fyxmll Hmwsiitg ^itatg THE GIFT OF ..e......^...S..a^.. ..A....\i-\.s.'^.^. ..\s\3r.\. ait.. 1287 Cornell University Library PN 6110.A6B26 Selections for Arbor and Bird day for us 3 1924 027 242 027 .,„,, li^l m Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924027242027 A PAIR OF GOLDFINCHES From Bird-World Used by permission ol Ginn & Co. 4RBOR AND BIRD DAY FOR USE IN WISCONSIN SCHOOLS COMPILED BY MAUD BARNETT STATE LIBRARY CLERK ISSUED BY C. p. GARY STATE SUPERINTENDENT MADISON, WIS.: Democrat Printing Co., State Printer ~D Srateful acknowledgment is made to The Macmillan Company, Ginn & Company, Houghton, Mifflin & Company, The Century Company, The Bobbs- Merrill Company, D. Appleton & Company, Doubleday, Page & Company, A. P Watt & Son, London, Atkinson, Mentzer & Grover, Chas. Scribner's Sons, Small, May- nard & Company, Silver, Burdett & Company, Public School Publishing Company, A. C. McClurg &■ Company, Little, Brown & Company, Longmans, Green & Com- pany, Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company, The Youth's Companion, Thomas Y. Crowell & Company, G. P- Put- nams' Sons, American Book Company, D. C. Heath & Company, William J. Long, and Mary Catherine Judd for their kind permission to use selections for which they hold copyright. The cover of this book was designed by Miss Leila A. Dow, Madison, Wis. The designs for general makeup were done by Miss Maud Wilson, Chicago, III. FOREWORD. This annual is a simple compilation of poetry and prose which seem most suitable for Arbor and Bird Day exercises. Care has been taken to include selections which represent that which is ranked highest and best in literature, which will make the child feel the poetry in nature, and which will bring that uplift of soul and sense and fancy which is one of the underlying purposes of Arbor and Bird Day observance. Many of the selections, some comparatively new, some quite old, have become children's clas- sics. They cannot be too well memorized nor too often repeated. All articles dealing with subjects more exhaustively treated in bulletins and pamphlets issued by the national and state govern- ments, and all data of vague value have been omitted. A bulletin, Tree planting in rural school grounds, issued by the U. S. Depart- ment of Agriculture, and two bulletins issued by the University of Wisconsin, one. Trees and shrubs for shade and ornament, the other. The improvement of home grounds, will be sent to the County Superintendent's for distribution, so that each teacher should receive an Arbor and Bird Day Annual and three bulletins. These bulletins are scientific and practical and will furnish inter- esting material for class work in agriculture. It is hoped that they will be read, not only by teachers and older pupils, but by many of the parents as well. They should be kept in the school libraries for reference. The large amount of work which will be required of the state printer during the first few months of the legislative session makes it necessary to go to press before the date for Arbor and Bird Day can be fixed. The Governor's proclamation naming the day will appear in the newspapers. [5] /; FOUR-LEAT CLOVER. know a place where the sun is like gold, And the cherry blooms burst with snow, And down underneath is the loveliest nook, Where the four-leaf clovers grow. One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith, And one is for love you know. And God put another in for luck — If you search, you will find where they grow. But you must have hope, and you must have faitii. You must love and be strong — and so — If you work, if you wait, you will find the place Where the four-leaf clovers grow. — Ella Higginson. From When the birds go North again ; copyright 1898, by the Mac- millan Co. [7] • . ^ ' ' Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out ; You stare In the air Like a ghost in a chair, ' i r -' — ' =- A1wgyg looking what I am about — I hate to be watched ; I'll blow you out." The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon. So, deep On a heap Of clouds to sleep, Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon. Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon." THE WIND AND THE MOON. He turned in his bed ; she was there again ! On high In the sky. With her one ghost eye The Moon shone white and alive and plain. Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again." The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim. "With my sledge, And my wedge, I have knocked off her edge ! If only I blow right fierce and grim, The creature will soon be dimmer than dim." [8] He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread. "One puff More's enough > To blow her to snuff ! One good puff more where the last was bred, And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go the thread." He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone. In the air Nowhere Was a moonbeam bare; Far off and harmless the shy stars shone — Sure and certain the Moon was gone ! The Wind he took to his revels once more ; On down. In town. Like a merry-mad clown, He leaped and hallooed with whistle and roar — "WJiat's that ? The glimmering thread once more !" He flew in a rage — he danced and blew ; But in vain Was the pain Of his bursting brain; 'For still the broader the Moon-scrap grew, The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew, Slowly she grew — till she filled the night. And shone On her throne In the sky alone, A matchless, wonderful silvery light. Radiant and lovely, the queen of the night. [9] Said the Wind : "What a marvel of power am I ! With my breath, Good faith ! I blew her to death — First blew her away right out of the sky — Then blew her in ; what strength have I !" But the Moon she knew nothing about the affair; For high In the sky, With her one white eye, Motionless, miles above the air, Slie had never heard the great Wind blare. — George MacDonald. THE BEE AND THE FLOWER. The bee buzz'd up in the heat. "I am faint for your honey, my sweet." The flower said, "Take it, my dear. For now is the spring of the year. So come, come!" "Hum !" And the bee buzz'd down from the heat.. And the bee buzz'd up in the cold When the flower was wither'd and old. "Have you still any honey, my dear?" She said, "It's the fall of the year, But come, come!" "Hum!" And the bee buzz'^d off in the cold. — Alfred Tennyson. [lo] CLOUD WINGS. For several days I had been watching Old Whitehead's lines of flight, and had concluded that his nest was somewhere in the hills northwest of the big lake. I went there one afternoon, and while confused in the big timber, which gave no outlook in any direction, I saw, not Old Whitehead, but a larger eagle, his mate undoubtedly, flying straight westward with food towards a great cliff, that I had noticed with my glass one day from a mountain on the other side of the lake. When r went there, early next morning, it was Cheplahgan himself who showed me where his nest was. I was hunting along the foot of the cliff when, glancing back towards the lake, I saw him coming far away, and hid in the underbrush. He passed very near, and following, I saw him' standing on a ledge near the top of the cliff. Just below him, in the top of a stunted tree growing out of the face of the rock, was a huge mass of sticks that formed the nest, with a great mother-eagle standing by, feed- ing the little ones. Both birds started away silently when I ap- peared, but came back soon and swept back and forth over me, as I sat watching the nest and the face of the cliff through my glass. No need now of caution. Both birds seemed to know instinc- tively why I had come, and that the fate of the eaglets lay in my hands if I could but scale the cliff. It was scaring business, that three-hundred-foot climb up the sheer face of the mountain. Fortunately the rock was seamed and scarred with the wear of centuries ; bushes and stunted trees grew out of countless crevices which gave me sure footing, and sometimies a lift of a dozen feet or more on my -way up. As I climbed, the eagles circled lower and lower ; the- strong rustling of their wings was about my head continually; they seemed to grow larger, fiercer, every moment, as my hold grew more pre- carious, and the earth and the pointed tree-tops dropped farther below. There was a good revolver in my pocket, to use in case [II] of necessity ; but had the great birds attacked me I should have fared badly, for at times I was obliged to grip hard with both hands, my face to the cliflf, leaving the eagles free to strike from above and behind. I think now that had I shown fear in such a place, or shouted, or tried to fray them away, they would have swooped upon me, wing and claw, like furies. I could see it in their fierce eyes as I looked up. But the thought of the times when I had hunted him, and especially the thought of that time when I had reached out of the bushes and touched him, was upon Old Whitehead and made him fear. So I kept steadily on my way, apparently giving no thought to the eagles, though deep in- side I was anxious enough, and reached the foot of the tree in which the nest was made. I stood there a long time, my arm clasping the twisted old boll, looking out over the forest spread wide below, partly to regain courage, partly to reassure the eagles, which were circling very near with a kind of intense wonder in their eyes, but chiefly to make up my mind what to do next. The tree was easy to climb, but the nest — a huge affair, which had been added to year after year — filled the whole tree-top, and I could gain no foothold from which to look over and see the eaglets, without tearing the nest to pieces. I did not want to do that, and I doubted whether the mother-eagle would stand it. A dozen times she seemed on the