ; The track like ice — that's very nice ; A scrape and rumble ; A little swerve ; a tricky curve — And such a tumble ! A whirl ; a stop ; the sled on top, Snow all this hiding ; A merry laugh ; — yet this is not half The fun of sliding ! SUNSHINE IN THE HOUSE. By Clara Louise Burnham. BRIGHTER than the sunshine on a stormy April day Is the smile with which a little maid can drive her tears away: Sweeter than the music of a silver-throated bird Comes forth her gentle answer to a wrath-provoking word ; More welcome than the perfume breathed from violet or rose. Is the influence of sweetness that shall follow where she goes ; And as the little streamlet sings while watering its flowers, . So she can make her work seem light, and sing through busy hours. Then set a guard on little lips, and little actions too, With sunshine bright and music sweet begin each day anew; For nothing half so dear is found in garden, field or wood, As the precious little boy or girl who's trying to be good. A ROGUE. By Mrs. Mary L. Wyatt. GRANDMA was nodding, I rather think : Harry was sly and quick as a wink ; He climbed in the back of her great arm-chair, And nestled himself very snugly there. Grandma's dark locks were mingled with white, And quick this little fact came to his sight ; A sharp twinge soon she felt at her hair. And woke with a start to find Harry there. " Why, what are you doing, my child ? " she said : He answered, " I's pulling a basting-fread ! THE SILVER BOAT. 79 THE SILVER BOAT BY MRS. M. F. BUTTS, THERE is a boat upon a sea ; It never stops for you or me. The sea is blue, the boat is white, It sails through winter and summer night. It fears no gale, it fears no wrecU, It never meets a change or check Through weather fair or weather wild- The oldest saw it when a child. The swarthy child in India land Points to the prow with eager hand ; The little Lapland babies cry For the silver boa^'a-sailing by. Upon another sea below Full many vessels come and go ; Upon the swaying swinging tide Into the distant worlds they ride. And, strange to tell, the sea below, Where countless vessels 'come and go. Obeys the little boat on high Through all the centuries sailing by. 8o THE BABY'S FOOTPRINT. THE BABY'S FOOTPRINT. By Mary E. Wilkins. THE farmer sat there milking Bess, The gentle brindle cow, Beneath the cherry-trees, all flowers On every tilting bough. A merry morning 'twas vsx May, The birds were singing all ; The sparrow blew his silver flute. And the robin his silver call. The meadow flower-cups were so full Of dew, the dew they spilt ; Each green grass-blade with pearls of dew Was strung from point to hilt. The farmer sat there milking Bess, A-whistling all the while ; He was a sunburnt, stalwart man. And had a kindly smile. His little blue-eyed baby-girl, With curls like yellow silk, Danced merrily toward the cherry-trees To see her father milk. No shoes upon her rosy feet ; Flowers to her dimpled knees ; For all the way was thick with flowers Up to the cherry-trees. She got the dew from buttercup. From grass and clover-blow. Till she was dewy as a flower Herself from top to toe. « She watched her father milking Bess, Perched on a flat gray rock — A darling of a little girl In her pink-sprinkled frock. " My little one," her father cried, "You're here without a shoe! Your feet are wet ! your little frock Is dripping, too, with dew ! "The dewdrops are for flowers, sweetheart. And the grass shall have its pearls ; The dewdrops are for blue-eyed flowers, But not for blue-eyed girls. " I'll swing you to my shoulder, sweet ; There, now you have a throne, And are a queen — what shall we get To weave the queen a crown 'i " He carried her toward the house, And sang a little song He'd heard her mother sing to her, The while he walked along. " And now we've reached the palace-door ; See, mother, here's our queen A-prancing on her gay gray horse, Over the meadow green ! " The mother caught her baby up ; On went the sock and shoe ; . And out again to waiting Bess He went back through the dew. And while he sat there milking Bess Beneath the trees alone, He saw the baby's clear footprint Upon the dew-pearled stone. And — well, he was a tender man In little things ; — he found A nail, and marked the baby-foot With loving care around. The years have gone ; and they have gone - Parents and baby-girl ; She lived to be a mother, then She passed the Gate of Pearl. When all her dust was turned to flowers, Her son, to manhood grown. Was shown his mother's baby-foot Marked out upon the stone. The precious bit of rock he has Which holds that baby-foot ; The best-beloved thing of all Amongst his treasures put. " FLOWERS TO HER DIMPLED KNEES." A BIRD SPEAKS. A LITTLE APRIL FOOL. «3 A BIRD SPEAKS. A RIBBON, a ribbon, a ribbon in the slcy ! The ribbon, the ribbon, has vanished from the sky ! That little girl shall have it who can fly so And not a single little girl spread her wings to fly ! high — They have no wings ? Why, all the birds, both great Have it for a border with a dress of blue, and small have wings — Or have it for a bow for her bonnet new! Surely, surely, girls must be unhappy little things I A LITTLE APRIL FOOL, By C. L. C. I M ' J Tit'' '' '' ' I'i i"i iff'p''-^**'-*'- ONE day, in the midst Of an April shower, This dear little girl Was missed for an hour ; And under the trees. And over the grass. We all went hunting The little lost lass. We found her at last Where two walls met, A-looking naughty And a-dripping wet. " I was April-fooling," She softly said ; And down she dropped A shamed little head. CONTRARY TOWN. By Clara Louise Burnham. OH, who has heard of Contrary Town, Where all the trees grow upside down ; Where turnips are picked from bushes tall. And they dig for violets late in the fall ; Where pigs go meekly the way they are told, Arid all the pennies are made of gold, But nobody sees their shining bright. For daylight with them is the darkest night, And, dear me, queerer than all the rest. The naughtiest children are theic the best ! 84 A DAY JN WINTER. WHY LITTLE BIRDS HOP. A DAY IN WINTER. By Mrs. L. C. Whiton. THROUGH the crimson fires of morning Streaming upward in the East, Leaps the sun, witli sudden dawning. Like a captive king released ; And December skies reflected In the azure hue below Seem Uke summer recollected In the dreaming of the snow. — It is winter, little children, let the summer, singing, go! There are crisp winds gaily blowing From the North and from the West ; 'Bove the river strongly flowing Lies the river's frozen breast : O'er its shining silence crashing Skim the skaters to and fro ; And the noonday splendors flashing In the rainbow colors show. — It is winter, little children, let the summer, singing, go ! When the gorgeous day is dying, There is swept a cloud of rose O'er the hill-tops softly lying In the flush of sweet repose ; And the nests, all white with snowing, In the twilight breezes blow ; And the untired moon is showing Her bare heart to the snow. — It is winter, little children, let the summer, singing, go ! WHY LITTLE BIRDS HOP, AND OTHER BIRDS WALK. By L. J. Bates. A LITTLE bird sat on a twig of a tree, A-swinging and singing as glad as could be, And shaking his tail, and smoothing his dress. And having such fun as you never could guess. And when he had finished his gay little song, He flew down in the street, and went hopping along, This way and that way Vv'ith both little feet, While his sharp little eyes looked for something to eat. A little boy said to him : " Little bird, stop ! And tell me the reason you go with a hop. Why don't you walk, as boys do, and men. One foot at a time, like a dove or a hen ? Like you, little bird ! And you don't know what fun It is to be able to walk and to run ! " Then the little bird went with a hop, hop, hop ; And he laughed, and he laughed as he never would stop ; And he said : ' Little boy, there are some birds that talk, And some birds that hop, and some birds that walk. " Use your eyes, little boy ; watch closely and see What little birds hop. both feet, just like me, And what little birds walk, like the duck and the hen, And when you know that you'll know more than some men. " How queer it would look if, when you go out You should see lilUe boys go jumping about " Every bird that can scratch in the dirt can walk ; Every bird that can wade in the water can walk ; HEARTS OF GOLD. 8S Every bird that has claws to catch prey with can To scratch with, or wade with, or catch things — that^s walk ; why One f ooc at a time — that is why they can walk. They hop with both feet.* Little boy, good-by." " But most little birds who can sing you a song Are so small that their legs are not very strong * The exceptions to the above rule are rare. The rule is gen- erally correct, and so simple as to be easily remembered. ■ A NAMELESS HERO IIVtKMOHE.' HEARTS OF GOLD. By Helen T. Clarke. A TRAVELLER lost on Eastern sands, Athirst and faint, with failing breath, Takes from his sack with trembling hands The flask that stands 'twixt him and death. He hastes to drain the priceless drops ; But scarce has raised it to his lip. When a low moan he hears — and stops : There on the ground, with lolling tip Of parched tongue, his camel lies, Panting and spent, yet faithful still, Pleading with his soft, Syrian eyes. But patient to his master's will. He who had borne him oft in strength From Jaffa's gates to Jericho, Along the shining, level length Of deserts white as northern snow ; He whom his little ones caressed At evening, by the fringe'd palms. And sported round the honest breast As safe as in their mother's arms. 86 IN THE CRADLE-BOAT. Shall he not share the scanty draught, Though madness burns in every vein, And dreams of fountains he has quaffed Come circling to the tortured brain ? His doom is sealed ; for ere the day Shall sink below the mocking vast. His life must close, and on the way To Paradise his soul have passed ; And when he stands by Allah's throne The record of his years to trace. This act of mercy left undone May dim the fairest page of grace ; So, covering up his face, he pressed The flask against his comrade's tongue — As brave a deed of self repressed As ever yet was said or sung ! Years after, by a caravan That journeyed south, the pair were found - The succored beast, the martyr-man. Bleached ckeletons upon the ground. As simplest things will oft unveil The cherished secrets of the heart, The posture told a tender tale Of how the hero played his part. Not English Sidney's fame shall glow More brightly than this golden deed On Syrian sands so long ago, Of one who put aside his need. That suffering lips might feel no loss ; And though their faiths were wide apart- The crescent there, and here the cross — The pulse of every honest heart Must thrill and thrill with holy pride, As run these tales through all the lands, How Sidney for his comrade died, And how upon the desert sands The Syrian sank, in scorching noon, A nameless hero evermore — In Moslem robe and sandal-shoon. Yet Christ-like to his being's core ! IN THE CRADLE-BOAT. By George Cooper. OH, the bonnie sailor boy, and, oh, the bonnie boatie ! Swing high, swing low — launch away to sea ! Who but mother, staunch and true, shall row the bonnie boatie, Sailing to the lilj'-land, where lovely dreams may be .