The Posy Ring

A YEAR'S WINDFALLS

Who comes dancing over the snow,

His soft little feet all bare and rosy?

Open the door, though the wild winds blow,

Take the child in and make him cosy.

Take him in and hold him dear,

He is the wonderful glad New Year.

Dinah M. Mulock.

* * *

A YEAR'S WINDFALLS

Marjorie's Almanac

Robins in the tree-top,

Blossoms in the grass,

Green things a-growing

Everywhere you pass;

Sudden little breezes,

Showers of silver dew,

Black bough and bent twig

Budding out anew;

Pine-tree and willow-tree,

Fringèd elm and larch,-

Don't you think that May-time's

Pleasanter than March?

Apples in the orchard

Mellowing one by one;

Strawberries upturning

Soft cheeks to the sun;

Roses faint with sweetness,

Lilies fair of face,

Drowsy scents and murmurs

Haunting every place;

Lengths of golden sunshine,

Moonlight bright as day,-

Don't you think that summer's

Pleasanter than May?

Roger in the corn-patch

Whistling negro songs;

Pussy by the hearth-side

Romping with the tongs;

Chestnuts in the ashes

Bursting through the rind;

Red leaf and gold leaf

Rustling down the wind;

Mother "doin' peaches"

All the afternoon,-

Don't you think that autumn's

Pleasanter than June?

Little fairy snow-flakes

Dancing in the flue;

Old Mr. Santa Claus,

What is keeping you?

Twilight and firelight

Shadows come and go;

Merry chime of sleigh-bells

Tinkling through the snow;

Mother knitting stockings

(Pussy's got the ball),-

Don't you think that winter's

Pleasanter than all?

Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

In February

The birds have been singing to-day,

And saying: "The spring is near!

The sun is as warm as in May,

And the deep blue heavens are clear."

The little bird on the boughs

Of the sombre snow-laden pine

Thinks: "Where shall I build me my house,

And how shall I make it fine?

"For the season of snow is past;

The mild south wind is on high;

And the scent of the spring is cast

From his wing as he hurries by."

The little birds twitter and cheep

To their loves on the leafless larch;

But seven feet deep the snow-wreaths sleep,

And the year hath not worn to March.

John Addington Symonds.

March

The cock is crowing,

The stream is flowing,

The small birds twitter,

The lake doth glitter,

The green field sleeps in the sun;

The oldest and youngest

Are at work with the strongest;

The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising;

There are forty feeding like one.

Like an army defeated

The snow hath retreated,

And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill;

The ploughboy is whooping-anon-anon!

There's joy on the mountains;

There's life in the fountains;

Small clouds are sailing,

Blue sky prevailing;

The rain is over and gone.

William Wordsworth.

Nearly Ready[A]

In the snowing and the blowing,

In the cruel sleet,

Little flowers begin their growing

Far beneath our feet.

Softly taps the Spring, and cheerly,

"Darlings, are you here?"

Till they answer, "We are nearly,

Nearly ready, dear."

"Where is Winter, with his snowing?

Tell us, Spring," they say.

Then she answers, "He is going,

Going on his way.

Poor old Winter does not love you;

But his time is past;

Soon my birds shall sing above you,-

Set you free at last."

Mary Mapes Dodge.

Spring Song

Spring comes hither,

Buds the rose;

Roses wither,

Sweet spring goes.

Summer soars,-

Wide-winged day;

White light pours,

Flies away.

Soft winds blow,

Westward born;

Onward go,

Toward the morn.

George Eliot

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.

Elizabeth Akers.

Spring

The alder by the river

Shakes out her powdery curls;

The willow buds in silver

For little boys and girls.

The little birds fly over,

And oh, how sweet they sing!

To tell the happy children

That once again 'tis spring.

The gay green grass comes creeping

So soft beneath their feet;

The frogs begin to ripple

A music clear and sweet.

And buttercups are coming,

And scarlet columbine;

And in the sunny meadows

The dandelions shine.

And just as many daisies

As their soft hands can hold

The little ones may gather,

All fair in white and gold.

Here blows the warm red clover,

There peeps the violet blue;

O happy little children,

God made them all for you!

Celia Thaxter.

The Voice of Spring

I am coming, I am coming!

Hark! the little bee is humming;

See, the lark is soaring high

In the blue and sunny sky;

And the gnats are on the wing,

Wheeling round in airy ring.

See, the yellow catkins cover

All the slender willows over!

And on the banks of mossy green

Star-like primroses are seen;

And, their clustering leaves below,

White and purple violets blow.

Hark! the new-born lambs are bleating,

And the cawing rooks are meeting

In the elms,-a noisy crowd;

All the birds are singing loud;

And the first white butterfly

In the sunshine dances by.

Look around thee, look around!

Flowers in all the fields abound;

Every running stream is bright;

All the orchard trees are white;

And each small and waving shoot

Promises sweet flowers and fruit.

Turn thine eyes to earth and heaven:

God for thee the spring has given,

Taught the birds their melodies,

Clothed the earth, and cleared the skies,

For thy pleasure or thy food:

Pour thy soul in gratitude.

Mary Howitt.

The Coming of Spring

There's something in the air

That's new and sweet and rare-

A scent of summer things,

A whir as if of wings.

There's something, too, that's new

In the color of the blue

That's in the morning sky,

Before the sun is high.

And though on plain and hill

'Tis winter, winter still,

There's something seems to say

That winter's had its day.

And all this changing tint,

This whispering stir and hint

Of bud and bloom and wing,

Is the coming of the spring.

And to-morrow or to-day

The brooks will break away

From their icy, frozen sleep,

And run, and laugh, and leap.

And the next thing, in the woods,

The catkins in their hoods

Of fur and silk will stand,

A sturdy little band.

And the tassels soft and fine

Of the hazel will entwine,

And the elder branches show

Their buds against the snow.