point of dropping on my head to tear it with her talons; but always she veered off as I looked up quietly, and Old Whitehead swept between her and me and seemed to say, "Wait, wait. I don't understand ; but he can kill us if he will — and the little ones are in his power." Now he was closer to me than ever, and the fear was vanishing. But so also was the fierceness. From the foot of the tree the crevice in which it grew led up- wards to the right, then doubled back to the ledge above the nest, upon which Cheplahgan was standing when I discovered him. The lip of this crevice made a dizzy path that one might follow by moving crabwise, his face to the cliff, with only its roughness to cling to with his fingers. I tried it at last, crept up and out twenty feet, and back ten, and dropped with a great breath of relief to a broad ledge covered with bones and fish scales, the [12] relics of many a savage feast. Below me, almost within reach, was the nest, with two dark, scraggly young birds resting on twi^s and grass, with fish, flesh and fowl in a gory, skinny, scaly ring about them — the most savage-looking household into which I ever looked unbidden. But even as I looked and wondered, and tried to make out what other game had been furnished the young savages, a strange thing happened, which touched me as few things ever have among the wild creatures. The eagles had followed me close along the last edge of rock, hoping no doubt in their wild hearts that I would slip, and end their troubles, and give my body as food to the young.- Now, as I sat on the ledge, peering eagerly into the nest, the great mother-bird left me and hovered over her eaglets, as if to shield them with her wings from even the sight of my eyes. But Old Whitehead still circled over me. Lower he came, and lower, till with a supreme effort of daring he folded his wings and dropped to the ledge beside me, within ten feet, and turned and looked into my eyes. "See," he seemed to say, "we are within reach again. You touched me once ; I don't know how or why. Here r am now, to touch or to kill, as you will ; only spare the little ones." A moment later the mother-bird dropped to the edge of the nest. And there we sat, we three, with the wonder upon us all, the young eagles at our feet, the cliff above, and, three hundred feet below, the spruce tops of the wilderness reaching out and away to the mountains beyond the big lake. I sat perfectly still, which is the only way to reassure a wild creature; and soon I thought Cheplahgan had lost his fear in his anxiety for the little ones. But the moment I rose to go he was in the air again, circling restlessly above my head with his mate, the same wild fierceness in his eyes as he looked down. A half- hour later I had gained the top of the cliff and started eastward towards the lake, coming down by a much easier way than that by which I went up. Later I returned several times, and from a distance watched the eaglets being fed. But I never climbed to the nest again. — William J. Long. From wilderness Ways. Used by permission of Glnn & Co. and W. J. Long. [13] THE SONG-SPARROW. There is a bird I know so well, It seems as if he must have sung Beside my crib when I was young; Before I knew the way to spell The name of even the smallest bird, His gentle, joyful song I heard. Now see if you can tell, my dear. What bird it is, that every year. Sings "Sweet-sweet-sweet- very- merry cheer." He comes in March when winds are strong. And snow returns to hide the earth; But still he warms his head with mirth. And waits for May. He lingers long While flowers fade and every day Repeats his sweet, contented lay; As if to say we need not fear The season's change, if love is here, With "Sweet-sweet-sweet-very merry cheer." He does not wear a Joseph's coat Of many colors smart and gay ; His suit is quaker brown and gray. With darker patches at his throat. And yet of all the well dressed throng. Not one can sing so brave a song. It makes the pride of looks appear A vain and foolish thing to hear His "Sweet-sweet-sweet-very merry cheer." — Henry Van Dyke. From Little Klvers; copyright 1895, by Chas. Scrlbner's Sons. Used by permis- sion of tne publishers. [14] ,||THREE LlTTLETREESl > (Recitation for a tiny girl. Three other children stand near — as the trees — laughing, whispering, telling secrets, clapping hands, etc., in pretty pantomime.) Way out in the orchard, in sunshine and breeze, A-laughing and whispering, grew three little trees. And one was a plum tree, and one was a pear, And one was a rosy-cheeked apple tree rare. A dear little secret, as sweet as could be. The breeze told, one day, to the glad apple tree. She rustled her little green leaves all about. And smiled at the plum, and the secret was out. The plum told, in whispers, the pear by the gate. And she told it to me, so you see it came straight. The breeze told the apple, the apple the plum. The plum told the pear, "Robin Readbreast has come !" And out in the orchard they danced in the breeze. And clapped their hands softly, these three little trees ! — Journal of Western Canada. THE OAK.. The monarch oak, the patriarch of the trees. Shoots slowly up, and spreads by slow degrees ; Three centuries he grows, and tfiree he stays Supreme in state, and in three more decays. — Dryden. [15] SPRING. A little bit of blowing, A little bit of snow, A little bit of growing. And crocuses will show. On every twig that's lonely a new green leaf will spring ; On every patient tree-top a thrush will stop and sing. A little bit of sleeting, A little bit of rain, The blue, blue sky for greeting, A snowdrop come again. And every frozen hillside its gift of grass will bring. And every day of winter another day of spring. — Carolyn S. Bailey. From St. Nicholas. Used by permission of The Century Co. [i6] HIS TRAVELS. Most of our birds take two long journeys every year, one in the fall to the south, and the other in the spring back to the north. These journeys are called "migrations." The birds do not go all at once, but in many cases those of a kind who live near each other collect in a flock and travel together. Each species or kind has its own time to go. It might be thought that it is because of the cold that so many birds move to a warmer climate. But it is not so; they are verj* well dressed to endure cold. Their feather suits are so warm that some of our smallest and weakest birds are able to stay with us, like the chickadee and the golden-crowned kinglet. It is simply because they cannot get food in winter, that they have to go. The fall travel begins soon after the first of July. The bobolink is one of the first to leave us, though he does not start at once on his long journey. By that time his little folks are full grown, and can take care of themselves, and he is getting on his winter suit, or moulting. Then some morning all the bobolinks in the country are turned out of their homes in the meadows, by men and horses and mow- ing-machines, for at that time the long grass is ready to cut. Then he begins to think about the wild rice which is getting just right to eat. Besides, he likes to take his long journey to South America in an easy way, stopping here and there as he goes. So some morning we miss his cheerful call, and if we go to the meadow we shall not be able to see a single bobolink. There, too, are the swallows, who eat only small flying insects. As the weather grows cooler, these tiny flies are no longer to be found. So the swallows begin to flock, as it is called. For a few days they will be seen on fences and telegraph wires, chatter- ing and making a great noise, and then some morning they will all be gone. As the days grow shorter and cooler, the warblers go. These are the bright-colored little fellows, who live mostly in the tops of [17] trees. Then the orioles and the thrushes and the cuckoos leave us, and most birds who live on insects. By the time that November comes in, few 6f them will be left. Birds who can live on seeds and winter berries, such as cedar- berries and partridge-berries, and others, often stay with us, — bluebirds, finches, and sometimes, robins. Many birds take their journey by night. Think of it! Tiny creatures, that all summer go to bed at dark, start off some night, when it seems as if they ought to be asleep, and fly all night in the dark. When it grows light, they stop in some place where they can feed and rest. And the next night, or two or three nights later, they go on again. So they do till they reach their winter home, hundreds or thousands of miles away. These night flyers are the timid birds, and those who live in the woods, and do not like to be seen, — thrushes, wrens, vireos, and others. Birds with strong wings, who are used to flying hours every day, and bolder birds, who do not mind being seen, take their journeys by daylight. Most of them stop now and then, a day or two at a time, to feed and rest. They fly very high, and faster than our railroad trains can go. In the spring the birds take their second long journey, back to their last year's home. How they know their way on these jour- neys, men have been for many years trying to find out. They have found that birds travel on regular roads, or routes, that fol- low the rivers and the shores of the ocean. They can see much better than we can, and even in the night they can see water. One such road, or highway, is over the harbor of New York. When the statue of Liberty was set up on an island in the harbor a few years ago, it was put in the birds' path. Usually they fly too high to mind it; but when there is a rain or fog they come much lower, and, sad to say, many of them flv against it and are killed. We often see strange birds in our city streets and parks, while they are passing through on their migrations, for