-' Under golden moon and stars, and down a golden river : Swing high, swing low — mother watch will keep. Drowsy leaves are drooping near, and purple pinions quiver : Drop the anchor softly in the quiet cove of sleep ! Oh, the bonnie sailor boy, and, oh, the bonnie boatie ! Swing high, swing low — rosy morning beams. Many miles, and home again, it's row the bonnie boatie : Mother clasps her sailor from the pretty port of Dreams ! THE WA y THE RAIN BEHA VES. 87 THE ^A^AY THE RAIN BEHAVES. BEATING the clover Under and over, Tossing it thither, Flinging it hither, This is the way the rain behaves ! Pelting the garden, Begging no pardon Though all the roses Fall on their noses, This is the way the rain behaves ! Drubbing and rubbing, All the leaves scrubbing, Then the trees shaking, Leaving them quaking, This is the way the rain behaves ! Splashing and dashing. Merry drops clashing. Each other hustling — O, what a bustling ! This is the way the rain behaves ! THE FIRE-CRACKER AND TORPEDO, BY CLARA M. BURNHAM. AFIRE-CRACKER said to his chum, a Tor- pedo, " Tliere's more than one way to go off on the Fourth." The rotund Torpedo winked slowly and gravely — Then from Johnnie's pocket they both started forth, Tliey boarded an oak leaf just launched on the water ; 'Tis well," said the Cracker ; " we'll row quite away. Where no one will use us to show his devotion And sacrifice us to this glorious day." How guilty they felt as they pulled down the river ! The one's face was scarlet, the other's pale drab. "This seeing the world is superb," said the Cracker, And just as he said it his oar caught a " crab." Then upward, swift flying, it hit the Torpedo, Bang! Bang! went his head, then sank 'neath the tide. " O, had we but stayed," shrieked the Cracker, exploding, " For country and flag we had valiantly died ! " A SONG FOR A BIRTHDAY BOY. A SONG FOR A BIRTHDAY BOY, By M. E. B. ONCE, upon a winter night, When the snow lay cold and white. Dropped a baby from the skies With a pair of big brown eyes ; Without clothes, or food, or name. Right into our hearts it came. And we loved it from that minute As if there were " millions in it." V' ', 1 ' "; ' fffjfprf^^^ Soon a happy year had flown : He could creep, and stand alone, Know mamma and Rob and Fritz, Do a hundred pretty tricks ; He was sweet, but still a tartar. So we called him little Arthur, " Pet," and " Darling." " Love," and " Pride," And a hundred names beside. When another year went by. Could I tell if I should try Half how lovely he had grown ? — Walking, like a man, alone, Talking with such babbling words Like the cooing of the birds. With a tangled crop of curls Hanging round him — like a girl's. Three years old : now look for squalls. Trials, troubles, cries and falls! Up and down like any rocket ! \ry his dress a little pocket Filled with tops and nails and strings And some fifty other things ; Three feet tall, or taller, maybe — Can this be my little baby ? A SONG FOR A BIRTHDAY BOY. 89 H I^tt' _ Sf L W' - i^^^p Still another birthday ; dear, What a four-year colt is here ! Leaping, running, skipping, prancing, In and out on swift feet dancing, Handling marbles, spinning tops. Spending cents in candy-shops ; In kilted skirt and buttoned jacket, Always ripe for fun and racket ! ry-^'-Zr)' i^^ M ^W J'^J »f ^^r^ '-' ■•'' Now, as sure as I'm alive, That outrageous boy is five ! Send him off to school at once — We don't want to own a dunce ! Full of tricks as any marten — Get him to a Kindergarten ; There he'll learn to use his wits, Without any ugly fits. Six — and what do I behold ! No more waving curls of gold, But a little wig of brown. Closely cropped about the crown ; No more skirts, but little breeches Full of many seams and stitches ; Growing, every single day, In the most surprising way. Seven to-day : a Boy at last ! Time and tide have travelled fast ; There he sits so fine and tall, Jacket, trousers, boots and all; He can spell, and read, and write. He is good and gay and bright. And his life goes bravely on, — But where is my Baby gone ! So now I hope — what do I hope ? Oh, scores and scores of things ! I hope he'll learn to comb his hair, and tie his own shoe-strings; I hope he'll never catch a cold in hail or snow or rain. And grow to be full six feet high without one growing pain ; go BABY THANKFUL HOMESICK. BABY THANKFUL. BY CAROLINE METCALF. R (NAMING in the meadow, Little four-year-old Picks the starry daisies, With their hearts of gold ; Fills her snowy apron, Fills her dimpled hands ; Suddenly — how quiet In the grass she stands ! " Who. made t'owers so pitty — Put 'em here? Did God?" I, half-heeding, answer With a careless nod. Dropping all her blossoms. With uplifted head. Fervent face turned skyward, " Thank you, God ! " she said. HOMESICK, By Anna F. Burnham. D OLLY knows what is the matter — Dolly / know well enough that he dropped that telegraph and I. 'spatch in the fire ■ it isn't the mumps nor the measles — oh dear, I shall If mother just kneiv, she'd come, if 'twas on the tele- die ! graph-wire 1 It's the mothering we want, Dolly, the — what shall I She'd take my poor head, that is splitting this very call it ? minute, And grandpa says he has sent — he put the 'spatch And she'd sing, " There's a happy land," and the safe in his wallet. hymn that has " Darling " in it. HOMESICK. 91 'Course I like grandpa's house ; it's the splendidest In a pale-blue something-or-other — a loose sort df a place to stay, wrapper, I guess — When there's all the out-doors to live in, and nothing As if a few yards of sky had been taken to make a to do but play ; dress. Somehow you forget your mother — that is, just the rp, / -r 1 ' ' . T ^i ^ T I, 1 I u ^^^ "P ^^"^ ^^^ P"^^ woods yottder comes a beauti- Though, if she were here, I suppose that I shouldn t r , , ,, ^ ? ^ . . ful woodsy smell, men ion 1 . ^^^ ^^^ breeze keeps a hinting of Mayflowers — - the real pink arbutus-bell ; But oh ! there's a difference, Dolly, when your head And I think most likely the robins have built in the is so full of pains cherry-tree. That ('cepting the ache 'CazX. is in 'em) there's 110th- And by and by there'll be birdies — and I shall not ing left of your brains. be there to see! Remember how nice it feels, Dolly, to have your head patted and " poored." ^. , , . r-v u ■> c- 1 t^ ,, A 1. , -.,n Tin J .u t, 1 • Did you hear any noise, Dolly.' Speak, Dollv, you Ache? -Why, I ache all over, and the bed is as t. 1 • r . r ^ ., j, , •" , , little witch ! hard as a board. . ., , , , , • • , t , , , As if somebody was laughing — or crying! Icouldn t tell which. Nurse says " it's a sweet lovely morning." It may be We've kept from crying, so far; we've choked, but for all that I care, — we wouldn't cry — There is just one spot in this great wide world that I've just talked it out to you. dear; I had to, or else is pretty — I wish I was there! I'd die. I can see the white roses climbing all over the low P . . °''' But if that zs you, mother (and I know by your lips And the daisies and buttercups growing — I never that it iO half loved them before. j-U .^^^ ^^^^^^^ ^^^^ j^^^^ ^^ , _ ^^^ ^j^j^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^ want is a kiss ? And mother — ■ let's see ! she is standing in that very O mother: to papa and Tom you needn't go men- door, no doubt — tion it. She loves to look out in the morning and see vdiat But you know it was homesickiiess almost killed youi the world is about — poor little Kit I I "NOT A BREATH OF AI K ! ' // 92 SHOPPING. SHOPPING. BY LAURA LEDYARD. ^).s j\ ' \t^-^'\ * l\ *vs-^- SUCH a twisting up of tresses, and a looping up of dresses, And a general buttoning of boots, I never, never saw ; For these laughing baby shoppers, with a half a dozen coppers, All are going presently to shop upon the basement floor. " Well, I'll take that curly feather — please to wrap it up together — And about a hundred yards of shiny ribbon for the strings ; _. _ i And that biga;est thin green locket, and another spangly pocket, And ten cents ot tile Opera — and a few of those gold rings." " Is a bpitz a bundled dollars ? Well, I'll take him — how he hollers ! That's to show he's rea/ and not a great old flannel thing, you know. Dim me half a yard of watsins, and a whole cart full o' playsins, An' a penny's worth o' ponies — and a pistol ut '11 go ! " " They re for OT(7;//OT(7 — You may send 'em' (and be careful not to beml em). You may send 'em ■ — about six or three o'clock — and that is all. Now, I guess we'll all be going, 'cause its just begin- ning snowin:;, And there isn't any omnibusses in the basement hall." / Now of all my kingdom measures, and of all my richest Ireasures, You will laugh to find that these are just the dearest, great or small : Ponies that have never cantered, waisins that were never planted, And a little dog — that never 7t'as a little dog at all ; And a ring of purest gold, dears, never delved and never sold, dears ; Two embroidered swinging pockets, never wrought and never swung ; And a hundred yards and one, dears, of a fabric never spun, dears ; And a little bar of music, never written, played, or sung ! r>f* ' >, H^ri? THE LAND OF USED-TO-BE. 93 THE LAND OF USED-TO-BE. By James Whitcomb Riley. AND Where's the Land of Used-to-be, does little For here's the very rim of it that we go swinging baby wonder? over — Oh, we will clap a magic saddle over papa's knee, Don't you hear the fairy bugles, and the tinkle of And ride away around the world, and in and out and the bells ? under And see the baby bumble-bees that tumble in the The whole of all the golden sunny summer-time, clover, and see ! And dangle from the tilted pinks and tipsy pimper- nels ? • Leisurely and lazy-like we'll jostle on our jour- ney. And don't you see the merry faces of the daffodillies. And let the pony bathe his hooves and cool them And the jolly johnny-jump-ups, and the butter- in the dew, cups a-glee, As he sidles down the shady way, and lags along the And the low, lolling ripples ring around the water- ferny liHes, And the green grassy edges of the lane we travel All greeting us with laughter to the Land of Used- through, to-be ? And then we'll canter on to catch the bubble of the And here among the blossoms of the blooming vines thistle and grasses. As it bumps among the butterflies, and glimmers With a haze forever hanging in a sky forever blue, down the sun, And with a breeze from over seas to kiss us as it To leave us laughing, all content to hear the robin passes, whistle. We will romp around forever as the little fairies Or guess what Katydid is saying little Katy.'s done. do ; And pausing here a minute, where we hear the squir- For all the elves of ^arth and air are swarming here rel chuckle together — ■ As he darts from out the underbrush and scampers The prankish Puck, king Oberon, and queen up the tree, Titania too ; We will gather buds and locust-blossoms, leaves and And dear old Mother Goose herself, as sunny as the honeysuckle, weather. To wreathe around our foreheads, riding into Used- Comes dancing down the dewy walks to welcome to-be ; me and you ! 94 LOST PINS. ST. EMILY. LOST PINS, By Agnes Carr. WHAT becomes of the pins ? " Asked a bright little girl, As she tossed from her shoulder A troublesome curl ; " The hair-pins and shawl-pins, The pins large and small — Can any one tell what Becomes of them all ? " " Oh ! they change into turtles," Said her brother so wise, While he laughed in his sleeve At her look of surprise ; " Through some sly little crack In the ground they creep in — When, of course, they become On the spot, terrapin." ^SAINT EMILY." By E. F. Frye. WHEN grass grows green in spring-time And trees are budding gay, When the breath of bursting lilacs Makes sweet the air of May, When cowslips fringe the brooksides. And violets gem the dells, And tremble mid the mosses The wind-flower's slender bells, When the fragrant lily rises From its sheltering sheath of green. In the city's narrow alleys Saint Emily is seen. A modest little maiden, She walks secure from harm ; A basket, flower-laden. Swings lightly on her arm, And right and left she scatters, Alike to bad and good, The beauties of the garden. The treasures of the wood. When summer days drag slowly, In languor, heat, and pain, To those who lie in hospital, Never to rise again. Dreaming, with fevered longing, Of shady country homes, Where roses hang in clusters, And honeysuckle blooms. From cot to cot so softly. Moves dear Saint Emily ; And here a rose she proffers, And there a bud lays she. The close abode of sickness She fills with fragrant bloom ; Her gentle presence passes Like music through the room ; And many a moaning sufferer Hushes his sad complaint, And follows with his weary eyes The movements of this saint. When autumn paints the woodlands With scarlet and with gold. When the blue-gentian's lids unclose In frosty meadows cold. From the little troop of children That crowd some Orphan Home, The joyous shout arises, " Saint Emily has come ! " A LITTLE GIRLS QUESTIONS. 