So, silently but swift,

Above the wintry drift,

The long days gain and gain,

Until on hill and plain,-

Once more, and yet once more,

Returning as before,

We see the bloom of birth

Make young again the earth.

Nora Perry.

May

May shall make the world anew;

Golden sun and silver dew,

Money minted in the sky,

Shall the earth's new garments buy.

May shall make the orchards bloom;

And the blossoms' fine perfume

Shall set all the honey-bees

Murmuring among the trees.

May shall make the bud appear

Like a jewel, crystal clear,

'Mid the leaves upon the limb

Where the robin lilts his hymn.

May shall make the wild flowers tell

Where the shining snowflakes fell;

Just as though each snow-flake's heart,

By some secret, magic art,

Were transmuted to a flower

In the sunlight and the shower.

Is there such another, pray,

Wonder-making month as May?

Frank Dempster Sherman.

Spring and Summer

Spring is growing up,

Is not it a pity?

She was such a little thing,

And so very pretty!

Summer is extremely grand,

We must pay her duty,

(But it is to little Spring

That she owes her beauty!)

All the buds are blown,

Trees are dark and shady,

(It was Spring who dress'd them, though,

Such a little lady!)

And the birds sing loud and sweet

Their enchanting hist'ries,

(It was Spring who taught them, though,

Such a singing mistress!)

From the glowing sky

Summer shines above us;

Spring was such a little dear,

But will Summer love us?

She is very beautiful,

With her grown-up blisses,

Summer we must bow before;

Spring we coaxed with kisses!

Spring is growing up,

Leaving us so lonely,

In the place of little Spring

We have Summer only!

Summer with her lofty airs,

And her stately faces,

In the place of little Spring,

With her childish graces!

"A."

Summer Days

Winter is cold-hearted;

Spring is yea and nay;

Autumn is a weathercock,

Blown every way:

Summer days for me,

When every leaf is on its tree,

When Robin's not a beggar,

And Jenny Wren's a bride,

And larks hang, singing, singing, singing,

Over the wheat-fields wide,

And anchored lilies ride,

And the pendulum spider

Swings from side to side,

And blue-black beetles transact business,

And gnats fly in a host,

And furry caterpillars hasten

That no time be lost,

And moths grow fat and thrive,

And ladybirds arrive.

Before green apples blush,

Before green nuts embrown,

Why, one day in the country

Is worth a month in town-

Is worth a day and a year

Of the dusty, musty, lag-last fashion

That days drone elsewhere.

Christina G. Rossetti.

September

The goldenrod is yellow,

The corn is turning brown,

The trees in apple orchards

With fruit are bending down;

The gentian's bluest fringes

Are curling in the sun;

In dusty pods the milkweed

Its hidden silk has spun;

The sedges flaunt their harvest

In every meadow nook,

And asters by the brookside

Make asters in the brook;

From dewy lanes at morning

The grapes' sweet odors rise;

At noon the roads all flutter

With yellow butterflies-

By all these lovely tokens

September days are here,

With summer's best of weather

And autumn's best of cheer.

H. H.

How the Leaves Came Down

I'll tell you how the leaves came down.

The great Tree to his children said,

"You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown,

Yes, very sleepy, little Red;

It is quite time you went to bed."

"Ah!" begged each silly, pouting leaf,

"Let us a little longer stay;

Dear Father Tree, behold our grief,

'Tis such a very pleasant day

We do not want to go away."

So, just for one more merry day

To the great Tree the leaflets clung,

Frolicked and danced and had their way,

Upon the autumn breezes swung,

Whispering all their sports among,

"Perhaps the great Tree will forget

And let us stay until the spring,

If we all beg and coax and fret."

But the great Tree did no such thing;

He smiled to hear their whispering.

"Come, children all, to bed," he cried;

And ere the leaves could urge their prayer

He shook his head, and far and wide,

Fluttering and rustling everywhere,

Down sped the leaflets through the air.

I saw them; on the ground they lay,

Golden and red, a huddled swarm,

Waiting till one from far away,

White bed-clothes heaped upon her arm,

Should come to wrap them safe and warm.

The great bare Tree looked down and smiled.

"Good-night, dear little leaves," he said;

And from below each sleepy child

Replied "Good-night," and murmured,

"It is so nice to go to bed."

Susan Coolidge.

Winter Night

Blow, wind, blow!

Drift the flying snow!

Send it twirling, whirling overhead!

There's a bedroom in a tree

Where, snug as snug can be,

The squirrel nests in his cosey bed.

Shriek, wind, shriek!

Make the branches creak!

Battle with the boughs till break o' day!

In a snow-cave warm and tight,

Through the icy winter night

The rabbit sleeps the peaceful hours away.

Call, wind, call,

In entry and in hall,

Straight from off the mountain white and wild!

Soft purrs the pussy-cat

On her little fluffy mat,

And beside her nestles close her furry child.

Scold, wind, scold,

So bitter and so bold!

Shake the windows with your tap, tap, tap!

With half-shut, dreamy eyes

The drowsy baby lies

Cuddled closely in his mother's lap.

Mary F. Butts.

A Year's Windfalls

On the wind of January

Down flits the snow,

Travelling from the frozen North

As cold as it can blow.

Poor robin redbreast,

Look where he comes;

Let him in to feel your fire,

And toss him of your crumbs.

On the wind in February

Snowflakes float still,

Half inclined to turn to rain,

Nipping, dripping, chill.

Then the thaws swell the streams,

And swollen rivers swell the sea:-

If the winter ever ends

How pleasant it will be.

In the wind of windy March

The catkins drop down,

Curly, caterpillar-like,

Curious green and brown.

With concourse of nest-building birds

And leaf-buds by the way,

We begin to think of flowers

And life and nuts some day.

With the gusts of April

Rich fruit-tree blossoms fall,

On the hedged-in orchard-green,

From the southern wall.

Apple-trees and pear-trees

Shed petals white or pink,

Plum-trees and peach-trees;

While sharp showers sink and sink.