they sometimes spend several days with us. — Olive Thome Miller. From Flrat book of Birds. Used by permission of Houghton, Sflfflln & Co. [i8] WHAT THE DANDELION DOES. "Oh, dandelion, yellow as gold, What do you do all day?" "I just wait here in the long green grass Till the children come to play." "Oh dandelion, yellow as gold. What do you do all night?" "I wait and wait while the cool dew falls And my hair grows long and white." "And what do you do when your hair grows white, And the children come to play?" "They take me up in their dimpled Hands And blow my hair away." From The Art-Llteratnre Readers, Book I. Mentzer & Grover. Used by permission of Atkinson, Oh," downy dandelion-wings, Wild floating wings, like silver spun. That dance and glisten in the sun ! You airy things, you Elfin things. That June-time always brings ! Oh, are you seeds that seek the earth. The light of laughing flowers to spread? Or fltting fairies that had birth When merry words were said? — Helen Gray Cone. [19] THE VOICE OF SPRING. I come, I come! ye have called me long; I come o'er the mountains, with light and scaig. Ye may trace my step o'er the waking earth By the winds which tell of the violet's birth. By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass. By the green leaves opening as I pass. I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers By thousands have burst from the forest bowers. And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains; But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom. To speak of the ruin or the tomb ! I have looked o'er the hills of the stormy North, And the larch has hung all his tassels forth; The fisher is out on the sunny sea. And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free. And the pine has a fringe of softer green. And the moss looks bright, where my step has been. I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh. And called out each voice of the deep blue sky. From the night-bird's lay through the starry time. In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime. To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes. When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks. From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain; They are sweeping on to the silvery main, Tfiey are flashing down from the mountain brows. They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs, They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves. And the earth resounds with the joy of waves. — Pelicia Hemans. [20] THE THRUSH'S IvESSON. A little brown bird sat on 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 the street and went hopping along. This way and that, with 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 duck or a hen?" "Use your eyes, little boy, watch closely and see What little birds hop with both feet, 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. "The birds that scratch in the earth, little boy. And the birds that wade in the water with joy. Can walk one foot at a time, you see, As you do, except when you hop like me. "But most of the birds that can sing you a song Are small, and their legs are not very strong; Walking, wading, and scratching, they leave to the rest, And hop, hop, hop, and fly with the best. "I've many relations, each one of us sings ; We're called Warblers, and Perchers, and other sweet things. Just keep your eyes open while out at your play. You'll see what I've told you is true. "Good day !" — Anonymous. [21] i^ii^-^^^^m-^ THE SOUTH WIND AND THE SUN. O the South Wind and the Sun ! How each loved the other one — Full of fancy — full of folly — Full of jollity and fun! How they romped and ran about, Like two boys when school is out, With glowing face, and lisping lip. Low laugh, and lifted shout ! And the South Wind — he was dressed With a ribbon round his breast That floated, flapped and fluttered In a riotous unrest ; And a drapery of mist. From the shoulder and the wrist Flowing backward with the motion Of the waving hand he kissed. And the Sun had on a crown Wrought of gilded thistle-down. And a scarf of velvet vapor. And a raveled-rainbow gown; And his tinsel-tangled hair. Tossed and lost upon the air, Was glossier and flossier Than any anywhere. [22] And the South Wind's eyes were two Little dancing drops of dew, As he puffed his cheeks, and pursed his lips. And blew and blew, and blew! And the Sun's — like diamond-stone. Brighter yet than ever known. As he knit his brows and held his breath, And shone, and shone, and shone ! And this pair of merry fays Wandered through the summer days ; Arm in arm they went together Over heights of morning haze — Over slanting slopes of lawn They went on, and on, and on. Where the daisies looked like star-tracks Trailing up and down the dawn. And where'er they found the top Of a wheat-stalk droop and lop They chucked it underneath the chin And praised the lavish crop, Till it lifted with the pride Of the heads it grew beside. And then the South Wind and the Sun Went onward satisfied. Over meadow-lands they tripped. Where the dandelions dipped In crimson foam of clover-bloom. And dripped and dripped and dripped; And they clinched the bumble-stings. Gauming honey on their wings. And bundling them in lily-bells. With maudlin murmurings. [23] And the humming-bird, that hung Like a jewel up among The tilted honeysuckle-horns, They mesmerized, and swung In the palpitating air, Drowsed with odors strange and rare. And, with wTiispered laughter, slipped away And left him hanging there. And they braided blades of grass Where the truant had to pass; And they wriggled through the rushes And the reeds of the morass. Where they danced, in rapture sweet. O'er the leaves that laid a street Of undulant mosaic for The touches of their feet. By tlie brook with mossy brink, Where the cattle came to drink, They trilled and piped and whistled With the thrush and bobolink. Till the kine, in listless pause. Switched their tails in mute applause. With lifted head and dreamy eyes. And bubble-dripping jaws. And where the melons grew. Streaked with yellow, green and blue, These jolly sprites went wandering Through spangled paths of dew ; And the melons, here and there, They made love to everywhere. Turning their pink souls to crimson W^ith caresses fond and fair. [24] Over orchard walls they went, Where the fruited boughs were bent Till they brushed the sward beneath them Where the shine and shadow blent ; And the great green pear they shook Till the shallow hue forsook Its features, and the gleam of gold Laughed out in every look. And they stroked the downy cheek Of the peach, and smoothed it sleek, And flushed it into splendor; And, with many an elfish freak. Gave the russet's rust a wipe — Prankt the rambo with a stripe. And the winesap blushed its reddest As they spanked the pippins ripe. And tlie golden-banded bees. Droning o'er the flowery leas, They bridled, reined, and rode away Across the fragrant breeze, Till in hollow oak and elm They had groomed and stabled them In waxen stalls that oozed with dews Of rose and lily-stem. Where the dusty highway leads. High above the wayside weeds They sowed the air with butterflies Like blooming flower-seeds, Till the dull grasshopper sprung Half a man's height up, and hung Tranced in the heat, with whirring wings. And sung, and sung, and sung! [25] And they loitered, hand in hand. Where the snipe along the sand Of the river ran to meet them 'As the ripple meets the land. Till the dragonfly, in light Gauzy armor, burnished bright, Came tilting down the waters In a wild, bewildered flight. And they heard the killdee's call. And afar, the waterfall. But the rustle of a falling leaf They heard above it all; And the trailing willow crept Deeper in the tide that swept The leafy shallop to the shore. And wept, and wept, and wept! And the fairy vessel veered From its moorings — tacked and steered For the center of the current — Sailed away and disappeared : And the burthen that it bore From the long-enchanted shore — "Alas ! the South Wind and the Sun !" I murmur evermore. For the South Wind and the Sun, Each so loves the other one. For all his jolly folly. And frivolity and fun, That our love for them they weigh As their fickle fancies may. And when at last we love them most. They laugh and sail away. — James Whitcomb Riley. Used by permission of The Bobbs-Merrlll Co. [26] A FOREST HYMN. The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them, ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems, in the darkling wood. Amidst the cool and silence, he lablle TRUE ROYALTY. There was never a Queen like Balkis, From here to the wide world's end ; But Balkis talked to a butterfly As you would talk to a friend. There was never a King like Solomon, Not since the world began ; But Solomon talked to a butterfly As a man would talk to a man. She was Queen of Sabaea — And he was Asia's Lord — But they both of 'em talked to butterflies When they took their walks abroad. — Rudyard Kipling. From Just So Stories. Usied by permission of A. P. Watt & Son, London, and Doubleday, Page & Co. THE TAX-GATHERER. "And pray, who are you?" Said the violet blue To the Bee, with surprise At his wonderful size, In her eye-glass of dew. "I, madam," quoth he, "Am a publican Bee, Collecting the tax Of honey and wax. Have you nothing for me?" Used by permission of Small, Maynard A Co. [33] — John B. Tabb. A BOY'S SONG IN SPRING. Hurrah, for the snow is over, And the merry brook is free; We'll soon sip sweets from the clover Along with the bumble-bee. We'll track the soaring swallow As he eddies above the trees. And follow him and follow. And dream of the things he sees. We'll watch the insects springing Till they seem like roguish elves. And hark to the brown thrush singing Till we want to sing ourselves. J^.'i. V^^!