97 And round her close they gather, An eager little band, While from the well-stored basket She fills each outstretched hand With purple hillside asters, And wondrous golden-rod, And all the lingering flowers that love To dress the autumn sod ; And pallid cheeks flush rosy. And heavy eyes grow bright, And little hearts forlorn and lone, Stir with a deep delight. And when the woods are naked. And flowers no longer blow. When the green nooks they love so well Are buried in the snow. Not quite unknown that presence To children sick in bed. Bearing bright wreaths of autumn leaves, And strings of berries red. A heaven-sent mission, surely. To cheer the sick and poor With bounties that the bounteous God Has strewn beside our door — To gladden little children, To comfort dying hours. To bear to wretched hearts and homes The gospel of the flowers. What marvel if glad blessings Surround Saint Emily ! What marvel if some loving eyes In her an angel see ! — Yet many a thoughtful boy or girl As sweet a saint might be. A LITTLE GIRL'S QUESTIONS. BY MRS. LUTHER KEENE. WPIOSE bonny blue bowl is the sky, mamma. So shining, so round and so deep ? The angels, perhaps, come down there to drink, Do you think, When baby and I are asleep .'' The stars, — ^are they lamps set thick in the blue, To brighten our beautiful home ? To light them and hang them, who climbs so high To the sky ? Baby and I never see him come. Are the clouds white beds in the sky, mamma. Piled snowy and soft and so high r Way up in the highest sky — Do they sleep far up there, as sweetly and warm, Safe from harm. As you and the baby and I ? The moon, I am sure, is a golden boat, — Who sails in it, softly, to-night ? Some angel, you think, all loving and fair, That takes care Of baby and me till the light ? The dark is a curtain, so warm and so dost God drops it all round us at even ; At light, when it lifts, if we wake, may be We can see — The baby and I — into Heaven ! 98 THE CORN STALK'S LESSON. THE CORNSTALK'S LESSON. By Mrs. Christine Chaplin Brush. /IkL'I IN IDLE MOOD. ONE single grain of corn took root Beside the garden walk ; " Oh, let it stay," said little May, " I want it for my stalk." And there it grew, until the leaves Waved in the summer light; All day it rocked the baby ear. And wrapped it warm at night. And then the yellow corn-silk came — A skein of silken thread : It was as pretty as the hair Upon the baby's head. Alas ! one time, in idle mood, May pulled the silk away, And then forgot her treasured stalk For many a summer day. At last she said, " I'm sure my corn Is ripe enough to eat ; In even rows the kernels lie, All white, and juicy sweet." Ah me ! they all were black and drv, Were withered long ago; "What was the naughty corn about," She said, " to cheat me so ! " She did not guess the silken threads Were slender pipes to lead The food the tasselled blossom shook To each small kernel's need. The work her foolish fingers wrought Was shorter than a'breath; Yet every milky kernel then Began to starve to death ! So list, my little children all. This simple lesson heed : That many a grief and sin has come From one small thouohtless deed. TO BETTY FROM THE COUNTRY. 99 TO BETTY FROM THE COUNTRY By Charlotte M. Packard. WHAT, never heard of Donald? Why, you have forgotten, dear, How I gossipped about this cousin in my very last from here ! So strong, yet so gentle always, and ready for any fun — Whenever he goes is shadow, whenever he comes is sun. But w6 only meet in summer, when they send us down to the farm While the elder people travel : they know we are safe from harm. Unless we slip from the hay-cart, or tumble into the brook, Or lose ourselves in the ferny woods, like Babes in the story-book. The days are long and lovely, with a world to hear and see — Oh, you Betty dear, I wish you could taste it all with me ; For I can not make you listen to the wind across the pines, Nor hunt with me the berries that load the straggling vines. Poor, gentle, worn-out Dolly,, the horse whose work is done. Blinks at me o'er the pasture bars, a-dreaming in the sun. Does she too watch the mill-wheel which frets the little stream ? Would she too like to wade a bit where the brown ripples gleam ? Well, Donald is my leader, I follow at his beck. If sometimes I am frightened, my fear is not a check; He likes brave girls, and always declares I'm safe enough When I obey his orders. No, Donald is not rough. The squirrels and the rabbits know Donald : he is kind To every timid creature ; why, I'm sure they let him find Their dainty hiding-places, and the birds are quite at rest Though he clambers to the tree-tops to spy a curious nest! I suppose you've fished for minnows ? I've learned to fish for trout ! One has to keep so very still — the beauties don't come out If there's a breath to ruffle — the exquisite . shy things! A trout seems to me like a bird that somehow missed its wings. Did you call ? I am coming, Donald : we go for the cows at five. Ah, Betty, if you were only here ! I'm thankful to be alive. Hiving my sweets for winter ; when I dream myself back to see The dear old farm, and a grassy world that's all for Donald and me ! lOO EDITH'S LESSON. ^^^liiJfe-^- ,'"»?;-'">|j' A DREAMER. EDITH'S LESSON, By Mrs. Margaret E. Sangster. OUT in the meadow the scented breeze Was full of the gossip of birds and bees ; Out in the orchard the glad things flew, And o'er meadow and orchard the sky was blue — The sky was blue, and the clouds were white. And the summer morning was blithe and bright. " It is quite too lovely in-doors to stay," Said Edith, "whether I work or play." So slate and pencil and fairy-book Were carried forth to a cozy nook, Where the shadows glanced, and the sunbeams shone, And the dear little girl could be alone. There were hard examples that must be done. For father to see ere the set of sun ; And there was the merriest tale to read. Of a lady fair, on a milk-white steed, — Of a lady fair, and a stately lover, And the charm that lay in a four-leaf clover. " Study the lesson !" the robin said. As he poised on the branch above her head, With a whirr of wings, like the beat of drums; " Edith," the bee hummed, " mind the sums ! " But shadow and shine in their airy piny. Coaxed for the story that matched the day. " Any tim3 will do for the tiresome task," Said Edith at last, "and I think I'll ask Papa to excuse my Arithmetic — In such warm weather I might be sick, If I taxed this poor little brain of mine." So she listened, you see, to shadow and shine ; And then, full-length on the velvet grass. She dreamed of delights that would come to pass When she, too large for the rigid rule. Of the happy home, or the stricter school. Should be a woman, and quite at ease Each hour to do what she might please. "On silvery paper, with golden pen," She mused," I'd write love-stories then, And wherever I went, would people say, ' The gifted Edith is here to-day ! ' And maybe — for stranger things have been I might Editor be of a Magazine ! " THE BROOK BEHIND THE WAUMBEK HOUSE. No higher flight Qpuld her fancy tal^'3t\,j^.^^- %.'*■-■- A ^^^B^feB > ' vi/ft-H^iiifr " r "• •. r^-: ' i ''#■'■■'?' I 'Wl* 1 4^i^ ■W^ A[^^W!^^tJ^>^*^milr^ ^mSf Ifl^B ■;' T}.--: , .^'' v.- J ;-"'i'^ ■' SSW W; Jk jrff '"'i^^^^^Bk ^l |j '■f^-^>.--''^'^yP^^BjH|| ^ ^Kr l^f^^^^l V :■'>•"..■ •Hpi KPi^B'ftSi ■r j^s^^^^'S]' ■ I ?■< .>t.'~' ■ S,--^^'vM^'-"r*-':",^^«K. J^^^iM. .-. ■' ■' » ■''• ffiv;^'^t 'm ^mlwww^^^^^ '^^HJ '^'=fS# K W "' ■ W^ k«.. . ^l m^S^M m y^ ' flflra . r ••'V ■]'.:* 1 ^\ 1 WW/ ' JS 1 ' 'i \ i %/ ...; "m ■ ■-.', ■.■'-^-■'' AFTER THE FKTE. 128 THE. STORY OF NOBODY'S CAT. THE STORY OF NOBODY'S CAT, ( Told by himself.) By Clara Doty Bates. "see, how she cuddles him close to hek silken waist i " When through an open door I saw that kitten stra)', Tip-toeing out on the icy walk In a sort of wayward way. I could see within the door Behind him left ajar, Hew cheery a fire is in the grate, How cosy carpets are. But his mistress saw him fiee. And followed in loving haste. He is caught — see, how she cuddles him Close to her silken waist ! I can hear her seem to chide, Yet pet him — " poor Mow-mow ! " Her mantle is round him, soft with fur ; He must be purring now. But I am Nobody' cat ! Think what such life must be ! There's never a saucer of warm new milk, Nor a bit of meat for me. I wonder if I could sing — 'Tis long since I have tried. Yet when I was little girl Gold-Locks' cat My music was her pride. She would lay her pretty cheek Close to my throat, and say : " Sing, little old pussy-tea-kettle ! Keep singing, Kitty-gray ! " I WAS crouching here in the shed An hour or more ago. Trying to dry my drabbled feet — We pussy-cats hate the snow — Somehow, I was lost from her ; And I grew large and wild And fierce, because I am given no more Kind words by any child. GRACIE'S FANCIES. 129 But I know if I once could hear Her call me by my name, And could feel her hand on my tired back, I should grow good and tame. Oh, I would purr so sweet That she would laugh, and say : " Sing, little old pussy-tea-kettle ! Keep singing, Kitty-gray ! " But the snow is deep on the roof ! I must try to find a rat. Or I shall be supperless all night — I am Nobody's — Nobody's cat ! GRACIE'S FANCIES By Brenda Aubert. A WHIRR of wings, and a rush of feet 1 \nd quick thr()U_;h the (lining snow and sleet A flock of snow-biids, tiny and brown. On the gnarled old plum-tree settle down ' Grace, atthe window, with'wondeting eyes Watches their coming in shy surprise : " C) inamma, look ! it is smncing hrmoii,'' She cries as the Ijirdlings lUitter down. A moment she watches the chirping iiaiul, Her sweet face resting upon lier liand. Then cries — ■ and a laugh slips out with the words — " Why, mamma, the snow-flakes have turned to birds ! " 130 THE PEACOCK THAT SAILED AWAY. THE PEACOCK THAT SAILED AVV^AY, BY MRS. L. C. WHITON. A PEACOCK one day was spreading his tail, And he said, " What very^we^ feathers are mine ! I think, if to cities abroad I could sail, Among foreign birds I should shine ; So I'll take a short cruise up the Rhine." So he took off the handle, a rudder to make, And said, " Perhaps by some fortunate turn, A wheel from the car of Old Time I can take, And I'll have it put in at the stern ; And for sails I will take the sweet-fern." He said to the stars, that were hidden all day, " I'll borrow the dipper, of which you're so proud, And I'll launch it at once, and go sailing away, And I'll see if the world is round. And if China is under the ground." So he got out his charts as he went down the bay, With his feathers and sails outspread to the sun, And he said, '" I'll come back in a year and a day For my voyage by then will be done — " But he didn't, and that is the fun ! THE ROMAN BOY'S TROPHIES. — A. D. 6i. By Margaret J. Preston. I HAVE witnessed the great Ovation, I have watched as they slew the sheep ; As they marched from the Campus Martius To the Capitol's sacred steep : I was proud, as I saw ray father From the fiery East come home ; I was proud, as I looked on the captives And the spoils he had brought to Rome ! Ah, Rome is a grand old city ! And it flushes my soul with joy That my father has won a Triumph — That I am a Roman boy ! I am glad of the lordly conquests He gained on that far-off shore, That have given