Little brings the May breeze

Beside pure scent of flowers,

While all things wax and nothing wanes

In lengthening daylight hours.

Across the hyacinth beds

The wind lags warm and sweet,

Across the hawthorn tops,

Across the blades of wheat.

In the wind of sunny June

Thrives the red rose crop,

Every day fresh blossoms blow

While the first leaves drop;

White rose and yellow rose

And moss rose choice to find,

And the cottage cabbage-rose

Not one whit behind.

On the blast of scorched July

Drives the pelting hail,

From thunderous lightning-clouds, that blot

Blue heaven grown lurid-pale.

Weedy waves are tossed ashore,

Sea-things strange to sight

Gasp upon the barren shore

And fade away in light.

In the parching August wind

Corn-fields bow the head,

Sheltered in round valley depths,

On low hills outspread.

Early leaves drop loitering down

Weightless on the breeze,

First fruits of the year's decay

From the withering trees.

In brisk wind of September

The heavy-headed fruits

Shake upon their bending boughs

And drop from the shoots;

Some glow golden in the sun,

Some show green and streaked,

Some set forth a purple bloom,

Some blush rosy-cheeked.

In strong blast of October

At the equinox,

Stirred up in his hollow bed

Broad ocean rocks;

Plunge the ships on his bosom,

Leaps and plunges the foam,

It's oh! for mothers' sons at sea,

That they were safe at home.

In slack wind of November

The fog forms and shifts;

All the world comes out again

When the fog lifts.

Loosened from their sapless twigs

Leaves drop with every gust;

Drifting, rustling, out of sight

In the damp or dust.

Last of all, December,

The year's sands nearly run,

Speeds on the shortest day,

Curtails the sun;

With its bleak raw wind

Lays the last leaves low,

Brings back the nightly frosts,

Brings back the snow.

Christina G. Rossetti.

* * *

Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,

With the wonderful water round you curled,

And the wonderful grass upon your breast,

World, you are beautifully drest.

William Brighty Rands.

* * *

THE CHILD'S WORLD

The Wonderful World

Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,

With the wonderful water round you curled,

And the wonderful grass upon your breast,

World, you are beautifully drest.

The wonderful air is over me,

And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree-

It walks on the water, and whirls the mills,

And talks to itself on the top of the hills.

You friendly Earth, how far do you go,

With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow,

With cities and gardens, and cliffs and isles,

And people upon you for thousands of miles?

Ah! you are so great, and I am so small,

I hardly can think of you, World, at all;

And yet, when I said my prayers to-day,

My mother kissed me, and said, quite gay,

"If the wonderful World is great to you,

And great to father and mother, too,

You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot!

You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!"

William Brighty Rands.

A Day

I'll tell you how the sun rose,

A ribbon at a time.

The steeples swam in amethyst,

The news like squirrels ran.

The hills untied their bonnets,

The bobolinks begun.

Then I said softly to myself,

"That must have been the sun!"

. . . . . . . .

But how he set, I know not.

There seemed a purple stile

Which little yellow boys and girls

Were climbing all the while

Till when they reached the other side,

A dominie in gray

Put gently up the evening bars,

And led the flock away.

Emily Dickinson.

Good-Morning

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.

What the Winds Bring

Which is the Wind that brings the cold?

The North-Wind, Freddy, and all the snow;

And the sheep will scamper into the fold

When the North begins to blow.

Which is the Wind that brings the heat?

The South-Wind, Katy; and corn will grow,

And peaches redden for you to eat,

When the South begins to blow.

Which is the Wind that brings the rain?

The East-Wind, Arty; and farmers know

The cows come shivering up the lane,

When the East begins to blow.

Which is the Wind that brings the flowers?

The West-Wind, Bessy; and soft and low

The birdies sing in the summer hours,

When the West begins to blow.

Edmund Clarence Stedman.

Lady Moon

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?

"Over the sea."

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?

"All that love me."

Are you not tired with rolling, and never

Resting to sleep?

Why look so pale and so sad, as forever

Wishing to weep?

"Ask me not this, little child, if you love me:

You are too bold:

I must obey my dear Father above me,

And do as I'm told."

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?

"Over the sea."

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?

"All that love me."

Lord Houghton.

O Lady Moon[B]

O Lady Moon, your horns point toward the east:

Shine, be increased;

O Lady Moon, your horns point toward the west:

Wane, be at rest.

Christina G. Rossetti.

Windy Nights[C]

Whenever the moon and stars are set,

Whenever the wind is high,

All night long in the dark and wet,

A man goes riding by,

Late at night when the fires are out,

Why does he gallop and gallop about?

Whenever the trees are crying aloud,

And ships are tossed at sea,

By, on the highway, low and loud,

By at the gallop goes he.

By at the gallop he goes, and then

By he comes back at the gallop again.

Robert Louis Stevenson.

Wild Winds

Oh, oh, how the wild winds blow!

Blow high,

Blow low,

And whirlwinds go,

To chase the little leaves that fly-

Fly low and high,

To hollow and to steep hill-side;

They shiver in the dreary weather,

And creep in little heaps together,

And nestle close and try to hide.

Oh, oh, how the wild winds blow!

Blow low,

Blow high,

And whirlwinds try

To find a crevice-to find a crack,

They whirl to the front; they whirl to the back.

But Tommy and Will and the baby together

Are snug and safe from the wintry weather.

All the winds that blow

Cannot touch a toe-

Cannot twist or twirl

One silken curl.

They may rattle the doors in a noisy pack,

But the blazing fires will drive them back.

Mary F. Butts.

Now the Noisy Winds Are Still[D]

Now the noisy winds are still;

April's coming up the hill!

All the spring is in her train,

Led by shining ranks of rain;

Pit, pat, patter, clatter,

Sudden sun, and clatter, patter!-

First the blue, and then the shower;

Bursting bud, and smiling flower;

Brooks set free with tinkling ring;

Birds too full of song to sing;

Crisp old leaves astir with pride,

Where the timid violets hide,-

All things ready with a will,-

April's coming up the hill!