--l-'^^''l)j>-^ Hurrah, for the snow is over! And Winter, the poor old soul ! .-.■^i-'-f')iiV"''iV ^i^S Has gone to play the rover On the meadows of the pole. — Clinton Scollard. From A Boy's Book of Rhyme. Used by permission of Small, Maynard.& Co. THE EAGLE. He clasps the crag with hooked hands ; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls ; He watches from his mountain walls ; And like a thunderbolt he falls. — Alfred Tennyson. [34l THE PANSIES. The dear little pansies are lifting their heads, All purple and blue and gold, They're covering with beauty the garden beds. And hiding from sight the dull mould. The dear little pansies they nod and smile, Their faces upturned to the sky, "We are trying to make the world pretty and bright," They whisper to each passer-by. Now all little children who try ev'ry day, Kindhearted and loving to be, Are helping the pansies to make the world bright And beautiful ; don't you see ? STRANGE LANDS. Where do you come from, Mr. Jay ? "From the land of Play, from the land of Play." And where can that be, Mr. Jay? "Far away — far away." Where do you come from, Mrs. Dove? "From the land of Love, from the land of Love." And how do you get there, Mrs. Dove ? "Look above — ^look above." Where do you come from. Baby Miss? "From the land of Bliss, from the land of Bliss. And what is the way there. Baby Miss? "Mother's kiss — mother's kiss." — Laurence Alma Tadema. Ciefl by permlsBlon of D. Appleton & Co. [35] THOUGHTS FER THE DISCOURAGED FARMER. The summer winds is sniffin' round the bloomin' locus' trees ; And the clover in the pastur' is a big day fer the bees. And they been a-swiggin' honey above board and on the sly. Till they stutter in their buzzin', and stagger as they fly. The flicker on the fence-rail 'pears to jest spit on his wings And roll up his feathers, by the sassy way he sings ; And the hoss-fly is a-whettin'-up his forelegs fer biz. And the off-mare is a-switchin' all of her tale they is ! They's been a heap o' rain, but the sun's out today. And the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared away. And the woods is all the greener, and the grass is greener still ; It may rain again to-morry, but I don't think it will. Some says the crops is ruined, and the corn's drownded out. And propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, without doubt; But the kind Providence that has never failed us yet. Will be on hands onc't more at the 'leventh hour, I bet ! Does the medder-lark complain, as he swims high and dry Through the waves of the wind and the blue of the sky? Does the quail set up and whistle in a disappinted way, Er hang his head in silence, and sorrow all the day? Is the chipmuck's health a-failin' ? Does he walk, er does he run? Don't the buzzards ooze around up thare jest like they've alius done? Is they anything the matter with the rooster's lungs er voice ? Ort a mortal be complainin' when dumb animals rejoice? [36] ^^?k Then let us, one and all, be contented with our lot ; The June is here this morning, and the sun is shinin' hot. Oh ! let us fill our harts up with the glory of the day. And banish ev'ry doubt and care and sorrow far away ! Whatever be our station, with Providence fer guide. Such fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied ; Fer the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew, And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips fer me and you. — James Whitcomh Riley. Used by permission of The Bobbs-Merrill Co. GREEN THINGS GROWING. Oh, the green things growing, the green things growing, The faint sweet smell of the green things growing ! I should like to live, whether I smile or grieve, Just to watch the happy life of my green things growing. Oh, the fluttering and the pattering of those green things grow- ing! How the)?- talk each to each, when none of us are knowing ; In the wonderful white of the weird moonlight Or the dim dreamy dawn when the cocks are crowing. I love, r love them so, — my green things growing! And I think that they love me, without false showing ; For by many a tender touch, they comfort me so mufch. With the soft mute comfort of green things growing. — Dinah Maria Mulock. [37] THE UTTLE FIR TREES. Hey ! little evergreens, Sturdy and strong! Summer and autumn time. Hasten along. Harvest the sunbeams, then, Bind them in sheaves. Range them and change them To tufts of green leaves. Delve in the mellow mold. Far, far, below, And so, lyittle evergreens, grow! Grow, grow! Grow, little evergreens, grow! «;^^- Up, up so airily To the blue sky, Lift up your leafy tips Stately and high; Clasp tight your tiny cones. Tawny and brown ; By and by, buffeting Rains will pelt down, By and by, bitterly Chill winds will blow, And so, Little evergreens, grow ! Grow, little evergreens, 'grow I [38] Gather all uttermost Beauty, because — Hark, till I tell it now— How Santa Claus, Out of the northern land, Over the seas, Soon shall come seeking you, Evergreen trees! Seek you with reindeer, soon. Over the snow. And so. Little evergreens, grow! Grow, little evergreens, grow! What if the maple flare Flaunting and red, You will bear waxen-white Tapers instead. What if now, other where Birds are beguiled. You shall yet nestle The httle Christ-child ! Ah, the strange splendor The fir trees shall know. And so. Little evergreens, grow! Grow, grow, Grow, little evergreens, growl From St. Nidiolas. Used by permission of The Century Co. [39] THE AWAKENING OF SPRING. Now fades the last long streak of snow, Now bourgeons every maze of quick About the flowering squares, and thick. By ashen roots the violets blow. Now rings the woodland loud and long. The distance takes a lovelier hue, And drowned in yonder living blue The lark becomes a sightless song. Now dance the lights on lawn and lea. The flocks are whiter down the vale. And milkier every milky sail On winding stream or distant sea; Where now the seamew pipes, or dives In yonder greening gleam, and fly The happy birds, that change their sky To build and brood ; that live their lives From land to land ; and in my breast Spring wakens, too; and my regret Becomes an April violet. And buds and blossoms like the rest. — Alfred Tennyson. There's music in the sighing of a reed ; There's music in the gushing of a rill ; There's music in all things, if men had ears. This earth is but an echo of the spheres. [40] -Byron. THE END— AND THE BEGINNING. Purely physical vitality reaches its climax in the bird. Such intensity of life and joy we find nowhere else; it throbs in every atom of its hot little body, it performs prodigous feats of flight, it escapes in song so loud and long that no other creature could stand an equal strain. Think of the amount of air set in vibra- tion by a wood-thrush or mocking-bird during its prolonged solo, and then think of the size of the organs that do it. Recall the form of the song-sparrow on the topmost bough of some tree, head thrown back, body quivering, every muscle contracted, while a loud and prolonged melody pours from the atom of intense life. No other creature can enter the lists of pure physical life with the bird ; there it is without peer. What is left for the creature who, in the course of development, must surpass it? The bird has reached the summit of physical existence, the next form of life advances toward an existence which is more than physical. From A Sgng of life, by Margaret W. Morley. Used by permission of A. C. McClurg & Co. The tremendous unity of the pine absorbs and moulds the life of a race. The pine shadows rest upon a nation. The northern peoples, century after century, lived under one or other of the two great powers of the pine and the sea, both infinite. They dwelt amidst the forests as they wandered on the waves, and saw no end nor any other horizon. Still the dark, green trees, or the dark, green waters, jagged the dawn with their fringe or their foam. And whatever elements of imagination, or of warrior strength, or of domestic justice, were brought down by the Nor- wegian or the Goth agairlst the dissoluteness or degradation of the south of Europe, were taught them under the green roofs and wild penetralia of the pine. — John Rtiskin. [41I THE BROOK. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. I wind about, and in and put. With here a blossom sailing. And here and there a lusty trout. And here and there a grayling. I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers. I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows ; I make the netted sunbeams dance Against my sandy shallows. I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses; I linger by my shingly bars ; I loiter round my cresses. And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. — Alfred Tennyson. [42] THE WIND. I saw you toss the kites on high And blow the birds about the sky ; And all around I heard you pass, Like ladies' skirts across the grass — O wind, a-blowing all day long ! O wind, that sings so loud a song ! I saw the different things you did, But always you yourself you hid. I felt you push, I heard you call, I could not see yourself at all — O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song ! O you that are so strong and cold, O blower, are you young or old? Are you a beast of field and tree. Or just a stronger child than me? O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song ! — Robert Louis Stevenson. April calls from hill and valley. Clad in fairy gold and green ; Bring your posies, Kate and Sally ! Gather round our maiden Queen ! Hark ! the woods are ringing, ringing. Thrushes trill and wood-doves coo; All the birds are singing, singing. Shall not we be singing, too? — Laura E. Richards. [43] MR. CHICKADEE, D. D. A little clergyman is he, With black and white cravat; He bears a coveted degree. And wears a soft silk hat. So overflowing is his strain. That he could dub "D. D." Young theologues with meager brain And bump of vanity. With happy heart and merry voice, He bi-aves the cold and heat; And to the loved one of his choice, He whistles soft and sweet. His sect is Congregational, The wild-woods are his church ; The wind his "choir invisible," His pulpit is a birch. The sermon we should not forget: "Happy and cheerful be. Have diligence, be brave, don't fret," Says Chickadee, D. D. — Florence A. Van Sant, in The Evangelist. Let me go where'er I will, I hear a sky-born music still : It is not only in the rose. It is not only in the bird. Not only where the rainbow glows, Nor in the song of woman heard. But in the darkest, meanest things Tliere alway, alway something sings. [44] -Emerson. WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE-! Woodman, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me, . And I'll protect it now. 