the State a splendor It seldom hath known before. It was noble to see the captives ( — Poor fellows ! I think they wept !) Go chained, as the victor's chariot Behind them in triumph swept : Have they any boys, I wonder. Like Marcus and me, at home ? — AVlio cares ? They are bold plebeians, They have dared to fight with Rome ! But now that the march is over, Ho ! comites, come and see What spoils from that Eastern country My father hath brought for me ! Here — lean from the v/'iAe. fenestra, And look at this branching bough : Did ever you see together Such birds as I show you now ? How wise they are looking at me ! Ha, Claudius ? — didst thou say That some of Minerva's nestlings From Athens are caught away ? They are angry that they are fettered ; See ! each of them frowns and scowls I think thou hast hit it, Claudius — I think they're Minerva's owls ! THE ROMAN BOY'S SPOILS. CHRISTMAS CAROL. WILLIE WEE. 133 "^ ULTX.MARSff silent waiting East There cometli a shining light Far, far, Through a dull gray bar Closing over a dying star That watched away the night — Rise, rise, shine and glow. Over a wide white world of snow, Sun of the Christmas-tide ! Out of the Northland bleak and bare, O wind with a royal roar. Fly, fly, Through the broad arched sky, Flutter the snow, and rattle and cry At every silent door — Loud, loud, till the children hear, And meet the day with a ringing cheer : " Hail to the Christmas-tide ! " Out of the four great gates of day A tremulous music swells ; Hear, hear, Now sweet and clear. Over and under and far and near, A thousand happy bells : Joy, joy, and jubilee ! Good-will to men from sea to sea. This merry Christmas-tide ! Lo ! in the homes of every land The children reign to-day ; They alone. With our hearts their throne. And never a sceptre but their own Small hands to rule and sway ! Peace, peace — the Christ-child's love — Flies over the world, a white, white dove. This happy Christmas-tide 1 WILLIE WEE, By Mrs. A. M. Diaz. TWO lads were conversing as happy as kings. Of the coming of Christmas and all that it brings, Of the Christmas-tree and its many delights. Of the city shop-windows and other fine sights. When out spake wee Will, sometimes called " Willie wee," Though often " sweet William," or " little Willee," — Four years and a half or three-quarters was he^ — - " Say ! What kind of a tree is a Chrissermus-tree .'' " And the while they discoursed, as his wonder grew, With questions like these he followed them through ; " Does it have big branches that spread all around ? Do its roots stay deep down in the dark ground ? 134 WILLIE WEE. Does it grow, grow, grow, way up very high ? If you climb to the top will your head bump the sky ? Do any plumbs grow on it, or apples, or cherries ? Or any good nuts, or pretty red berries ? Does it bloom out all over with flowers white as snow, As that tree does down there in our garden below ? Do robins and king-birds build nests in that tree ? And other birdies too ? " asked little Willee. " No flowers bloom there, snowy white. Yet with these fruits — a curious sight — Are oft seen flowers both red and white ! Should you climb to the top without a fall. Your head might bump against the wall, But not against the sky, you see, For indoors stands the Christmas-tree ! " "You tell very big stories," quoth little Willee. YOU TELL VERY BIG STORIES I" QUOTH LITTLE WILLEE. Thus answered Ned, wise, school-boy Ned : " A Christmas-tree, young curly-head. Has branches, sure, but has no roots. And on its branches grow no fruits ; Yet bright red apples there you'll see, And oranges of high degree — Apples and oranges on one tree ! " " That sounds very strange," quoth little Willee. " No birdie there doth build its nest. No king-bird, blue-bird, robin redbreast, Yet eggs thereon are often seen. Of beautiful colors, pink, and green. And purple, and lavender, fit for a queen. Even eggs with pictures on them are found. And with golden bands which circle around. But from all these eggs so fair to see. WILLIE WEE. ^35 Are hatched no birds in that Christmas-tree ; Instead, are hatched candy and gumdrops ! " said he. '■'• Are you telling the truth ? " asked little Willee. " I've not told half, I do declare, Of all those wondrous branches bear. Bear ? They bear dolls and whips and drums, Tops, whistles, taffy, sugar-plums. And candy sheep, and candy cats, And candy birds, and candy rats, And India-rubber girls and boys, Bear trumpets and all kinds of toys. Bear books, and jumping-jacks, and mittens, And little cotton-flannel kittens ; Ahd over the whole of this Christmas-tree Candles are burning right merrily ! What think you of this ? my sweet Willie-wee ? " " I think you are fooling ! " said little Willee. r Next morning young Willie, with serious air. Put earth in a flower-pot, and buried up there A seed of an apple with very great care. " Pray, what are you doing, you rogue Willie-wee ? " " I am planting a seed for a Chrissermas-txee. ! Is not that good to do ? " asked little Willee. — There came from that seed a green little shoot Which put out its leaves and firmly took root. And so finely did thrive that at last it was found Too large for the house and was set in the ground. Where it grew up, a tree, one scarcely knew how. Look down by the wall ; it is standing there now. It blossoms in springtime, and many a nest Has been built there by king-bird and robin redbreast ; And other birdies too oft come to the tree And sing there and swing there, oh, so meri j-; They make it all summer our joy and delight ; And in fall of the year 'tis a beautiful sight When the clustering wealth of its apples is seen — Its ruby red apples all set in their green ! — And Willie ? Yes, he grew up, too, young Willie-wee, And went as a sailor-boy over the sea. He sailed in a ship to some far distant shore ; A storm came — and — and — we saw him no more. It was long, long ago that deep sorrow we bore ! The lads who were talking, as happy as kings. Of the coming of Christmas and all that it brings, Are fathers now, so stately and tall. Their children play by the garden wall, And swing on the boughs of the apple tree. Or climb to the top, the world to see ; (Some have gone from the home the world to see !) And when autumn comes, and leaves turn brown, And the ripened fruits are shaken down. And here and there, on the orchard ground, The red and the golden are heaped around — 'Tis the children who gather that tree by the wall, And the apples from off its boughs that fall. With kindly care are stored away, Sure to appear on Christmas Day In platter or basket for all to admire, Or hung on strings before the fire, There to swing and sputter and roast. While many an one of the merry host Gives a tender thought to that first Willie-wee Who went as a sailor-boy over the^sea. The youngest of all ; a new Willie-wee, — ■ A curly-haired rogue, and our darling is he ! — Now claims for his own uncle Will's Christmas-tree, "Because," says the child, " he was namfed for me/" --t.^^^' 136 MOTHER GOOSE. THE BABY'S PRAYER. MOTHER GOOSE. « By James VVhitcomb Riley. DEAR Mother Goose ! most motherly and dear Of all good mothers who have laps wherein We children nestle safest from all sin — I cuddle to thy bosom, with no fear To there confess that, though thy cap is queer, And thy curls gimblety, and thy cheeks thin, And though the winkered mole upon thy chin Tickles thy very nose-tip — still to hear The jolly jingles of mine infancy Crooned by thee, makes my eager arms, as now, To twine about thy neck all tenderly. Drawing thy dear old face down, that thy brow May dip into my purest kiss, and be Crowned ever with the baby-love of me. THE BABY'S PRAYER. By Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. LORD b'ess papa, mamma, Daisy," The baby prayed to-day, " Kitty, Bose, and ole brack Thomas — What else s'all I say ? I can't fink of nuffin' mo-ah, (Stoopid work to p'ay !) ' Hush 'for what I'd like to know, now, You old Mamma Gray ? Ain't I p'ayed, an' p'ayed, a.nd p'ay-ed Time 'n time again ? I've fergut the way to end it — Why don't you tell me ven ? For whose sake, mamma — say? I'm — so — s'eepy — oh, I 'member — For Fitys sake, Amen I" Who chides the child ? I kiss and husli. Silent I join the group down-stairs That rest and linger by the fire To laugh at Baby's prayers. " And what did Baby say to-night ?" But low I answer, with grave brow : " She prayed for Bose, and you and me — " I cannot tell them now How full the mood the child has drawn And pressed upon a musing heart ! Amid the happy household chat I sit like one apart. My thoughts like prayers move solemnly ; " Oh, Lord," I say, " the great, the wise, The weak, the miserable, are All children in Thine eyes. THE BAB Y'S PR A YER. 137 C^*^ ' FOK WHOSE SAKE, MAMMA ? ' " We take the name of Thy dear Son Daring, upon a trembUng lip ; The cup Thou givest us, we Hft, And shrink, and taste, and sip, "And try to say, 'For Jesus' sake;' Dear Lord, the babe is wisest when, Fearless and clear, she pleads with Thee ' For Pity's sake, Amen.' " Oh, truer than the sacred phrase That time from Christian years has spun. Is he who prays, nor questions if Pity and Christ are one ! " 138 A BABY SHOW. A BABY SHOW, By H. H. A DROLL conversation I once overheard — Two children, a cat, a cow, and a bird. The names of .the cliildren were Eddie and Jane ; Tlie names of the others I did not hear plain. How came I to hear them ? I think I won't tell : You may guess, if you please ; and if you guess well You'll guess that I heard it as many a man hears — With his fancy alone, and not with his ears. 'Twas an odd thing, now, for a lark to do — I hope you won't think my story's untrue — But this is the thing that I saw and I heard : That lark flew right down, like a sociable bird, As soon as they called him, and perched on a tree. And winked with his eye at the children and me, And laughed out, as much as a bird ever can. As he cried, " Ha ! ha ! Little woman and man ! The children were drawing, with caution and care, Their sweet baby-sister, to give her the air. In a dainty straw wagon with wheels of bright red, And a top of white muslin which shaded her head. She was only one year and a few months old; Her eyes were bright blue and her hair was like gold ; She laughed all the time from morning till night. Till Eddie and Jane were quite wild with delight. "You'll be quite surprised and astonished, maybe, To hear that I do not think much of your baby. Why, out in the field here I've got in my nest. All cuddled up snug 'neath my wife's, warm breast. Four little babies — ■• two sisters, two brothers — And all with bright eyes, as bright as their mother's; Your baby's at least ten times older than they. But they are all ready to fly to-day; Such a wonderful plaything never was known ! Like a real live dolly, and all for their own ! Two happier children could nowhere be found. No, not if )'0u travelled the whole world around. They had drawn her this morning where daisies grew — White daisies, all shining and dripping with dew. Long wreaths of the daisies, and chains, they had made ; In the baby's lap these wreaths they had laid, " They'll take care of themselves in another week, Before your poor baby can walk or can speak. It has often surprised me to see what poor things All babies are that are born without wings ; And but one at a time ! Dear me, my wife Would be quite ashamed of so idle a life ! " And the lark looked as scornful as a lark knows how, As he swung up and down on a slender bough. And were laughing to watch her fat little hands Untwisting and twisting the stems and the strands. Just then, of a sudden, a lark flew by And sang at the top of his voice in the sky; "Ho! ho! Mr. Lark," shouted Jane, "come down here ! We're not cruel children. You may come without fear. We've something to show you. In all your life maybe You'll never see