Mary Mapes Dodge.

The Wind

The wind has a language, I would I could learn;

Sometimes 'tis soothing, and sometimes 'tis stern;

Sometimes it comes like a low, sweet song,

And all things grow calm, as the sound floats along;

And the forest is lulled by the dreamy strain;

And slumber sinks down on the wandering main;

And its crystal arms are folded in rest,

And the tall ship sleeps on its heaving breast.

Letitia Elizabeth Landon.

The Fountain

Into the sunshine,

Full of the light,

Leaping and flashing

From morn till night!

Into the moonlight,

Whiter than snow,

Waving so flower-like

When the winds blow!

Into the starlight,

Rushing in spray,

Happy at midnight,

Happy by day;

Ever in motion,

Blithesome and cheery,

Still climbing heavenward,

Never aweary;

Glad of all weathers;

Still seeming best,

Upward or downward;

Motion thy rest;

Full of a nature

Nothing can tame,

Changed every moment,

Ever the same;

Ceaseless aspiring,

Ceaseless content,

Darkness or sunshine

Thy element;

Glorious fountain!

Let my heart be

Fresh, changeful, constant,

Upward like thee!

James Russell Lowell.

The Waterfall

Tinkle, tinkle!

Listen well!

Like a fairy silver bell

In the distance ringing,

Lightly swinging

In the air;

'Tis the water in the dell

Where the elfin minstrels dwell,

Falling in a rainbow sprinkle,

Dropping stars that brightly twinkle,

Bright and fair,

On the darkling pool below,

Making music so;

'Tis the water elves who play

On their lutes of spray.

Tinkle, tinkle!

Like a fairy silver bell;

Like a pebble in a shell;

Tinkle, tinkle!

Listen well!

Frank Dempster Sherman.

The Voice of the Grass

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;

By the dusty roadside,

On the sunny hill-side,

Close by the noisy brook,

In every shady nook,

I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere;

All around the open door,

Where sit the aged poor;

Here where the children play,

In the bright and merry May,

I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;

In the noisy city street

My pleasant face you'll meet,

Cheering the sick at heart

Toiling his busy part,-

Silently creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;

You cannot see me coming,

Nor hear my low sweet humming;

For in the starry night,

And the glad morning light,

I come quietly creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;

More welcome than the flowers

In summer's pleasant hours;

The gentle cow is glad,

And the merry bird not sad,

To see me creeping, creeping everywhere.

. . . . . . . .

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;

My humble song of praise

Most joyfully I raise

To him at whose command

I beautify the land,

Creeping, silently creeping everywhere.

Sarah Roberts Boyle.

The Wind in a Frolic

The wind one morning sprang up from sleep,

Saying, "Now for a frolic! Now for a leap!

Now for a madcap, galloping chase!

I'll make a commotion in every place!"

So it swept with a bustle right through a great town,

Creaking the signs, and scattering down

Shutters, and whisking, with merciless squalls,

Old women's bonnets and gingerbread stalls.

There never was heard a much lustier shout,

As the apples and oranges tumbled about;

And the urchins that stand with their thievish eyes

Forever on watch, ran off with each prize.

Then away to the field it went blustering and humming,

And the cattle all wondered whatever was coming.

It plucked by their tails the grave matronly cows,

And tossed the colts' manes all about their brows,

Till offended at such a familiar salute,

They all turned their backs and stood silently mute.

So on it went capering and playing its pranks;

Whistling with reeds on the broad river-banks;

Puffing the birds as they sat on the spray,

Or the traveller grave on the king's highway.

It was not too nice to bustle the bags

Of the beggar and flutter his dirty rags.

'Twas so bold that it feared not to play its joke

With the doctor's wig and the gentleman's cloak.

Through the forest it roared, and cried gayly, "Now,

You sturdy old oaks, I'll make you bow!"

And it made them bow without more ado,

Or it cracked their branches through and through.

Then it rushed like a monster o'er cottage and farm,

Striking their inmates with sudden alarm;

And they ran out like bees in a midsummer swarm.

There were dames with their kerchiefs tied over their caps,

To see if their poultry were free from mishaps;

The turkeys they gobbled, the geese screamed aloud,

And the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd;

There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on,

Where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to be gone.

But the wind had passed on, and had met in a lane

With a schoolboy, who panted and struggled in vain,

For it tossed him, and twirled him, then passed, and he stood

With his hat in a pool and his shoe in the mud.

William Howitt.

Clouds

The sky is full of clouds to-day,

And idly to and fro,

Like sheep across the pasture, they

Across the heavens go.

I hear the wind with merry noise-

Around the housetops sweep,

And dream it is the shepherd boys,

They're driving home their sheep.

The clouds move faster now; and see!

The west is red and gold.

Each sheep seems hastening to be

The first within the fold.

I watch them hurry on until

The blue is clear and deep,

And dream that far beyond the hill

The shepherds fold their sheep.

Then in the sky the trembling stars

Like little flowers shine out,

While Night puts up the shadow bars,

And darkness falls about.

I hear the shepherd wind's good-night-

"Good-night and happy sleep!"

And dream that in the east, all white,

Slumber the clouds, the sheep.

Frank Dempster Sherman.

Signs of Rain

The hollow winds begin to blow,

The clouds look black, the glass is low,

The soot falls down, the spaniels sleep,

The spiders from their cobwebs peep:

Last night the sun went pale to bed,

The moon in halos hid her head;

The boding shepherd heaves a sigh,

For, see, a rainbow spans the sky:

The walls are damp, the ditches smell,

Closed is the pink-eyed pimpernel.

Hark how the chairs and tables crack!

Old Betty's joints are on the rack;

Loud quack the ducks, the peacocks cry,

The distant hills are seeming nigh.