'Twas my forefather s hand That placed it near his cot; There, woodman, let it stand. Thy ax shall harm it not. That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea — And wouldst thou hew it down ? Woodman, forbear thy stroke! Cut not its earth-bound ties ; Oh, spare that aged oak Now towering to the skies ! When but an idle boy, I sought its grateful shade ; In all their gushing joy Here, too, my sisters played. My mother kissed me here; My father pressed my hand — Forgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand. My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend ! Here shall the wild bird sing. And still thy branches bend. Old tree ! the storm still brave ! And, woodman, leave the spot ; While I've a hand to save. Thy ax shall harm it not. — George Pope Morris. [ 45 ] ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. Do you ask what the birds say ? The sparrow, the dove, The linnet and thrush say, "I love and I love !" In the winter they're silent, the wind is so strong. What it says I don't know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves and blossoms and sunny warm weather. And singing and loving, all come back together. But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love. The green fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he, "I love my love, and my love loves me." — Samuel T. Coleridge. Used by permlBBion of D. Appleton & Co. THE GOD OF MUSIC. The God of Music dwelleth out of doors. All seasons through his minstrelsy we meet. Breathing by field and covert haunting-sweet From organ-lofts in forest old he pours : A solemn harmony : on leafy floors To smooth autumnal pipes he moves his feet, Or with the tingling plectrum of the sleet In winter keen beats out his thrilling scores. Leave me the reed unplucked beside the stream, And he will stoop and fill it with the breeze ; Leave me the viol's frame in secret trees, Unwrought, and it shall wake a druid theme ; Leave me the whispering shell on Nereid shores. The God of Music dwelleth out of doors. — Edith M. Thomas. [46] TIME TO GO. They know the time to go ! The fairy clocks strike their inaudible hour In field and woodland, and each punctual flower Bows at the signal an obedient head And hastes to bed. The pale Anemone Glides on her way with scarcely a good-night ; The Violets tie their purple nightcaps tight; Hand clasped in hand, the dancing Columbines, In blithesome lines, Drop their last courtesies. Flit from the scene, and touch them for their rest ; The Meadow Lily folds her scarlet vest And hides it 'neath the Grasses' lengthening green ; Fair and serene. Her sister Lily floats On the blue pond, and raises golden eyes To court the golden splendor of the skies, — The sudden signal comes, and down she goes To find repose In the cool depths below. A little later, and the Asters blue Depart in crowds, a brave and cheery crew ; While Golden-rod, still wide awake and gay. Turns him away, [47] Furls his bright parasol, And, like a little hero, meets his fate. The Gentians, very proud to sit up late, Ne:!ct follow. Every Fern is tucked and set 'Neath coverlet. Downy and soft and warm. No little seedling voice is heard to grieve Or make complaints the folding woods beneath; No lingerer dares to stay, for well they know The time to go. Teach us your patience, brave. Dear flowers, till we shall dare to part like you. Willing God's will, sure that his clock strikes true. That his sweet day augurs a sweeter morrow. With smiles, not sorrow. — Susan Coolidge. ('opyrlghted by, and used by permission of, Little, Brown & Co. SONG. The year's at the Spring, And day's at the morn ; Morning's at seven; The hill side's dew pearled : The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn ; God's in his heaven — All's right with the world! — Robert Browning. JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT. Jack-in-the-pulpit preaches today Under the green trees just over the way. Squirrel and song-sparrow high on their perch, Hear the sweet lily-bells ringing to church. Come hear what his Reverence rises to say. In his painted pulpit, this calm Sabbath day. Fair as the canopy over him seen, Penciled by nature's hand, black, brown, and green Green is his surplice, green are his bands ; In his queer little pulpit the little priest stands. In black and gold velvet, so gorgeous to see. Comes with his bass voice the chorister bee. And the columbines bravely as sentinels stand On the lookout with their red trumpets in hand ; Meek-faced anemones drooping and sad ; Great yellow violets smiling out glad ; Buttercups' faces beaming and bright; Clovers with bonnets — some red and some white ; Daisies, their white fingers half-clasped in prayer; Dandelions, proud of the gold in their hair ; Innocents, children guileless and frail, Meek little faces, upturned and pale ; Wildwood geranuiums, all in their best, Languidly leaning, in purple gauze dressed : — [49] All are assembled this sweet Sabbath day. To hear what the priest in his pulpit shall say, Look, white Indian pipes on the green mosses lie! Who has been smoking profanely so nigh? Rebuked by the preacher the mischief is stopped. But the sinners, in haste, have their little pipes dropped. Ivet the wind with the fragrance of fern and black birch Blow the smell of the smoking clean out of the church. So much for the preacher : the sermon comes next. Shall we tell how he preached it, and where was his text ? Alas, like too many grown-up folks who play At worship at churches man-builded today, — We heard not the preacher expound or discuss ; But we looked at the people ; and they looked at us ; We saw all their dresses, their colors and shapes. The trim of their bonnets, the cut of their capes ; We heard the wind organ, the bee, and the bird. But of Jack-in-the-pulpit we heard not a word. — Clara Smith. DIFFERENT WEATHER. Stormy little February Muttered, "Horrid world this, very." March rushed in all cross and weeping, "Dirty world, — needs lots of sweeping." April murmured, "S'pose I try To put sunshine in that sky." May thought, as the leaves uncurled, "What a very lovely world!" Used b; pennlsslon of The Toath's Companion. — /. M. L. .^'. '% [SO] ?a.^§t=— . THE FARMER'S EIEE. The farmer has the most sane and natural occupation, and ought to find Ufe sweeter, if less highly seasoned, than any other. He alone, strictly speaking, has a home. How can a man take root and thrive without land? He writes his history upon his field. How many ties, how many resources, he has, — ^his friend- ships with his cattle, his team, his dogs, his trees, the satisfaction in his growing crops, in his improved fields; his intimacy with nature, with bird and beast, and with the quickening elemental forces ; his cooperation with the cloud, the sun, the seasons, heat, wind, rain, frost! Nothing will take the various distempers which the city and artificial life breed out of a man like farming, like direct and loving contact with the soil. It draws out the poison. It humbles him, teaches him patience and reverence, and restores the proper tone to his system. Blessed is he whose youth was passed upon a farm. Cling to the farm, make much of it, put yourself into it, bestow your heart and your brain upon it, so that it shall savor of you and radiate your virtue after your day's work is done. — John Burroughs. From Signs ana Seasons. Used by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. There is something unspeakably cheerful in a spot, of ground which is covered with trees, that smiles amidst all the rigors of winter, and gives us a view of the most gay season in the midst of that which is the most dead and melancholy. — Addison. To own a bit of ground, to scratch it with a hoe, to plant seeds and watch their renewal of life, — ^this is the commonest delight of the race, the most satisfactory thing one can do. — Warner. [SI] THE SKYI.ARK. Bird of the wilderness, Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea ! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling place — Oh, to abide in the desert with thee ! Wild is thy lay and loud. Far in the downy cloud, L,ove gives it energy, love gave it birth. Where, on thy dewy wing, Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. O'er fell and fountain sheen. O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day. Over the cloudlet dim. Over the rainbow's rim. Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! Then, when the gloaming comes. Low in the heather blooms Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be ! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place — Oh, to abide in the desert with thee ! — Thomas Hogg. [52] THE BIRD. The bird is little more than a drift of the air brought into form by plumes ; the air is in all its quills, it breathes through its whole frame and flesh, and glows with air in its flying, like a blown flame : it rests upon the air, subdues it, surpasses it, outraces it ; — is the air, conscious of itself, conquering itself, ruling itself. Also, into the throat of the bird is given the voice of the air. All that in the wind itself is weak, wild, useless in sweetness, is knit together in its song. As we may imagine the wild form of the cloud closed into the perfect form of the bird's wings, so the wild voice of the cloud into its ordered and commanded voice ; un- wearied, rippling through the clear heaven in its gladness, inter- preting all intense passion through the soft spring nights, burst- ing into acclaim and rapture of choir at daybreak, or lisping and twittering among the boughs and hedges through heat of day, like little winds that only make the cowslip bells shake, and ruffle the petals of the wild rose. Also, upon the plumes of the bird are put the colors of the air : on these the gold of the cloud, that cannot be gathered by any covetousness ; the rubies of the clouds, the vermilion of the cloud- bar, and the flame of the cloud-crest, and the snow of thp cloud, and its shadow, and the melted blue of the deep wells of the sky — all these, seized by the creating spirit, and woven into films and threads of plume ; with wave on wave following and fading along breast, and throat, and opened wings, infinite as the dividing of the foam and the sifting of the sea-sand; — even the white down of the cloud seeming to flutter up between the stronger plumes, seen, but too soft for touch. — John Ruskin. From The Queen of the Air (Brantwood Editibp). Used by permission o£ the publishers, Longmans, Green & Co. [53] SEVEN BIRDIES ON A BOUGH Concert Recitation. Seven birdies on a bough Sang a song together. "Spring is here !" they blithely trilled. "All the air with sunshine filled. Sing your sweetest, birdies, now, — Hey for April weather!" Seven birdies on a bough Sang this song together. Seven birdies on a bough Huddled close together; All the air with snow was filled. All their tiny toes were chilled. Where's the tuneful chorus now, Where's the sunny weather? Seven birdies on a bough Shivered all together. Seven birdies on a bough Hoarsely chirped together: "Seven April fools are we. To the Sunny South we'll flee By the great 'Through Air Line,' now, — This is dreadful weather!" Seven birdies on a bough All took wing together. — Jennie Belts Hartswick. VtrA by permlSBOln ot The Youth's Companion. [54] THE BIvUEBELL. '^~"^ In love she fell. My shy Bluebell, With a strolling Bumble-bee ; He whispered low, K "I love you so! M\ Sweet, give your heart to me — "I love but you. And ril be true, O give me your heart, I pray !" She bent her head, — "I will !" she said. When, lo! he flew away. — Margaret Deland. Prom The Old Garden. Used b; pcrmiSBion of Houghton, Hlfflin & Co. THE SOWER. 'Come, wild Wind," said the Catkin folks, "Loiter not on the way. It is time for us to plant our seeds ; We need your help today." The jolly wild Wind whisked merrily by. And never a word did he say; But birch and willow and alder trees He planted by scores that day. — Mary F. Butts. Used by permission of The Youth's Companion. [55] BABY'S PUAYTHINGS. Said the new Noah's Ark With its animals: "Hark! If your wooden toys please, You must thank the good Trees, For they give all the wood to make such things as these." Said th.e big Rubber Ball : "Yes, and that is not all ! For a tree far away Gave its sap — so they say — To make soft rubber toys for the wee Babies' play." From Child stories and rhymes. Used by permission of Lo'throp, Lee & Shepard Co. A SPRING LILT. Through the silver mist Of the blossom-spray Trill the orioles : list To their joyous lay! 'What in all the world, in all the world," they say, "Is half so sweet, so sweet, is half so sweet as May ?" "June! June! June!" Low croon The brown bees in the clover. "^Sweet ! sweet ! sweet !" Repeat The robins, nested over. [56] ANTICIPATION. r am going to plant a hickory tree, And then, when I am a man, My boys and girls may come and eat Just all the nuts they can ! And I shall say, "My children dear. This tree that you enjoy I set for you one Arbor Day, When I was but a boy." And they will answer, "Oh, how kind To plant for us this tree !" And then they'll crack the fattest nuts. And give them all to me ! Used by permission of The Tenth's Companion. A FANCY. 'The flowers are Nature's poems. In blue and red and gold; With every change from bud to bloom Sweet fantasies unfold. The trees are Nature's music — Her living harps are they. On which the fingers of the wind Majestic marches play." [57] CROCUSES. A kind voice calls, "Come, little ones, 'Tis time to wake from sleeping !" And out of bed without a word The drowsy folk come creeping And soon above the chilly earth Their tiny heads are peeping. They bravely face the wind of March, Its bite and bluster scorning Like little soldiers — till, oh, joy! With scarce a word of warning The crocuses slip off their caps And give us gay good morning. — Anna M. Pratt. Used by permission of The Youth's Companion. When the wind is in the east, 'Tis neither good for man nor beast ; When the wind is in the north. The skillful fisher goes not forth; When the wind is in the south. It blows the bait in the fish's mouth ; When the wind is in the west. Then 'tis at the very best. — Old rhyme. A swarm of bees in May Is worth a load of hay ; A swarm of bees in June Is worth a silver spoon; A swarm of bees in July Is not worth a fly. [58] — Mother Goose. LEGEND OF THE ARBUTUS. An old teepee stood by a frozen river in the forest where there are many pine trees. The tops of the trees were white with snow. The teepee was almost covered witli the snow. An old chief sat in this teepee; his hair was like the icicles that hang from dead pine-tree branches; he was very old. He was covered with furs. The floor of his teepee was cov- ered with the skins of the bear and the elk. He had been a great hunter. His name was Peboan. Peboan was faint with hunger, and he was cold. He had been hunting for three days. He had killed nothing. All the moose, deer, and bear had gone. They had left no trail. Wabasso, the rabbit, had hidden in the bushes. There was no food, no meat for Peboan. He called upon the great Menabozho for help. "Come, Menabozho, come help Peboan, the chief of the win- ter manitous. Come, for Mukwa the bear has gone from me. Come, or Peboan must go to the far north to find Mahto the white bear. Peboan is old, and his feet are weary." Peboan crawled on his knees over the furs to the little fire in the middle of the teepee. He blew on the coals with his faint breath, and the coals grew very red. His breath was like a wind ; the coals made the wind warm like a south wind. The deer- skins that covered the teepee trembled like leaves, for the warm wind blew them. Peboan sat on the furs on the floor of his teepee and waited. He knew Menabozho would hear himi. Peboan heard no sound, but he looked toward the door of his teepee. It was lifted back, and he saw a beautiful Indian maiden. She carried a great bundle of willow buds in her arms. Her dress was of sweet grass and early maple leaves. Her eyes were like a young deer. Her hair was like the blackest feathers of a crow, and it was so long that it was like a blanket over her shoul- [59] ders. She was small; her feet were hidden in two moccasin flowers. "Menabozho heard Peboan, the winter manitou. He has sent me. I am Segun." "You are welcome, Segun. Sit by my fire; it is warm. I have no meat. Sit down and tell me what you can do." "Peboan may tell first what he can do," said Segun. Peboan said : "I am a winter manitou ; I blow my breath, and the flowers die. The waters stand still ; the leaves fall and" die." Segun said : "I am a summer manitou ; I blow my breath and the flowers open their eyes. Tlie waters follow me on my trail." Peboan said : "I shake my hair, and the snow falls on the mountains, like the feathers of Waubese, the great white swan." Segun said : "I shake my hair, and warm rain falls from the clouds. I call, and the birds answer me. The trees put on their leaves, and the grass grows thick like the fur of the bear. The summer sky is my teepee. Menabozho has said that the time has come for you to go." Peboan's head bent over on his shoulder. The sun melted the snow on the pine trees ; it melted the snow on the teepee. Segun waved her hands over Peboan, and a strange thing happened. Peboan grew smaller and smaller. His deerskin clothes turned to leaves and covered Peboan on the ground. Segun looked, but Peboan was gone. She took some flowers from her hair and hid them under the leaves on the ground. There was ice on the leaves, but it did not hurt the pink flowers. Segun breathed on the flowers, and they became sweet. She said : "I go, but the flowers shall stay to tell of Segun's visit to Peboan. The children shall find them and know that Segun has sent Peboan away. It shall be so each time the snows melt and the rivers begin to run. This flower shall tell that spring has come." Peboan's teepee was sweet with the breath of the flowers, but Segun was gone. — Mary Catherine Judd. From Wigwam autbor. Stones, published by Glnn & Co. Used by permission of_the [60] THE WHISTLE-TREE. The whistle-tree is growing in a green and sunny nook, In the low and marshy meadow where there flows a silver brook ; You must seek it in the springtime, when its leaves are silver- gray, There you'll find the best of whistles almost any sunny day. The whistle-tree is sought for by all wise and wary boys When the whistles are exactly primed to give the loudest noise. The tree bears plenty of them, so there never should be strife, And all one needs to gather with is