anything sweet as our baby ! " A cat had been eying him there for a while, And sprang at him now from top of a stile. But she missed her aim — he was quite too high ; And oh, how he laughed as he soared in the sky I Then the cat scrambled up, disappointed and cross ; She looked all about her, and felt at a loss What next she should do. So she took up the thread Of the lark's discourse, and ill-naturedly said : A BAB Y SHO W. 139 "Yes, indeed, little master and miss, I declare. It's enough to make any mother-cat stare, To see what a time you do make, to be sure, Over one small creature, so helpless and poor 'As your babies are ! Why, I've six of my own : When they were two weeks old they could run alone ; They're never afraid of dogs or of rats — ■ In a few weeks more they'll be full-grown cats ; "Their fur is as fine and as soft as silk — Two gray, and three black, and one white as new milk. A fair fight for a mouse in my family Is as pretty a sight as you'll ever see. It is all very well to brag of your baby — One of these years it will be something, maybe !" And without even looking at the baby's face, The cat walked away at a sleepy pace. " Moo, Moo !" said a cow, coming up. " Moo, Moo ! Young people, you're making a great to-do About your baby. And the lark and the cat. They're nothing but braggers — I wouldn't give that," (And the cow snapped her tail as you'd snap your thumb) " For all the babies, and kittens, and birds, that come In the course of a year! It does make me laugh To look at them all, by the side of a calf ! I40 A TRULY CHURCH. "Why, my little Brindle as soon as 'twas born Stood up on its legs, and sniffed at the corn ; Before it had been in the world an hour It began to gambol, and canter, and scour All over the fields. See its great shining eyes. And its comely red hair that so glossy lies And thick ! he has never felt cold in his life ; But the wind cuts your baby's skin like a knife. "Poor shivering things! I have pitied them oft. All muffled and smothered in flannel soft. Ha! ha ! I am sure the stupidest gaby Can see that a calf's ahead of a baby ! " And the cow called her calf, and tossed up her head, Like a person quite sure of all she has said. Then Jane looked at Eddy, and Eddy at Jane ; Said Eddy, " How mean ! I declare, they're too vain " To live — preposterous things ! They don't know What they're talking about I I'd like them to show A bird, or a kitten, or a learned calf. That can kiss like our baby, or smile, or laugh ! " "Yes, indeed, so should I !" said Jane in a rage; " The poor little thing ! She's advanced for her age. For the minister said so the other day — She's worth a hundred kittens or calves to play. " And as for young birds — they're pitiful things ! I saw a whole nest once, all mouths and bare wings. And they looked as if they'd been picked by the cook To broil for breakfast. I'm sure that they shook With cold if their mother got off for a minute — I'm glad we have flannel, and wrap babies in it ! " So the children went grumbling one to the other, And when they reached home they told their mother. The dear baby, asleep, in its crib she laid, And laughed as she kissed the children, and said : " Do you think I believe that the sun can shine On a boy or a girl half so sweet as mine ? The lark, and the cat, and the cow were all right — Each baby seems best in its own mother's sight! " i-^- OUMMER said to the Spring, "What a wonderful "You beautiful Comer," said Spring to the Summer, '^ thing " I lived out my life but to brighten your way ; It is to bring in so much sweetness and grace — I heard the buds swelling, and could not help tell- I am sure that to you my blossoms are due, ing. And I feel I am taking your place. For I knew you would see them some day. " 1 never can blush, but I think of your flush ; And the eyes of the flowers at evening are wet ; There was something so fair in your innocent air That your going we can but regret." " It was only my duty to bring you the beauty. And to help one another is lesson for all ; And perhaps you'll be willing, your mission fulfilling, To leave something to brighten the Fall. 146 THE FIRST THANKSGIVING DA Y. THE FIRST THANKSGIVING DAY — A. D. 1622. By Mrs. Margaret J. Preston. AND now," said the Governor, gazing abroad on the piled-up store Of the sheaves that dotted the clearings, and covered the meadows o'er, " 'Tis meet that we render praises because of this yield of grain ; 'Tis meet that the Lord of the harvest be thanked for His sun and rain. * 11 \IL I 1 IL r MIL I L Ml I IN ' III L t ill V\KS( I\ I\G L \\ " And therefore, I, William Bradford (by the grace of God to-day. And the franchise of this good people). Governor of Plymouth, say Thro' virtue of vested power — ye shall gather with one accord, And hold, in the month November, thanksgiving unto the Lord. " He hath granted us peace and plenty, and the quiet we've sought so long ; He hath thwarted the wily savage, and kept him from doing us wrong ; And unto our Feast the Sachem shall be bidden, that he may know We worship his own Great Spirit who maketh the harvests grow. THE FIRS! THANKSGIVING DA Y. " So shoulder your matchlocks, masters : there is hunting of all degrees ; And fishermen, take your tackle, and scour for spoil the seas ; And maidens and dames of Plymouth, your delicate crafts employ To honor our First Thanksgiving, and make it a Feast of joy ! " We fail of the fruits and dainties so close to our Jiand in Devon ; — Ah, they are the lightest losses we suffer for sake of Heaven ! But see, in our open clearings, how golden the melons lie ; Enrich them with sweets and spices, and give us the Pumpkin-Pie ! " So, bravely the preparations went on for the autumn Feast ; The deer and the bear vrere slaughtered; wild game from the greatest to least Was heaped in the Colony cabins : brown home-brew served for wine. And the plum and the grape'of the forest, for orange and peach and pine. At length came the day appointed : the snow had begun to fall. But the clang from the meeting-house belfry rang merrily out for all, And summoned the folk of Plymouth, who hastened with glad accord To listen to Elder Brewster as he fervently thanked the Lord. In his seat sate Governor Bradford ; men, matrons and maidens fair; Miles Standish and all his soldiers, with corselet and sword, were there ; And sobbing and tears and gladness had each in its turn the sway. For the grave of the sweet Rose Standish o'ershadowed Thanksgiving Day. And when Massasoit, the Sachem, sate down with his hundred braves, And ate of the varied riches of gardens and woods and waves, And looked on the granaried harvest — with a blow on his brawny chest. He muttered, " The good Great Spirit loves His white children best ! " And then, as the Feast was ended, with gravely official air. The Governor drew his broadsword out from its scabbard there, And smiting the trencher near him, he cried in heroic way, " Hail ! Pie of the Pumpkin ! I dub thee Prince of Thanksgiving Day ! '" 147 148 WAITING A WINTER'S TALE. SANTA KLAUS, HIGH LORD AND MASTER OF ALL FAIRIES. WAITING A WINTER'S TALE. By Mrs. Sallie M. li. Piatt. SOME sweet thing's fjo just to make room for otlicr-- The blue flelcl-blossom hurries from the clew (My little maiden, liush your nois)- brothers) And see, the wild-rose reddens where it a;rew ! The green leaf fades that _\-ou mav see the yellow ; We ha\-e the honey when we miss the bee ; Who wants the apples, scarlet-stained and mellow, Must give the buds upon his orchard-tree ; Then, for those finely painted birds that follow The sun about and scent their songs with flowers, We have, when frosts are sharp and rains beat hollow, These pretty, gray crumb-gathering pets of ours ; The butterflies (you could not catch) were brighter Than anything that we have left in air ; But these still-flying shapes of snow are whiter, I fancy, than the very lilies were. WAITING A WINTER'S TALE. 149 Then, is the glimmer of fire-flies, cold and eerie. Far in the dusk, so pleasant after all As is this home-lamp playing warm and cheery. Among your shadow-pictures on the wall ? But I forget. There ought to be a story, A lovely story ! Who shall tell it, then ? The boys want war — plumes, helmets, shields and glory — They'd like a grand review of Homer's men. Just now in the dim North, as he remembers His birthday back through centuries, he appears A trifle sad, and looks into the embers — Then shakes down from his cheek a shower of tears. He thinks of little hands, that reached out lightly To catch his beard and pull it with a will. Now round their buried rosebuds folded whitely, Forever and forever, oh, how still ! Their jealous sisters say it's tiresome hearing (A girl is not as patient as a boy,) Of that old beauty — yes, the much-recurring. About-three-thousand-years-old, Helen of Troy. " Ah, where are all the children ? How I miss them ! So many worlds-full are gone since I came ! I long to take them to my heart and kiss them. And hear those still small voices laugh my name. They'd rather hear some love-tale faintly murmured Through music of the sleigh-bells : something true. Such as their young grandmothers, shy and saintly. Heard under stars of winter — told anew ! " Some over whom no violet yet is growing ; Some under broken marble, ages old ; Some lie full fathom five where seas are flowing ; Some, among cliffs and chasms, died a-cold ; The little children, one and all, are crying For just a few more fairies — but, you know They go to sleep when golden-rod is dying. And do not wake till there is no more snow. " Some through the long Wars of the Roses faded ; Some did walk barefoot to the Holy Land ; Some show young faces with the bride's-veil shaded ; Some touch me with the nun's all-gracious hand ; They sleep who kept your Jersey cow from straying, My boy, while you were deep in books and grass : Who tended flowers, my girl, while you were playing Some double game, or wearing out your glass. " Some in the purple with crown-jewels burning, Some in the peasant's hodden-gray go by, Some in forlornest prisons darkly yearning For earth and grass, the dove's wing and the sky. They sleep — but what sweet things they have been making. By golden moons, to give you a surprise — Beat slower, little hearts with wonder aching. Keep in the dark yet, all you eager eyes ! The fairies sleep. But their high lord and master Keeps wide-awake, and watches every hearth ; Great waters freeze that he may travel faster — He puts a girdle round about the earth ! " One sails to wake a world that has been lying. Hid in its leaves, far in the lonesome West, Jn an enchanted sleep, with strange winds sighing, Among the strange flowers in her dreaming breast. " And One — I held Him first — the immortal Stran- ger ! I smell, to-night, the frankincense and myrrh ; I see the star-led wise men and the manger ; And his own Mother ■ — ■ I remember her ! " But — • Where's my cloak ? Is this a time for sorrow ? " . . . And Where's the story, do ask of me ? To-morrow and to-mor ow and to-morrow ! And shall you have it then ? Why — we shall see ! 'SO BLUE AND GOLD. I I 1 1 1 iiiiiimiiiiTimTriirBi BLUE AND GOLD. By Mrs. Clara Doty Bates. THE warm June day was full Of color as it could hold ; " Now, which is the sweetest blue, And which is the brightest gold, In all that your little eyes can see. In cloud-land, earth, or the water-world ? " I said to the children three. We were on the fresh new grass, And the pretty hammock hung Like a web between the trees, And in it the baby swung. 