How restless are the snorting swine;

The busy flies disturb the kine;

Low o'er the grass the swallow wings,

The cricket too, how sharp he sings;

Puss on the hearth, with velvet paws,

Sits wiping o'er her whiskered jaws.

Through the clear stream the fishes rise,

And nimbly catch the incautious flies.

The glow-worms, numerous and bright,

Illumed the dewy dell last night.

At dusk the squalid toad was seen,

Hopping and crawling o'er the green;

The whirling wind the dust obeys,

And in the rapid eddy plays;

The frog has changed his yellow vest,

And in a russet coat is dressed.

Though June, the air is cold and still,

The mellow blackbird's voice is shrill.

My dog, so altered in his taste,

Quits mutton-bones on grass to feast;

And see yon rooks, how odd their flight,

They imitate the gliding kite,

And seem precipitate to fall,

As if they felt the piercing ball.

'Twill surely rain, I see with sorrow,

Our jaunt must be put off to-morrow.

Edward Jenner.

A Sudden Shower

Barefooted boys scud up the street,

Or scurry under sheltering sheds;

And school-girl faces, pale and sweet,

Gleam from the shawls about their heads.

Doors bang; and mother-voices call

From alien homes; and rusty gates

Are slammed; and high above it all

The thunder grim reverberates.

And then abrupt,-the rain, the rain!

The earth lies gasping; and the eyes

Behind the streaming window-panes

Smile at the trouble of the skies.

The highway smokes, sharp echoes ring;

The cattle bawl and cow-bells clank;

And into town comes galloping

The farmer's horse, with steaming flank.

The swallow dips beneath the eaves,

And flirts his plumes and folds his wings;

And under the catawba leaves

The caterpillar curls and clings.

The bumble-bee is pelted down

The wet stem of the hollyhock;

And sullenly in spattered brown

The cricket leaps the garden walk.

Within, the baby claps his hands

And crows with rapture strange and vague;

Without, beneath the rosebush stands

A dripping rooster on one leg.

James Whitcomb Riley.

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.

Guessing Song

Oh ho! oh ho! Pray, who can I be?

I sweep o'er the land, I scour o'er the sea;

I cuff the tall trees till they bow down their heads,

And I rock the wee birdies asleep in their beds.

Oh ho! oh ho! And who can I be,

That sweep o'er the land and scour o'er the sea?

I rumple the breast of the gray-headed daw,

I tip the rook's tail up and make him cry "caw";

But though I love fun, I'm so big and so strong,

At a puff of my breath the great ships sail along.

Oh ho! oh ho! And who can I be,

That sweep o'er the land and sail o'er the sea?

I swing all the weather-cocks this way and that,

I play hare-and-hounds with a runaway hat;

But however I wander, I never can stray,

For go where I will, I've a free right of way!

Oh ho! oh ho! And who can I be,

That sweep o'er the land and scour o'er the sea?

I skim o'er the heather, I dance up the street,

I've foes that I laugh at, and friends that I greet;

I'm known in the country, I'm named in the town,

For all the world over extends my renown.

Oh ho! oh ho! And who can I be,

That sweep o'er the land and scour o'er the sea?

Henry Johnstone.

The Rivulet

Run, little rivulet, run!

Summer is fairly begun.

Bear to the meadow the hymn of the pines,

And the echo that rings where the waterfall shines;

Run, little rivulet, run!

Run, little rivulet, run!

Sing to the fields of the sun

That wavers in emerald, shimmers in gold,

Where you glide from your rocky ravine, crystal-cold;

Run, little rivulet, run!

Run, little rivulet, run!

Sing of the flowers, every one,-

Of the delicate harebell and violet blue;

Of the red mountain rose-bud, all dripping with dew;

Run, little rivulet, run!

Run, little rivulet, run!

Carry the perfume you won

From the lily, that woke when the morning was gray,

To the white waiting moonbeam adrift on the bay;

Run, little rivulet, run!

Run, little rivulet, run!

Stay not till summer is done!

Carry the city the mountain-birds' glee;

Carry the joy of the hills to the sea;

Run, little rivulet, run!

Lucy Larcom.

Jack Frost

The Frost looked forth on a still, clear night,

And whispered, "Now, I shall be out of sight;

So, through the valley, and over the height,

In silence I'll take my way.

I will not go on like that blustering train,

The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,

That make such a bustle and noise in vain;

But I'll be as busy as they!"

So he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest.

He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed

With diamonds and pearls; and over the breast

Of the quivering lake, he spread

A coat of mail, that it need not fear

The glittering point of many a spear

Which he hung on its margin, far and near,

Where a rock could rear its head.

He went to the window of those who slept,

And over each pane like a fairy crept:

Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped,

By the light of the morn were seen

Most beautiful things!-there were flowers and trees,

There were bevies of birds, and swarms of bees;

There were cities and temples and towers; and these

All pictured in silvery sheen!

But he did one thing that was hardly fair-

He peeped in the cupboard: and finding there

That all had forgotten for him to prepare.

"Now, just to set them a-thinking,

I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he,

"This costly pitcher I'll burst in three!

And the glass of water they've left for me,

Shall 'tchick' to tell them I'm drinking."

Hannah F. Gould.

Snowflakes[E]

Whenever a snowflake leaves the sky,

It turns and turns to say "Good-by!

Good-by, dear clouds, so cool and gray!"

Then lightly travels on its way.

And when a snowflake finds a tree,

"Good-day!" it says-"Good-day to thee!

Thou art so bare and lonely, dear,

I'll rest and call my comrades here."

But when a snowflake, brave and meek,

Lights on a rosy maiden's cheek,

It starts-"How warm and soft the day!

'Tis summer!"-and it melts away.

Mary Mapes Dodge.

The Water! the Water!

The Water! the Water!

The joyous brook for me,

That tuneth through the quiet night

Its ever-living glee.

The Water! the Water!

That sleepless, merry heart,

Which gurgles on unstintedly,

And loveth to impart,

To all around it, some small measure

Of its own most perfect pleasure.