just a pocket-knife. Let others sing of oak and birch and all the evergreens, Or of the elm and maple bright, adorning country scenes ; The best and finest of them all — at least to all the boys — Is this same merry whistle-tree that grows a crop of noise. Then hurrah for the meadow! Hurrah for the tree ! And hurrah for the whistles Growing there for you and me! . —A. W. M. Used by permission of The Youtb's Companion. [6i] SONG OF SEVEN. There's no dew left on the daisies and clover. There's no rain left in heaven : I've said my "seven times" over and over, Seven times one are seven. I am old, so old, I can write a letter ; My birthday lessons are done; The lambs play always, they know no better; They are only one times one. moon 1 in the night I have seen you sailing And shining so round and low ; You are bright! ah, bright! but your light is failing, — You are nothing now but a bow. You moon, have you done somicthing wrong in heaven That God has hidden your face? 1 hope if you have you will soon be forgiven. And shine again in your place. O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow, You've powdered your legs with gold! O brave marsh marybuds, rich and yellow. Give me your money to hold ! O columbine, open your folded wrapper. Where two twin turtle-doves dwell! cuckoopint, toll me the purple clapper That hangs in your clear green bell ! And show me your nest with the young ones in it; I will not steal them away ; 1 am old ! you may trust me, linnet, linnet, — I am seven times one todav. Used by permlBslon of Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. [62] -lean Ingelow. TOO FOGGY. Two little birds started out to sing When foggy was the weather, They cleared their throats, and whetted their bills, And coughed and wheezed together. They wheezed and coughed as hard as they could, In this dreadful foggy weather Till they spoiled their notes, and split their throats. And turned up their toes together. From Songs and rhymes for the little ones. Used by permission of G. nam's Sons. P. Put- The pedigree of honey Does not concern the bee ; A clover, any time, to him Is aristocracy. — Bmily Dickinson. VIOLETS. Under the green hedges after the snow. There do the dear little violets grow. Hiding their modest and beautiful heads Under the hawthorn in soft mossy beds. Sweet as the roses, and blue as the sky, Down there do the dear little violets lie ; Hiding their heads where they scarce may be seen. By their leaves you may know where the violet hath been. — John Moultrie. [63] MAY. I climbed and I climbed to the top of the tree ; High up in the branches I stood. Below in the field was a man with his plow. And I called him as loud as I could. He stopped and he looked at the fields and the lane. But no one at all could he see; For he never once thought as he wondered and stared, I was up in the top of the tree. I swung and I swayed with the tree in the wind; I was not afraid I would fall. The maple buds put out their little green wings, And nobody saw me at all. — Katherine Pyle. From Prose and Verse for Cblldren. Ueed by permission of American Book Co. THE POLITE OWL. The owl made a bow As I j)assed where she sat, — A very small owl, — She bowed this way and that. So r lifted my hat , Did she just bob her head When the sun hurt her eyes ? So my grandfather said. But she looked very wise For an owl of her size. From A new baby world. Used by permission of The Century Co. [64] THE BUMBLE-BEE AND THE GRASSHOPPER. A bumble-bee, yellow as gold, Sat perched on a red-clover top. When a grasshopper, wiry and old. Came along with a skip and a hop. "Good-morrow !" cried he, "Air. Bumble-bee ! You seem to have come to a stop." "We people tliat work," Said the bee with a jerk, "Find a benefit sometimes in stopping; Only insects like you. Who have nothing to do, Can keep up a perpetual hopping." The grasshopper paused on his way. And thoughtfully hunched up his knees; "Why trouble this sunshiny day," Quoth he, "with reflections like these? I follow the trade for which I was made ; We all can't be wise bumble-bees. "There's a time to be sad. And a time to be glad ; A time both for working and stopping; For men to make money. For you to make honey. And for me to do nothing but hopping." From A new baby world. Used by permission of Tbe Century Co. A IvITTLE COCK SPARROW. A little cock sparrow sat on a green tree. And he chirrup'd, and chirrup'd, so merry was he. But a naughty boy came with a small bow and arrow. Determined to shoot this little cock sparrow. "This little cock sparrow shall make me a stew," Said this naughty boy, "Yes, and a little pie, too." "Oh, no !" said the sparrow, "I won't make a stew," So he fluttered his wings and away he flew. — Mother Goose. The flower that's bright with the sun's own light. And hearty and true and bold. Is the daisy sweet that nods at your feet. And sprinkles the field with gold. THE BUMBLE-BEE. The bumble-bee, the bumble-bee. He flew to the top of the tulip-tree; He flew to the top, but he could not stop. For he had to get home to his early tea. The bumble-bee, the bumble-bee, He flew away from the tulip-tree; But he made a mistake, and flew into the lake, And he never got home to his early tea. from A new baby world. Used by permtsston of Tbe Century Co. [66] THE NIGHTl'NGAIvE AND THE GLOW-WORM A Nightingale, that all day long Had cheered the village with her song, Nor yet at eve his note suspended, Nor yet when eventide was ended. Began to feel, as well he might, The keen demands of appetite ; When looking eagerly around. He spied far off, upon the ground, A something shining in the dark. And knew the glow-worm by his spark; So, stooping down from hawthorn top, He thought to put him in his crop. The worm, aware of his intent. Harangued him thus, right eloquent. "Did you admire my lamp," quoth he, "As much as I your minstrelsy. You would abhor to do me wrong. As much as I to spoil your song; For 'twas the self-same power divine, TaugTit you to sing and me to shine ; That you with music, I with light, Might beautify and cheer the night." The songster heard his short oration, And warbling out his approbation, Released him, as my story tells, , And found a supper somewhere else. — William Cowper. [67] ^ \" THE ANGLER'S REVEILLE. What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night, And all the drowsy little stars have fallen asleep in light; 'Tis then a wandering wind awakes, and runs from tree to tree, And borrows words from all the birds to sound the reveille. This is the carol the Robin throws Over the edge of the valley; Listen how boldly it flows, Sally on sally : Tirra-lirra, Down the river, Laughing water All a-quiver. Day is near, Clear, clear. Fish are breaking. Time for waking. Tup, tup, tup! Do you hear? All clear — Wake up ! The phantom flood of dreams has ebbed and' vanished with the dark, And like a dove the heart forsakes the prison of the ark ; Now forth she fares through friendly woods and diamond-fields of dew. While every voice cries out "Rejoice !" as if the world were new. [68] This is the ballad the Bluebird sings, Unto his mate replying. Shaking the tune from his wings While he is flying: Surely, surely, surely. Life is dear Even here. Blue above. You to love, Purely, purely, purely. There's wild azalea on the hill, and roses down the dell, And just one spray of lilac still abloom beside the well; The columbine adorns the rocks, the laurel buds grow pink, Along the stream white arums gleam, and violets bend to drink. This is the song of the Yellowthroat, Fluttering gaily beside you; Hear how each voluble note Offers to guide you : Which way, sir? I say, sir, Let me teach you, I beseech you! Are you wishing Jolly fishing? This way, sir! I'll teach you. Then come, my friend, forget your foes, and leave your fears be- hind. And wander forth to try your luck, with cheerful, quiet mind ; For be your fortune great or small, you'll take what God may give. And all the day your heart shall say, " 'Tis luck enough to live." 4'i*?f»j? ?>.?«■'-, This is the song the Brown Thrush flings, Out of his thicket of roses; Hark how it warbles and rings, Mark how it closes: lyuck, luck, What luck? Good enough for me ! I'm alive, yqu see. Sun shining. No repining; Never borrow; Idle sorrow; Drop it! Cover it up I " Hold your cup! Joy will fill it. Don't spill it, Steady, be ready, Good luck! — Henry Van Dyke. Prom The tolling of Felix. Copyright 1900, by Chas. Scribner's Sons. Used by permission of the publishers. A light broke in upon my soul — It was the carol of a bird ; It ceased — and then it came again The sweetest song ear ever heard. — Byron. A gush of bird song, a patter of dew, A cloud and a rainbow's warning. Suddenly sunshine and perfect blue — An April day in the morning. [70] — Spofford. THE SINGING LESSON A nightingale made a mistake; She sang a few notes out of tune; Her heart was ready to break, ' And she hid away from the moon. She wrung her claws, poor thing! But was far too proud to weep; She tucked her head under her wing, And pretended to be asleep. "Oh, Nightingale," cooed a dove — "Oh, Nightingale, what's the use? You bird of beauty and love. Why behave like a goose ? Don't skulk away from our sight. Like common, contemptible fowl; You bird of joy and delight, Why behave like an owl? "Only think of all you have done. Only think of all you can do ; A false note is really fun From such a bird as you. Lift up your proud little crest, Open your musical beak; Other birds have to do their best — You need only to speak." The Nightingale shyly took Her head from under her wing. And, giving the dove a look. Straightway began to sing. There was never a bird could pass; The night was divinely calm. And the people stood on the grass To hear that wonderful psalm. [71] The nightingale