'Twas as if a spider, busy and sly, Had spun its meshes there, white and light, And caught a butterfly. A moment's silence fell On all, till Teddy guessed — He had eyes for every bird. And eyes, too, for its nest — And he cried — the eager little soul — " The bluest blue is the bluebird. And gold is the oriole." Then Flora, who loved flowers. But had not spoken yet. Whispered that gold was a crocus. And blue a violet. And Edith, the more emphatic one. Said : " No ; the bluest blue is the sky, And the goldenest gold the sun ! " I pointed to the web That swung so u hite and light. In which the baby cooed As a nestling pigeon might ; " I can answer best of all," I said, " For there is in water-world, earth or skies. No blue so sweet as that baby's eyes, No gold so bright as his head ! " HO W BIRDS KEEP COOL. IS' -152 TWO LITTLE PATHS. O I ITT SOPHIE SVVlTT 1 // '- "■■' ife "I," said the other, "my fortune will seek, And find the fairies that somewhere cluster. Daisies are bright, but common as light, And sunbeams, with all their merry lustre, Dull enough when one sees them forever, — What flowers, I wonder, live by the river ? And where in the woods do red-caps hide ? Here there is never one, I am certain, For I've chased the brook into every nook, And pushed back the tall fern's green lace curtain." Then they said good-by, each one to follow Its own sweet way over hill and hollow. ^WO little paths met by a sparrow's nest, Down in the meadow green and sunny, And, sitting there 'neath a rose-tree rare, Where a yellow bee was sipping honey, Made plans for the merry summer weather. With their dewy faces close together. " Oh, I," said one, " I shall stay in the field, And hither and thither through the clover \Vill trip away through the long bright day, But never stray to the woodland's cover. Here brooks and sunbeams laugh in the grasses. And I find bluebells for pretty lasses." V But the one that went its fortune to seek. Never found it, but still kept peeping Mid clustering bells by woodland wells. And lost Itself through a great marsh creeping, Was hindered by briers and choked by rushes. And always turning aside for bushes And the one who took for itself no thought, But sought for weary feet cool sweet places, Mid dewdrops bright, in midsummer night. Met troops of fairies with all their graces ; And often felt through its velvet mazes The touch of light feet as soft as daisies ! CHILD AND THE GENTIAN. NOBODY. 153 THE CHILD AND THE GENTIAN By Mrs. M. F. Butts, "see, I PUT MY EAR DOWN CLOSE." GENTIAN, I have found you out : Now you must tell me true — See, I put my ear down close — Where did you get your blue ? " I found it, little one, here and there ; It was ready made for me ; Some in your eyes, some in the sky, Some in the shining sea." How did you make the lovely fringe. Gentian, that you wear ? " I caught a hint from your dark eyelash. And a hint from your curly hair." How do you stand so straight and still. When they say that you are wild ? " Ah, that I learned in a different way, And not from any child ! " NOBODY, By Anna F. Burnham. NOBOD Y b'oke it ! It cracked itself, It was clear 'way up on the toppest shelf. I — p'rhaps the kitty-cat knows ! " Says poor little Ned, With his ears as red As the heart of a damask rose. " Nobody lost it ! I carefully Put my cap just where it ought to be, (No, 'tisn't ahind the door,) And it went and hid, Why, of course it did, For I've hunted an hour or more. '' Nobody tore it ! You know things will Tear if you're sitting just stock-stone still ! I was just jumping over the fence — - There's some spikes on top, And you have to drop Before you can half commence." Nobody ! wicked Sir Nobody ! Playing such tricks on my children three ! If I but set eyes on you. You should find what you've lost ! But that, to my cost, I never am like to do ! >S4 THE CENTIPEDE'S DILEMMA. AN APPEAL. THE CENTIPEDE'S DILEMMA, By E. F. L. C. A CENTIPEDE wept as he sat on a stone, For he found himself poor and despised and alone, Besides other causes for sorrow. He sighed at the memory of friends he had lost. He groaned at the prospect he saw of a frost. He bitterly thought of the morrow. But a pain that was keener than any of these. Wrung his heart as he straightened a few of his knees ; It contracted his queer little phiz ; And he thoughtfully looked at his numerous pegs — " I have got the rheumatics in one of my legs. But I'm blest if I know which it is ! " A JOYOUS LITTLE MAID. By Mrs. L. C. VVhiton. AM so happy," she said. Lifting her bright young head : "' Here are the golden-hued buttercups growing ; Shy little snowdrops timidly blowing ; Nodding white daisies silver dew throwing ; And, on the branches of maple trees glowing, Birds to the sunshine sing, as with knowing Spring has come back," she said, "Gliding with noiseless tread." " Spring has come back,'' she said ; " Sky-colored birds overhead Sing of faint-scented violets blowing. Mist-blooming willows and soft blossoms snowing. Pale yellow butterflies coming and going, And in the meadows the sparkling brooks flowing - Sing, little birds ! and sing as with knowing I am so happy," she said, Lifting her bright young head. AN APPEAL. By Jessie Scott. J PRAY you to say what a mother can do With a boy she loves so well. Who always has been so tender and true. As every one will tell ; But who, now that he's come into his teens, A sailor-boy would be. And though he don't know half what it means. Is wild " to go to sea." All his talk is now of fore and aft, Of bark and of sloop and brig ; And well he knows every sort of craft, And just what makes her rig ; And he has learned how to splice and tie No end of hard, queer knots ; And you could not help but laugh, on the sly, At all that he knows of yachts. A JOYOUS LITTLE MAIU. AN APPEAL. 157 "Land-lubbers," 1 think, he calls us now: Sailors alone are brave ; And there's no life, I have heard him vow, Like life on the salt sea wave ; Yet, hark you, none of your steamers for him, With landsmen dull for a crew. But ships, with their sails all staunch and trim, And sailor boys in blue. Now this, good friends, is the sort of young man. An expert at whittling ribs. Who would keep his mother, if but he can. Forever a-hemming jibs ; Moody and grave his father has grown With these restless sailor ways, And I, with my arm about him thrown. Sigh for his baby days. At last we've about made up our mind, This is the thing we'll do : Some snug little craft we will try to find. With a captain kind and true, And our dreaming boy we'll trust to him. To learn for himself the sea, While at home we pray, with eyes all dim, That the waves will gentle be. Perhaps, 'twixt bunk, and storm, and hard tack, And the rolling seasick wave. He'll long to turn on the homeward track. The billows no more to brave ; But if, as I suspect sometimes, A sailor still he would be, I am sure it is not the worst of crimes To love the glorious sea ! And if our boy strives still to be good, Always the best to do and be. His honors will come, as honors should, Whether on land or sea ; AND WELL HE KNOWS EVERY SORT OF CRAFT. But still, pray tell us, candid and true, And please make haste to speak : Is this the thing \!^2i'i. you would do ? (He is going to sail next week.) 158 SUPPOSING. " TATTS." SUPPOSING, By Laura Ledyard. F I should write a valentine And send it to my lady, And you should be the messenger, My darling little Maidie, You think you'd tie your bonnet on, And pulling up your mittens, Go running with my sonnet, on Two feet as fleet as kittens ? Oh, no : your pardon I must beg, For you'd untie your bonnet And hang your mittens on a peg. And sit down with my sonnet ; And in it you'd find lots of love, And, written on the cover : "A Valentine for Madie — frona Her most devoted lover." TATTS, By Annie L. Jack. " T WONDER," says little Hope, with a tear in her For it happened only yesterday when Ben took the i bright dark eye, girls to school — " If horses have any heaven to go to when 'they He's a trusty hand is my Ben, steady and brave and die ? " (^^ol- And the child's thought, it haunts me somehow, I And when he speaks to the horses, if only he just think of it more and more, says, whoa ! And wonder if " Tatts " has found a heaven upon They stop quite still and gentle, though he speaks so some unknown shore. calm and low — 'TATTSr 159 But yesterday, as I was telling, the clouds a storm " Tatts " surely stumbled, I'm thinking, for quick as did bode, a flash, her head The thermometer stood at zero, as they gained the Went under the ice with a twist, and our trusty mare river road — was dead. Our bonnie, bonnie river, our pride through the long Ben says her neck was broken — but the girls jumped years past, o^t of the sleigh And to think on its frozen bosom our " Tatts " should And hammered the treacherous ice with their feet breathe her last ! and fists to get it away. "THEY SAW IT WAS NO USE THEN." There had been a thaw, and then there had followed But when they had got her out, they saw it was no a nipping frost, i^se then, As the girls beneath the buffalo robes were finding She would never have other master than my kind- to their cost, hearted Ben ; And the ice was thin and treacherous, as is often an And the girls walked home with their dresses all " upper crust " ■ frozen about their knees, I don't like, dears, to tell it, but if I must, I And their stockings inside their boots were just be- must ! ginning to freeze. I call them both little heroines — they didn't stand and cry And let their brother work and wait till another team went by, But their willing ■ hands were helping in the icy water and snow — And like Hope, I wonder if there's a heaven where dear old " Tatts " can go ! i6o THE WEED'S MISSION. '^I '^>:^-: \ '^','' t£^ tei. MUKHti^SiiSESS^ THE WEED'S MISSION BY MARGARET KYTINGE. TALL grew a weed outside a garden gate. Inside a gladiole in s]5lendor grew. " ^A hy do jw/ with the autumn blossoms ^lait .' " The flower as]-ate. And blessed his wa\-side friend in melody. "All ! said the weed, when he had flown, "proud flower, A hungr\-. southbound bird jw/ could not feed 'J'hough ;, ou rejoice in I')eaut\-'s gracious dow'r — 77/(7/ boon w.is gianled to an linmlile weed !" ALL-HALL O WEEN. i6i ALL-HALLOWE'EN. By Mary E. Wilkins. THREE gentle little maids there were I never can forget ; Three sisters : little Rosalind, And Ruth, and Margaret. Three children, merely, still they were. And innocent as doves : Their pretty dreams they 'd not begun To dream of their true-loves. And Rosalind was a pretty bird, With winsome lady ways ; And Ruth was one who, rich or poor, Would frolic all her days. Yet, ne'ertheless, they thought to try. On one All-Hallow E'en, A little charm they 'd learned whereby Their true-loves might be seen. But Margaret had grave blue eyes. And was not like the rest ; And Margaret had when she was bom, A sweet thought in her breast. Merrily down the field they ran, Their hearts were all astir : They prattled gayly of true-loves, Nor knew what true-loves were. l62 ALL- HALL O WEEN. The birds were all asleep or fled ; There scarce was left a flower Save, on the borders of the fields, The feathery virgin's-bower. The grass was silver-white with dew. The night was wondrous still ; They heard no fairy bridles ring. Nor fairy trumpets shrill. Ruth's laugh rang out like silver bells. But Margaret chided her : "Be quiet: other things than- we, Adown the woodland stir." "And not a fairy of them all Could stop the laugh in me ! But I '11 go next." Then down the lane Merrily trotted she. Yet still the three sped o'er the field Like robins on the wing ; And Rosalind a mirror held Slung on a silken string. " I saw," she panted, running back. Her round cheeks all abloom, "I saw our neighbor's brindle calf. With a jocky hat and plume ! " " And here 's the place ; and here 's the spot ; And here 's the willow-lane ; And do you know the charm ? " said she, " Best say it o'er again : " Now fie upon you, Ruth, for shame ! " Her serious sisters cried ; " You jest upon All-Hallow E'en, You '11 never be a bride." " ' A four-leaved clover in the field. And a red star in the sea : Wither, clover ! vanish star ! My true-love come to me ! ' " I '11 dance