The Water! the Water!

The gentle stream for me,

That gushes from the old gray stone

Beside the alder-tree.

The Water! the Water!

That ever-bubbling spring

I loved and look'd on while a child,

In deepest wondering,-

And ask'd it whence it came and went,

And when its treasures would be spent.

The Water! the Water!

The merry, wanton brook

That bent itself to pleasure me,

Like mine old shepherd crook.

The Water! the Water!

That sang so sweet at noon,

And sweeter still all night, to win

Smiles from the pale proud moon,

And from the little fairy faces

That gleam in heaven's remotest places.

. . . . . . . .

William Motherwell.

* * *

Then the little Hiawatha

Learned of every bird its language,

Learned their names and all their secrets,

How they built their nests in Summer,

Where they hid themselves in Winter,

Talked with them whene'er he met them,

Called them "Hiawatha's Chickens."

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

* * *

HIAWATHA'S CHICKENS

The Swallows

Gallant and gay in their doublets gray,

All at a flash like the darting of flame,

Chattering Arabic, African, Indian-

Certain of springtime, the swallows came!

Doublets of gray silk and surcoats of purple,

And ruffs of russet round each little throat,

Wearing such garb they had crossed the waters,

Mariners sailing with never a boat.

Edwin Arnold.

The Swallow's Nest

Day after day her nest she moulded,

Building with magic, love and mud,

A gray cup made by a thousand journeys,

And the tiny beak was trowel and hod.

Edwin Arnold.

The Birds in Spring

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;

Then blooms each thing, then Maids dance in a ring,

Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing-

Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The Palm and May make country houses gay,

Lambs frisk and play, the Shepherds pipe all day,

And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay-

Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The Fields breathe sweet, the Daisies kiss our feet,

Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,

In every Street these Tunes our ears do greet-

Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

Spring, the sweet Spring!

Thomas Nashe.

Robin Redbreast

(A Child's Song)

Good-bye, good-bye to Summer!

For Summer's nearly done;

The garden smiling faintly,

Cool breezes in the sun;

Our Thrushes now are silent,

Our Swallows flown away,-

But Robin's here, in coat of brown,

With ruddy breast-knot gay.

Robin, Robin Redbreast,

O Robin dear!

Robin singing sweetly

In the falling of the year.

Bright yellow, red, and orange,

The leaves come down in hosts;

The trees are Indian Princes,

But soon they'll turn to Ghosts;

The scanty pears and apples

Hang russet on the bough,

It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late,

'Twill soon be Winter now.

Robin, Robin Redbreast,

O Robin dear!

And welaway! my Robin,

For pinching times are near.

The fireside for the Cricket,

The wheatstack for the Mouse,

When trembling night-winds whistle

And moan all round the house;

The frosty ways like iron,

The branches plumed with snow,-

Alas! in Winter, dead and dark,

Where can poor Robin go?

Robin, Robin Redbreast,

O Robin dear!

And a crumb of bread for Robin,

His little heart to cheer.

William Allingham.

The Lark and the Rook

"Good-night, Sir Rook!" said a little lark.

"The daylight fades; it will soon be dark;

I've bathed my wings in the sun's last ray;

I've sung my hymn to the parting day;

So now I haste to my quiet nook

In yon dewy meadow-good-night, Sir Rook!"

"Good-night, poor Lark," said his titled friend

With a haughty toss and a distant bend;

"I also go to my rest profound,

But not to sleep on the cold, damp ground.

The fittest place for a bird like me

Is the topmost bough of yon tall pine-tree.

"I opened my eyes at peep of day

And saw you taking your upward way,

Dreaming your fond romantic dreams,

An ugly speck in the sun's bright beams;

Soaring too high to be seen or heard;

And I said to myself: 'What a foolish bird!'

"I trod the park with a princely air,

I filled my crop with the richest fare;

I cawed all day 'mid a lordly crew,

And I made more noise in the world than you!

The sun shone forth on my ebon wing;

I looked and wondered-good-night, poor thing!"

"Good-night, once more," said the lark's sweet voice.

"I see no cause to repent my choice;

You build your nest in the lofty pine,

But is your slumber more sweet than mine?

You make more noise in the world than I,

But whose is the sweeter minstrelsy?"

Unknown.

The Snowbird

In the rosy light trills the gay swallow,

The thrush, in the roses below;

The meadow-lark sings in the meadow,

But the snowbird sings in the snow.

Ah me!

Chickadee!

The snowbird sings in the snow!

The blue martin trills in the gable,

The wren, in the gourd below;

In the elm flutes the golden robin,

But the snowbird sings in the snow.

Ah me!

Chickadee!

The snowbird sings in the snow!

High wheels the gray wing of the osprey,

The wing of the sparrow drops low;

In the mist dips the wing of the robin,

And the snowbird's wing in the snow.

Ah me!

Chickadee!

The snowbird sings in the snow.

I love the high heart of the osprey,

The meek heart of the thrush below,

The heart of the lark in the meadow,

And the snowbird's heart in the snow.

But dearest to me,

Chickadee! Chickadee!

Is that true little heart in the snow.

Hezekiah Butterworth.

Who Stole the Bird's Nest?

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!

Will you listen to me?

Who stole four eggs I laid,

And the nice nest I made?"

"Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo!

Such a thing I'd never do.

I gave you a wisp of hay,

But didn't take your nest away.

Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo!

Such a thing I'd never do."

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!

Will you listen to me?

Who stole four eggs I laid,

And the nice nest I made?"

"Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link!

Now what do you think?

Who stole a nest away

From the plum-tree, to-day?"

"Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow!

I wouldn't be so mean, anyhow!

I gave hairs the nest to make,

But the nest I did not take.

Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow!

I'm not so mean, anyhow."

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!

Will you listen to me?

Who stole four eggs I laid,

And the nice nest I made?"

"Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link!

Now what do you think?

Who stole a nest away

From the plum-tree, to-day?"

"Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo!