did not care; She only sang to the skies ; Her song ascended there, And there she fixed her eyes. The people that stood below She knew but little about; And this story's a moral, I know ; If you'll try to find it out. — Jean Ingelow. nsed by permission of Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. ONE THING THAT MONEY CAN NOT COMMAND. Old trees in their living state are the only things that money can not command. Rivers leave their beds, run into cities and traverse mountains for it; obelisks and arches, palaces and tem- ples, amphitheaters and pyramids rise up like exhalations at its bidding. Even the free spirit of man, the only thing great on earth, crouches and cowers in its presence. It passes away and vanishes before venerable trees. There is a cypress tree in Eombardy said to have been standing since the time of Julius Caesar, from which Napoleon, in making a road over the Simplon, deviated from a straight line that he- might not be obliged to cut it down. Yet, there have been many men on whose ground flourished old, magnificent trees of centuries' growth, lifted up into the air with vast breath, and full of twilight at midday — who cut down the mighty forms and cleared the ground bare; and then, when the desolation was completed, and the fierce summer sun gazed full into their faces, they bethought themselves of shade, and forthwith set out a generation of thin, shadowy sticks. Such folly is theirs who refuse the tree of life — ^the shadow of the Almighty — and sit instead under the feeble trees of their own planting, whose tops will never be broad enough to shield them, and whose boughs will never discourse to them the music of the air. — Arbor Day Manual of Texas, ipo2. [72] THE MENACE OF THE FOREST. The climatic history of the Old World will repeat itself in America. If forest destruction, at its present rate of reckless- ness, should continue much longer, our continent will have to dry up. But tlie fact remains, and its significance may be inferred from the experience of the Mediterranean coast lands, where thou- sands of god-gardens have been turned into Gehennas of wretch- edness and desolation. By tree destruction alone a territory of 4,500,000 square miles has been withdrawn from the habitable area of our planet. The physical history of the Eastern hemis- phere is the history of a desert that originated somewhere near the cradle of the Caucasian race — in Bactria, perhaps — ^and spreading westward and southward, has blighted the Edens of three continents like a devouring fire and is now scorching the west coast of Africa, and sending its warning sand clouds far out to seaward. — Dr. Felix L. Oswald, in National Magazine. A gentleman once stood before an oak tree pondering deeply. Nine miles from the coast of Cornwall lay some dangerous rocks on which many a brave ship had been wrecked. Twice a light- house had been erected upon them, and twice destroyed. On what plan could he build a new one, which should stand firm through storm and tempest? The oak tree stands for hundreds of years; branch after branch may be broken off, but the trunk remains firm. Many other trees are torn up by the roots, but never the oak. Mr. "Smeaton wondered if it was the peculiar shape, the broad base and curving waist, that made this tree so strong. He went away, and in 1759 the new Eddystone Light- house was built, broad at the base and sloping upwards like the trunk of the oak tree ; and it stands firm to this day. — Mrs. Dyson. [73] THE LITTLE PLANT. In my little garden bed Raked so nicely over, First the tiny seeds I sow Then with soft earth cover. Shining down, the great round sun Smiles upon it often; Little raindrops pattering down. Help the seeds to soften. Then the little plant awakes ! Down the roots go creeping. Up it lifts its little head Through the brown mould peeping. High and higher still it grows Through the summer hours, Till some happy day the buds Open into flowers. IN APRIL. The poplar drops beside the way Its tasselled plumes of silver-gray ; The chestnut pouts its great brown buds Impatient for the laggard May. The honeysuckles lace the wall, The hyacinths grow fair and tall , And mellow sun and pleasant wind And odorous bees are over all. — Elisabeth Akers. [74] When April, one day, was asked whether She could make reliable weather, She laughed till she cried. And said, "Bless you, I've tried. But the things will get mixed up together." — Jessie McDermott. I heard the bluebird singing To robin in the tree. "Cold winter now is over And spring has come," said he; 'Tis time for flowers to rouse from sleep, And from their downy blankets peep ; So wake, wake, little flowers. Wake, for winter is o'er, Wake, wake, wake. The spring has come once more. — Helen C. Bacon. Many fingered maple Spreads her palms on high. Where the merry breezes Reach and scatter by. "Hurry! I will catch you." Maple shouts in glee, While her dancing leaflets Rustle on the tree. I know, blue modest violets. Gleaming with dew at mom — I know the place you come from. And the way that you are bom ! When God cut holes in Heaven, The holes the stars look through. He let the scraps fall down to earth,- The little scraps are you. [75] MARIGOIJ)S. The marigolds are nodding; I wonder what they know. Go, listen very gently; You may persuade them so. Go, be their little brother. As humble as the grass, And lean upon the hill-wind And watch the shadows pass. Put off the pride of knowledge. Put by the fear of pain ; You may be counted worthy To liye with them again. Be Darwin in your patience, Be Chaucer in your love; They may relent and tell you What they are thinking of. — Bliss Carman. From Last songs from Vagabondia. Small, Majmard & Co. Used by permlssioii of THE BRAVE OLD OAK. E.J. LODSR. H. F, Chorlbv. 1. A song for the oak, the brave old oak. Who hath ruled in the ^eenwood long, Here's 2. He saw the rare times,when the Christmiis chimes Were a mer ry sound to hear. And the health and re-nown to his broad green crown, And his fif • ty arms so strong. squire's wide h^, and the cot - tage small, Were fiiU of Christmas cheer. There' is fear in And all his frown when the sun goes down. And the fire in fhe west fades out ; And he the day to the re-beckgay, lliey carol'd with gladsome swains. They are fe show - eth his might gone, they are dead, m. :^. J^M^ ^ on a wild midnight. When the storms through his branches shout. Then in the church-yard lud. But the brave tree, he still re - mains. Then |g i =4 ^ ^ ^^ =5C still floQT - ish be, a hale green tree. When a hun - died years ate gone. jgL -p-'-p- „ — ^ — ,#t — ^^ — _ ^, «i .ig- -g- J a — ^eu V— p-r— i — i — 1 — I r Trom Favorite Songs and Hymns, copyright 1898, by J. P. McCaskey. Used by permission of American Book Company, publishers, and J. P. McCaskey. {77\ HofFman voA Falleisleben. Translated by Mrs. Anderson, Andante. Flower Dances. 1. In May the val-ley 111- ies ring. Their bells chime clear and sweet; They 2. Then In a trice the lil - ies play, While all to dance be - gin; The 3. Yet Frost has scarce-ly left the vale. When lil ' ies far and near Call ^ m -r—f- Ee ^P4^^ i ^ 3E dt =6S: l ^&=.p=Sz ovj, "Come forth, ye flow - ers all, And dance with twinkling feet. And moon looks on with friend - ly smile. And takes great joy there - in. And quick - ly to the spring-time feast. Their bells ring don - bly, clear. Their 1^ m M :«: ir~r~r 3^ ^ fj - - ' -•-* - ^ » ■,/ 9 dance with twin-kling feet." The bios- soms, gold and blue and white. Coma takes great joy there - in. Then sad - ly vexed is Mas - ter Frost, A - bells ring dou - blj^ clear. I'll stay no Ion • ger in the house. The J^ i^n4- ^ 53 ^ ^ qnick-Iy, one and all; Dear speedwell, blue tor-get - me-not. And vio-lets hear the down the vale comes he; May-lil - ies play gay tunes no more. The pret-ty blossoms lil - ies call me, too; Sweet flow'rets, dancing out of doors, I come to dance with J^/ J\ hr' r. i r. r r. r.\r. r r r i r r f=f =] call, Dear speedwell, blue tor - get - me - not, And vio - lets hear the caU. flee, May - lil - ies play gay tnnes no more. The pret - ty blos-soms flee. you. Sweet flow'rets, dan-cing, out of doors, I com6 to dance with yon. From the Common School Book of Vocal Music of the Modern Music Series. By permission of Sliver, Burdett & Co., publishers. [78] 2)an&elion. M. L. P. Old Tune, arr. by J. B. M.' m I. In ear - ly Spring 'There is a, flow'r, ' A" gay and 2. ' The daj's are bright, The sun shines wariti, And breez - es =3 o — -^atE — r * f^—r . Who wears a coat, So green and But Dan • de - lion. Our Dan - de - trim. And cap of bright . est yel lion. How ver - y old he 's grow low; ing. Grace - ful and His cap turns ^^-_ g^^^^^^S bright In morn-ing light. He nods a- mid the grass . es, 'And shows his gray. Then blows a -way Andfalls a- mid the grass - es; An old man face, His hap-py face, He makes his bow To To the lads las sies. and now. He makes nis Dow ro ev - "ry one that pass • es. From Pray's Motion Songs; copyright 1895, by Mabel L. Pray. By permission of the publishers, D. C. Heath * Company. The Butterfly. I Jennie SI. Youngs. Allegretlo. jf> ErwinOehffie- n f- ^■ ± H 1 ' 1. But - ter - fly, flit - ting by, Have you an - y ■w.oik to do ? 2. Yes, in -deed, o'er each seed I must shake the pol -len box. 3. Then, you know, I must sew Baeh-elor's but-tons in a row 4. Brown-eyed Sue needs me, too, La- dy's slip -per I must tie. ^ I ^ =^ -^ — 1^- Whileyou flit, I must sit, Read-ing les - sons thro' and thro'. Maid'^en's hair needs my care, I must wind the Four - o'-clocka. I must look in the brook. For the dew-drop pearls be - low. Nev - er say e'en in play, I - die is the but - ter - fly. Prom the Common School Book of Vocal Masic of Modem Music Series. By permission of Silver, Burdett & Co., publishers. [79]