at both your weddings, dears, A merry single lass. And I '11 bring along the brindle calf I saw within the glass ! " "Walk slowly backward down the lane And say the charm, you know, The while you hold before your face The little mirror, so ; ■" And you will see your true-love's face Beside yours in the glass ; And if you laugh not out, nor speak, 'T will surely come to pass. " Since I am oldest, I '11 go first." Trembling, the little maid Paced slowly backward down the lane, Nor owned she was afraid. " Now mind her not," said Rosalind, " If she will vex us so. And take the mirror, Margaret, For 'tis your turn to go." She said the charm o'er soberly. And backward 'gan to pace. Upon the mirror keeping fixed Her earnest little face. " And, Margaret, what have you seen That makes your eyes so bright ? " " A little boy with golden hair, In a long, straight gown of white. ■" And whom saw you, dear Rosalind ? Who may your true-love be ? Oh, tell us quick, dear Rosalind, If you did any see ? " " Oh, sisters dear, the sweetest mine Of every one's true-loves — His hair was gold, and in his hand He held a leash of doves. The garden had not held that year A little flower so pale : " I saw," she faltered fearfully, " Will — Willie Nightingale." " And I will love my true-love true Forever till I die, And I will love him after that, Up yonder in the sky ! " A FASHIONABLE LADY. 163 And if the gold-haired boy and doves Those solemn eyes of blue Had really seen — how can I tell ? — The darling thought 't was true. There was a slim young maple near With gold leaves round his head, And clematis caught on his boughs — And was it that instead ? Before the sisters went to sleep On that All-Hallow E'en, They told their gentle mother all The wondrous things they 'd seen. She laughed a little tenderly : " Oh hush, my foolish dears, Your true-loves come not yet, I hope, For many merry years." If 'twas or no it matters not, It was a pretty dream ; And we are gladder all our lives Sometimes for things that seem. But when the three were all asleep She came beside their beds. And kissed them all, and softly stroked Their little silken heads. A FASHIONABLE LADY. BY MRS. CLARA DOTY BATES. I. OPENING DAY. SCARCELY waked up in the morning, Is the Lady Dandelion, When a little yellow bonnet. Gaily she begins to try on. Such a coronet of fringes Is it — such a glow of color — Even the gold upon the plumage Of the oriole is duller. All she cares for is the fashion ; For she waits not to see whether It is timely as to season. Or is proper as to weather. She was born to lead and dazzle, And her followers will be plenty, And because of that one little Yellow bonnet, there'll be twenty. II. THE CLOSE OF THE SEASON. Scarce a week has scattered sunshine On the Lady Dandelion, When a little snowy head-dress Gravely she begins to tie on. It looks quite as if a fairy In a frolic had begun it j, Or as if a nimble spider In a busy mood had spun it. Ah, I see old Time is busy With this stylish little lady ; Ruffled white-cap is a night-cap ! She is past her beauty's hey-day. Nothing now she cares for fashion; All she asks a bed to die on ! Blows a gust ! and in a moment Gone is Lady Dandelion ! 164 NED'S WONDERINGS. BOYS AND BANTIES. NED'S WONDERINGS. BY EMMA E. BROWN. LITTLE brook, laughing brook, how do you know. Through meadows, through woodlands, just where to go. To find, by and by, the broad river below ? And you, robin red-breast, do tell me, right now. Before you fly off to your little birds, how You built that round nest in the old apple-bough ? And, beautiful flower, how was it you sprung From the hard little seed I carelessly flung, One morning, the weeds and the rubbish among? The brook rippled on, the mother-bird fled, The dainty white blossom — not one word she said. / wonder — could anyone tell little Ned ! BOYS AND BANTIES. B' )OYS twain, Banties twain. Think of it again ; Meditate, Cogitate : " Nothing made in vain ! " Boys, what are Banties for ? Banties, what are boys for ? " Kra-a-ow .' Kra-a-ow I " Quoth the dainty Bantie madam ; " Oh, you bothering son of Adam, Do n't you know that nest is mine By the best of right divine ? Kra-ow 1 Kra-ow I By J. K. Nutting. " Fudge ! " says bothering son of Adam ; " What 's such eggs worth ? If I had 'em, They 're too small to eat, or sell. ' What are Banties for ? ' Oh, well, They 're to look at. Hear her scold ! See that rooster ! My ! he 'j bold — S'pose, Phil, if you were small as he, You'd dare bristle up to me ? " "■K'dirkut! 'Dirkut/ Have you know That 's my wife ! Be careful now ! Yesterday, I smote a rat ! Day before, I drove a cat ! K' dirkut! see these spurs? This beak? S'pose I could n't makej'w/ squeak? Savage beasts or monster men Cower beneath my valiant ken ! K' dirkut! 'Dirkut! 'Dirk ! " " ' What are boys for ?' /opine That at least ten out of nine Are for — bother ^ and for — worry O me ! I 'm in such a flurry, Kra-a-a-a-ow ! " "Tom," says quiet Phil, "see here, I 've been thinking : Ain't it queer What small bits of things can — love ? Do n't it kind of seem to prove Something / " BOYS AND BANTIES. 165 " Course it does," says Tom, (his eyes Looking sort of twinkle-wise,) " Proves — do you know we boys, all, sir, Call you Old Phil-osopher ? " " Well, Tom, I have to think — you know Some boys are constituted so ! And, yes — I think I 've got it now : It 's plain that spunk, and love, and things. Do n't all belong to queens and kings, And elephants, and big grown men. By no means — why, as like as not This little saucy Touch-me-not Is just as brave as General Grant, If he could show it — • course he can't." " Perhaps," says Tom ; — " but, then, Old Sober, It 's past the middle of October ; If you were me, now, would you let This little Fuss-and-feathers 'set'?" " Why not ? Really, I s'pose they know Exactly what they ought to do, For they 've got instinct." For me, and you, and Madge, and all — Why, it '11 last us all the fall ! Red coats — blue stockings — hats and boots! We '11 rig 'em out in soldier suits ! Ha ! ha ! I think I see 'em now, All marching reg'lar, in a row ! Hoorah for Reason ! Bantie, now What say you ? " " Yes — that's so — But pshaw ! the chicks '11 freeze their toes ! " " Not if we make 'em shoes and clothes - That 's where our reason goes ahead Of instinct, after all. I 've read — " " Phil-osopher ! You're Number One ! If you ha'n't laid out lots of fun " Kra-oiv ! Kra-ow ! Kur-r-r ! Kur-r-r ! Good fellow, Tom, Please now ! oh, please to let me come ! For while you talk (all Greek to me), My eggs are getting cold, you see." " All right, my Bantie ! But you '11 see, If all goes well, what fun there '11 be — Still, I 'd advise you to remember That next month is that cold November ! " i66 WHERE THE BROOK AND RIVER MEET. V^HERE THE BROOK AND RIVER MEET." BY EMMA E. BROWN. A SNOW-WREATH, a sunbeam — the birth of the stream 3 .\ flashing, a dashing, a ripple, a gleam Now cresting the hillside, now kissing the heath And sweet flower hps in the meadows beneath ; O brook-life ! O child-life ! What other can be So fresh and so fearless, so joyous, so free ? II. But deeper and stronger and calmer the flow, And fairer the scenes that are mirrored below, As down the dim distance the blue waters glide, And thrill with the swell of the incoming tide. O river-life ! maiden-life 1 dread not the sea, The Past is as naught to the boundless " To Be I " PEGGY'S DOUBT, BY ROSA GRAHAM. BEFORE the big shop window stood A little girl with humble hood And coat and boots worn old and thin : Poor little Peggy gazing in — " If there were only fairies. Just for Christrnas ! fairies To give me that sweet angel there. With the blue eyes and curly hair ; But, no, there isn't fairies now — " " You think there isn't, Peggy Dow ? " A merry voice speaks suddenly Beside her ; and she turns to see Rich little Nan, with flying feet. Go gayly laughing down the street. Tap, tap, tap, upon the door ; Within sat Peggy weeping, more Than ever vexed with little Nan ; Tap, tap — weeping still, she ran. Opened, and, big-eyed, " Fairies ! ■■ Cried : " there's surely fairies ! " For, lo ! she sees a bundle there — The angel with the curly hair And eyes of blue. " Yes, fairies now For Christmas ! " — " Think so, Peggy Dow A merry voice speaks suddenly ; And, just in time, she turned to see, As down the street, mamma and Nan, The laughing Christmas fairies, ran. **WHERE THE BROOK AND RIVER MEET." THE FERNS AND THE FLAKES. 169 THE FERNS AND THE FLAKES, BY EMMA E. BROWN. OH! T what shall we do The long winter through ? ' The baby-ferns cried When the mother-fern died. The wind whistled bleak, The woodland was drear ; On each baby cheek There glistened a tear. Then down from the cloud, Like a flutter of wings, There came a whole crowd Of tiny white things That trooped in a heap Where the baby-ferns lay, And put them to sleep That bleak bitter day. Tucked under the snow In their little brown hoods, Not a thing will they know — These " babes in the woods ' Till some day in spring, When the bobolinks sing, They will open their eyes To the bluest of skies ' LITTLE TITIAN'S PALETTE, BY MARGARET J. PRESTON. HIGH up in the Vale of Cadore', Encompassed by mountains as wild As the wildness of gloom and of glory Could make them, dwelt Titian, the child. The snow-covered ridges and ranges. The gorges as dusky as night. The cloud-wracks, the shadows, the changes. All filled him with dreams of delight. The flush of the summer, the duller White sheen of the winter abroad. Would move him to ectasy : color. To him, was a vision of God. Enraptured his mother would hold him With legends that never sufficed To tire him out, as she told him Of Mary, the Mother of Christ. " How blue are her eyes ? " he would ask her ; " As blue as the harebells I know ; And her cheek " ( it was so he would task her ) ? • " Is her cheek like a rose under snow ? " i-jo LITTLE TITIAN'S PALETTE. So, stirred with the spell of the story, One day as he wandered alone Deep into the Vale of Cador^, Where blossoms by thousands were strewn, He suddenly cried : " I will paint her ! The darling Madonna ! — for, see, These anemone buds are not fainter Than the tint of her temples must be \ " Who ever saw violets bluer ? Their stain is the stain of the skies ; So what could be sweeter or truer For tinging the blue of her eyes ? " This rose — why, the sunsets have fed her Till she looks like a rose of the South ; I never saw one that was redder j O, that, I will keep for her mouth ! " Yon blood-root, as brown as October, Is just what I want for her hair ; And the juice of this gentian shall robe hei In garments an angel might wear ! " Thus the picture was painted. Long after. In Venice, the Bride of the Sea, When he sat amid feasting and laughter, With guests of the noblest degree — When his name, and his fame, and his glory, To the height of the highest arose, And Titian, the child of Cadore, Was Titian, the Master — who knows If ever his world-widened powers Were touched with so tender a grace As when, from his palette of flowers, He painted that marvellous face J IN MIDSUMMER. 