Let me speak a word, too!

Who stole that pretty nest

From little yellow-breast?"

"Not I," said the sheep; "Oh, no!

I wouldn't treat a poor bird so.

I gave wool the nest to line,

But the nest was none of mine.

Baa! Baa!" said the sheep, "Oh, no

I wouldn't treat a poor bird so."

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!

Will you listen to me?

Who stole four eggs I laid,

And the nice nest I made?"

"Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link!

Now what do you think?

Who stole a nest away

From the plum-tree, to-day?"

"Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo!

Let me speak a word, too!

Who stole that pretty nest

From little yellow-breast?"

"Caw! Caw!" cried the crow;

"I should like to know

What thief took away

A bird's nest, to-day?"

"Cluck! Cluck!" said the hen;

"Don't ask me again,

Why I haven't a chick

Would do such a trick.

We all gave her a feather,

And she wove them together.

I'd scorn to intrude

On her and her brood.

Cluck! Cluck!" said the hen,

"Don't ask me again."

"Chirr-a-whirr! Chirr-a-whirr!

All the birds make a stir!

Let us find out his name,

And all cry 'For shame!'"

"I would not rob a bird,"

Said little Mary Green;

"I think I never heard

Of anything so mean."

"It is very cruel, too,"

Said little Alice Neal;

"I wonder if he knew

How sad the bird would feel?"

A little boy hung down his head,

And went and hid behind the bed,

For he stole that pretty nest

From poor little yellow-breast;

And he felt so full of shame,

He didn't like to tell his name.

Lydia Maria Child.

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;

Then 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 Taylor Coleridge.

The Burial of the Linnet

Found in the garden dead in his beauty-

Oh that a linnet should die in the spring!

Bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty,

Muffle the dinner-bell, solemnly ring.

Bury him kindly, up in the corner;

Bird, beast, and goldfish are sepulchred there

Bid the black kitten march as chief mourner,

Waving her tail like a plume in the air.

Bury him nobly-next to the donkey;

Fetch the old banner, and wave it about;

Bury him deeply-think of the monkey,

Shallow his grave, and the dogs got him out.

Bury him softly-white wool around him,

Kiss his poor feathers-the first kiss and last;

Tell his poor widow kind friends have found him:

Plant his poor grave with whatever grows fast.

Farewell, sweet singer! dead in thy beauty,

Silent through summer, though other birds sing,

Bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty,

Muffle the dinner-bell, mournfully ring.

Juliana Horatia Ewing.

The Titmouse

. . . . Piped a tiny voice hard by,

Gay and polite, a cheerful cry,

Chic-chicadeedee! saucy note

Out of sound heart and merry throat,

As if it said, "Good-day, good sir!

Fine afternoon, old passenger!

Happy to meet you in these places,

Where January brings few faces."

This poet, though he live apart,

Moved by his hospitable heart,

Sped, when I passed his sylvan fort,

To do the honors of his court,

As fits a feathered lord of land;

Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand;

Hopped on the bough, then, darting low,

Prints his small impress on the snow,

Shows feats of his gymnastic play,

Head downward, clinging to the spray,

. . . . . . . .

Here was this atom in full breath,

Hurling defiance at vast death.

This scrap of valor, just for play,

Fronts the north wind in waistcoat gray.

. . . . . . . .

Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Birds in Summer

How pleasant the life of a bird must be,

Flitting about in each leafy tree;

In the leafy trees so broad and tall,

Like a green and beautiful palace hall,

With its airy chambers, light and boon,

That open to sun, and stars, and moon;

That open unto the bright blue sky,

And the frolicsome winds as they wander by!

They have left their nests in the forest bough;

Those homes of delight they need not now;

And the young and old they wander out,

And traverse the green world round about;

And hark at the top of this leafy hall,

How, one to another, they lovingly call!

"Come up, come up!" they seem to say,

"Where the topmost twigs in the breezes play!"

"Come up, come up, for the world is fair,

Where the merry leaves dance in the summer air!"

And the birds below give back the cry,

"We come, we come to the branches high!"

How pleasant the life of the birds must be,

Living above in a leafy tree!

And away through the air what joy to go,

And to look on the green, bright earth below!

How pleasant the life of a bird must be,

Skimming about on the breezy sea,

Cresting the billows like silvery foam,

Then wheeling away to its cliff-built home!

What joy it must be to sail, upborne,

By a strong free wing, through the rosy morn,

To meet the young sun, face to face,

And pierce, like a shaft, the boundless space!

To pass through the bowers of the silver cloud;

To sing in the thunder halls aloud:

To spread out the wings for a wild, free flight

With the upper cloud-winds,-oh, what delight!

Oh, what would I give, like a bird, to go,

Right on through the arch of the sun-lit bow,

And see how the water-drops are kissed

Into green and yellow and amethyst.

How pleasant the life of a bird must be,

Wherever it listeth, there to flee;

To go, when a joyful fancy calls,

Dashing down 'mong the waterfalls;

Then wheeling about, with its mate at play,

Above and below, and among the spray,

Hither and thither, with screams as wild

As the laughing mirth of a rosy child.

What joy it must be, like a living breeze,

To flutter about 'mid the flowering trees;

Lightly to soar and to see beneath,

The wastes of the blossoming purple heath,

And the yellow furze, like fields of gold,

That gladden some fairy region old!

On mountain-tops, on the billowy sea,

On the leafy stems of the forest-tree,

How pleasant the life of a bird must be!

Mary Howitt.

An Epitaph on a Robin Redbreast

Tread lightly here; for here, 'tis said,

When piping winds are hush'd around,

A small note wakes from underground,

Where now his tiny bones are laid.

No more in lone or leafless groves,

With ruffled wing and faded breast,

His friendless, homeless spirit roves;

Gone to the world where birds are blest!

Where never cat glides o'er the green,

Or school-boy's giant form is seen;

But love, and joy, and smiling Spring

Inspire their little souls to sing!