171 THE SILENCE OF THE MORNIKG S SPLENDOR. ' IN MIDSUMMER. BY MRS. L. C. WHITON. INTO silence of the morning's splendor There is shak'n a golden robin's dream ; Kissed by sunshine to divine surrender, Bloom the snowy lilies in the stream ; Soft south winds the hidden wild flowers woo ; And between the tangled leaves in view — Hush ! I see the Summer, Summer, Summer floating through. Bees in rose-leaf cradles softly shaken, . Rocked throughout the moonlight by the breeze, Loitering on their perfumed pillows, waken To the murmured transport of the trees ; Night's lament is told in tears of dew ; Willow bloom is bathed to crystal hue — Hush ! I see the Summer, Summer, Summer flashing through. Climbs the sun, with ecstasy of shining, From the blush of rising into gold ; And the river's heart, with close defining. Tells the same sweet story it is told ; Hills are veiled in tender mists anew ; From the liquid skies' unshadowed blue — Hush ! I see the Summer, Summer, Summer flooding through. SAAJi CHINK OLD. NOSE to window, Still as a mouse, Watching grampa " Bank the house.'' Out of the barrow he shovels the tan. And he piles and packs it as hard as he can " All about the house's feet," Says " Phunn)'d-;ind," Nose to the window, Eager and sweet. Now she comes to the entry door : " Grampa — w/iaf are you do tliatfor 2 Are you puttin' stockin's on to the house } " (Found her tongue, has Still-as-a-ISIouse.) Grandpa twinkles out of his eyes. Straightens his aching back, and tries To look as solemn as Phunny-kind. But the child says : " Grampa, is it the wind That keeps you a-shakin' an' shakin' so ? " Then the old man, shaking the more, says : " No ! But I'm bankin' tlie house, Miss Locks-o-gold, To keep out the dreadful — Sa-archin' Cold!" And away he chuckles, barrow and all : " 'Maziri' thing," he says, " to be small ! Folks says the best things 't ever they do Afore they git old 'nough to know 1 " Phunny-kind puzzles her queer, wee brain As slowly she toddles in again : — " Is she a nawful, ugly, old Giant — or what — this ' Sa-archinkold ? ' ' SAAKCHINKOLD. 173 When the daylight fades, and the shadows fall Flickering down from the fire-dogs tall, Comes Uncle Phil, from his school and his books. "Uncle Phil, I know by your smile-y looks — You'll let me — get on your knee — jus' so — An' you'll tell me somefing I want to know : 'Cos, you see, Uncle Phil, I've got to be told Who she is — they call her ' The Sa-archinkold.' " Uncle Phil looks up ; Uncle Phil looks down ; And he wags his head ; And he tries to frown ; But at last he cries In a great surprise : "Why, yes ! to be sure ! to be sure, I'll tell For I know the old dame, of old, right well : She stands by the clock in the corner, now : " I wonder," she says, " does the old clock know ? But the great clock Ticks ! And the grim clock TocKS ! Away at the top of his ghostly box ; The round Full Moon (in his forehead) smiles ; But with all his wisdom, or all his wiles, Though he knows very well. He never will tell Should he tick and tock till a century old What they mean by The Sa-archinkold ! In the great, square room, by a cheerful flame In the fire-place, bending above her frame, Is grandma, snapping her chalky string Across and across a broad, bright thing. " Gramma, what you are a-doin' here ? " " I'm a-makin' a 'comfort,' my little dear; For grandpa and I are a-gittin' old, And we're afeared o' the Saarchin' Cold." 174 SAARCHINKOLD. / 'Z^- " Now Jack is a fine old fellow, you see j Spicy, and full of his pranks, is he : Snipping off noses, just for fun. And sticking 'em on again when he is done ; A-pinching at pretty, soft ears and cheeks ; A-wakin' folks up with his jolly freaks ; But a — h ! for your life Look sharp for his wife ! " For she comes after, and comes to stay — Welcome or not — for a month and a day ! She plots, and she plans, she sneaks, and crawls Till she finds a way through the thickest of walls ! " SAARCHINKOLD. ns " Oh— 00 ! " cries Phunny-kind, " how does she look r ' " To be sure ! I'll picture her just like a book. — Her nose — is an icicle, sharp and strong, To poke in at every hole and crack ; Her eyes gleam frostily all night long — But who knows whether they're blue or black r " She brings on her back An astonishing pack. Like a blacksmith's bellows, marvellous big ; And while she dances a horrible jig. Out of this bellows a doleful tune She skre — eels away, in the dark o' the Moon ! " But if ever she works with a wicked will, 'Tis when she is quiet, and sly, and still. She pretends that old Jack leaves bis work but half done, She ' juishes for once he'd be quit of his fun ! ' So she follows him up with her sour, ugly phiz. And wherever she goes, .you may know she means' biz. " Look sharp when she peeps through the crack o' the door ! Look sharp when she hides away under the floor ! She'll crack the bare ground with a terrible bang ! And out from the clap-boards the nails will go, spang I 176 SAARCHINKOLD. She'll spoil the potatoes (if once she gets in), And she'll shake all the people whose bed-clothes are thin ! She'll stop the old clock in the dead o' the night, And make him hold up both his hands in a fright ; And — what she won't do, Is more than /know! SAARCHINKOLD. 177 She says, " Is my bed got a fing like you said — A 'comfut ' — vat I can put over my liead ? " " (Oh, Phil ! naughty boy !) says grandma; — " yes, dear Your bed's got a ' comfut,' so never you fear — And you should be in it, for see, the old clock Points just to your bed-time, and says ' tick-tock ! ' " "Well, grampa, I'm goin' as quick as I can. If you'll only give me a handful of ' tan.' "What for?" "Oh, I'm jus' goin' to take it to bed, 'Cos, I recollec' every word that you said. And gramma, and Phil ; for all of you told How ' comfuts,' and ' tan' II' keep out Sa-archinkold ! " 178 A LETTER AND A CROWN. DO you know you are two years old to-day, You fairest blossom that ever grew ? Come, deepen your dimples, sir, I pray. And say what you think of the world at two ! Is the earth a rose-garden under your feet. And the sky a deep blue-bell hung above ? Is morning a play-time merry and sweet, And night a great lap of rest and love ? Such is the world at two, my dear. Such are the earth and sky to you. But life is strange, and there comes a year When into the rose-garden creeps the rue ! A LETTER AND A CROWN, BY JENNIE M. BURR. MECKLENBERG and Strelitz. Find them. Will you, on the map ? Behind them Rolls the Baltic sea ; the river Elbe's waters flash and quiver Just beside them. There in Strelitz, ('Tis no secret, so I tell its Name) was born the Princess Charlotte, Under such a lucky star, but Happier But that is telling. Even princesses their spelling, Reading, writing, must attend to. And sometimes their stockings mend, too. Little Princess Charlotte had her Daily tasks which made her sadder Sometimes, maybe, but far wiser ; For the silly child who tries her Lessons to avoid will never Know much if she lives forever. Charlotte learned to play the spinet. Singing with it like a linnet, Also. Even Haydn praised her ; And you'd think it would have raised her Greatly when that grand musician Gave her such a fine position. One day Charlotte wrote a letter To a noble prince. She set her- Self to write it beautifully. Giving her attention whollv, Every i precisely dotting, Crossing all her t's, nor blotting Any part ; for she'd been taught to, And she did just as she ought to. " War CO me is oh ! how dreadful ! Of its horrors I've a head full ; Peace I think is such a blessing ; Happy are we when possessing." Thus the princess wrote, then sent it, And the winds their favor lent it. Some time after, in a Strelitz Garden, where the fountains fell, its Fine old lindens music making In the breezes, flowers shaking Odors from their bells, was playing Princess Charlotte. With her straying There, were others, chatting gaily While their voices musically Laughing echoed through the fairy Spot : " Whom, think you, shall we marry ? '" Then cried Charlotte : " 'Tis no sin ; guess Who'll take such a little princess As I am ! " When just that minute Came the English mail, and in it Was one letter for the maiden Princess. Wondrously 'twas laden Such a letter she had never Yet received, nor could you ever IN THE STRELITZ GARDEN. ANNIS VANE.— A. D. 1558. 181 Think who wrote, or what was in it. So I may as well begin it. " I, the princely George of Britain, Want a wife ; (what if the mitten I should get ! ) that lovely letter Quite decided me. 'Twas better Far than most write ; and the writer Must be lovely too. Much lighter Will my cares be, if you'll marry Me. So leavo your ordinary Life,. to share my crown and splendor. Jewels rich and rare I'll lend her Who my queen becomes." What wonder If the maid went singing under The old Strelitz roof. To marry Such a prince extraordinary As the noble George the Third of England (whom you all have heard of) Was it not strange and romantic ? Did Dame Fortune queerer antic Ever play before ? For homely Too, she was, though not uncomely, Altogether, and a trimmer Form few maidens have, or slimmer. So the bells rung for the marriage ; And a splendid royal carriage Bore her to St. James's palace. Where in London, with no malice, Reigned Queen Charlotte, long and wisely. And if you would know precisely What she said and did, how many Court balls gave she ; if any Games she played, or any journey Took — read all in Fanny Burney* Nor forget that one short letter Crown and kingdom both did get her. * Burney Diary and Letters, ANNIS VANE.— A. D. 1BB8, BY MRS. MARGARET J. PRESTON. FROM every spire in London The merry bells rang mad ; For every face was smiling. And every brow was glad ; And Annis Vane had listened. As CO her ear they said, " We're happy — happy — happy — The bloody Queen is dead!" " Oh, mother, make me ready," She cried, " and prank me gay ; I want to see Westminster On Coronation Day ; I want to hear Te Deum Sung o'er the royal death ; And swell the shout, ' God save her 1 The Queen Elizabeth /' Quick in her dainty fingers She took a blackened coal Up from the hearth, while round her She heard their riot roll, And on the chamber panel She deeply scored the date : "A. D." — 'twas in the autumn Of " Fifteen Fiftv- Eight r " For now the fires of Smithfield, Thank Heaven ! are quenched amain, And every soul in England Is free to breathe again. And when they come to crown her — Our Protestant Queen Bess — Why, every heart in London Will break for happiness ! ANNIS VANE.— A D. 1558. " So prank my hat with velvet, The best the mercer sells, And round it string a garland Of tiny, tinkling bells ; And bind a clasping circlet Of chains on either side ; And let my ruff of laces Stand full and rich and wide. " 'Tis right we should be merry And banish all our dread, And worship God with gladness. Now that the Queen is dead : Who dares to mourn for Mary ? Who cares what Philip saith ? Long live our royal Princess ! God save Elizabeth ! " ^ BP^ I- \ ■\ X / ,&-^ .''fy\T^<^^ '\^ ANNIS VANE. " I crave some silk of Venice To grace my stomacher ; My fardingale of satin Must have an edge of fur ; And for ray waist, good mother, The kirtle close to hold, 1 fain would have a belting Of fine-wrought Florence gold. So when within the Abbey, They met with grand array Of trumpets, plumes and banners. To crown Queen Bess that day — ■ Bedight in hat of velvet, And ruff and kirtle fair, No sweeter English maiden Than Annis Vane was there. THE FROST ELF. 183 THE FROST-ELF. BY F. S. SALTUS. I AM a cunning little elf, I live in Norway all alone ; And really I do think myself The smallest mortal ever known ! I hide all summer in a cave : When winter comes I always know, And then I'm very glad and brave, And gambol gaily in the snow ! A lovely little cloak I wear, Made out of clear and crystal ice ; And a wee frost-cap for my hair. Which in the moonlight looks so nice. My shoes of purest sleet are made, All fringed with snow and dainty rime, And when in this way I'm arrayed, I really think myself sublime ! I eat all kinds of winter roots, Acorns my palate always please : And nothing more my fancy suits Than frozen snow-drops from the trees \ In my right hand I always hold A great sharp icicle to slay The polar bears when they are bold, And dare to growl and cross my way ! Right often have I had to fight : And once I killed a giant crow — You should have seen me dance that night. And gambol gayly in the snow ! And I, the little elf of frost. Protect from harm the other elves. Poor summer things that oft get lost, And cannot take care of themselves I 184 A CATASTROPHE. ^''mmmmi 'mfmB.3$iiMis$sii i m n* 1 ' T ' ln