Samuel Rogers.

The Bluebird

I know the song that the bluebird is singing,

Out in the apple-tree where he is swinging.

Brave little fellow! the skies may be dreary,

Nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery.

Hark! how the music leaps out from his throat!

Hark! was there ever so merry a note?

Listen awhile, and you'll hear what he's saying,

Up in the apple-tree, swinging and swaying:

"Dear little blossoms, down under the snow,

You must be weary of winter, I know;

Hark! while I sing you a message of cheer,

Summer is coming and spring-time is here!

"Little white snowdrop, I pray you arise;

Bright yellow crocus, come, open your eyes;

Sweet little violets hid from the cold,

Put on your mantles of purple and gold;

Daffodils, daffodils! say, do you hear?

Summer is coming, and spring-time is here!"

Mrs. Emily Huntington Miller.

Song

I had a dove and the sweet dove died;

And I have thought it died of grieving:

O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied

With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving;

Sweet little red feet! why should you die-

Why should you leave me, sweet bird! why?

You lived alone in the forest-tree,

Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me?

I kiss'd you oft and gave you white peas;

Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?

John Keats.

What Does Little Birdie Say?

What does little birdie say,

In her nest at peep of day?

"Let me fly," says little birdie,

"Mother, let me fly away."

Birdie, rest a little longer,

Till the little wings are stronger

So she rests a little longer,

Then she flies away.

What does little baby say,

In her bed at peep of day?

Baby says, like little birdie,

"Let me rise and fly away."

Baby, sleep a little longer,

Till the little limbs are stronger.

If she sleeps a little longer,

Baby, too, shall fly away.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

The Owl

When cats run home and light is come,

And dew is cold upon the ground,

And the far-off stream is dumb,

And the whirring sail goes round;

And the whirring sail goes round;

Alone and warming his five wits,

The white owl in the belfry sits.

When merry milkmaids click the latch,

And rarely smells the new-mown hay,

And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch

Twice or thrice his roundelay,

Twice or thrice his roundelay;

Alone and warming his five wits,

The white owl in the belfry sits.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

Wild Geese

The wild wind blows, the sun shines, the birds sing loud,

The blue, blue sky is flecked with fleecy dappled cloud,

Over earth's rejoicing fields the children dance and sing,

And the frogs pipe in chorus, "It is spring! It is spring!"

The grass comes, the flower laughs where lately lay the snow,

O'er the breezy hill-top hoarsely calls the crow,

By the flowing river the alder catkins swing,

And the sweet song-sparrow cries, "Spring! It is spring!"

Hark, what a clamor goes winging through the sky!

Look, children! Listen to the sound so wild and high!

Like a peal of broken bells,-kling, klang, kling,-

Far and high the wild geese cry, "Spring! It is spring!"

Bear the winter off with you, O wild geese dear!

Carry all the cold away, far away from here;

Chase the snow into the north, O strong of heart and wing,

While we share the robin's rapture, crying "Spring! It is spring!"

Celia Thaxter.

Chanticleer

I wake! I feel the day is near;

I hear the red cock crowing!

He cries "'Tis dawn!" How sweet and clear

His cheerful call comes to my ear,

While light is slowly growing.

The white snow gathers flake on flake;

I hear the red cock crowing!

Is anybody else awake

To see the winter morning break,

While thick and fast 'tis snowing?

I think the world is all asleep;

I hear the red cock crowing!

Out of the frosty pane I peep;

The drifts are piled so wide and deep,

And wild the wind is blowing!

Nothing I see has shape or form;

I hear the red cock crowing!

But that dear voice comes through the storm

To greet me in my nest so warm,

As if the sky were glowing!

A happy little child, I lie

And hear the red cock crowing.

The day is dark. I wonder why

His voice rings out so brave and high,

With gladness overflowing.

Celia Thaxter.

The Singer

O Lark! sweet lark!

Where learn you all your minstrelsy?

What realms are those to which you fly?

While robins feed their young from dawn till dark,

You soar on high-

Forever in the sky.

O child! dear child!

Above the clouds I lift my wing

To hear the bells of Heaven ring;

Some of their music, though my flights be wild,

To Earth I bring;

Then let me soar and sing!

Edmund Clarence Stedman.

The Blue Jay

O Blue Jay up in the maple-tree,

Shaking your throat with such bursts of glee,

How did you happen to be so blue?

Did you steal a bit of the lake for your crest,

And fasten blue violets into your vest?

Tell me, I pray you,-tell me true!

Did you dip your wings in azure dye,

When April began to paint the sky,

That was pale with the winter's stay?

Or were you hatched from a bluebell bright,

'Neath the warm, gold breast of a sunbeam light,

By the river one blue spring day?

O Blue Jay up in the maple-tree,

A-tossing your saucy head at me,

With ne'er a word for my questioning,

Pray, cease for a moment your "ting-a-link,"

And hear when I tell you what I think,-

You bonniest bit of the spring.

I think when the fairies made the flowers,

To grow in these mossy fields of ours,

Periwinkles and violets rare,

There was left of the spring's own color, blue,

Plenty to fashion a flower whose hue

Would be richer than all and as fair.

So, putting their wits together, they

Made one great blossom so bright and gay,

The lily beside it seemed blurred;

And then they said, "We will toss it in air;

So many blue blossoms grow everywhere,

Let this pretty one be a bird!"

Susan Hartley Swett.

Robert of Lincoln[F]

Merrily swinging on brier and weed,

Near to the nest of his little dame,

Over the mountain-side or mead,

Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink,

Snug and safe is this nest of ours,

Hidden among the summer flowers,

Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest,

Wearing a bright, black wedding-coat;

White are his shoulders and white his crest,

Hear him call, in his merry note,

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink,

Look what a nice new coat is mine,

Sure there was never a bird so fine!

Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,

Passing at home a patient life,

Broods in the grass while her husband sings

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink,

Brood, kind creature; you need not fear

Thieves and robbers while I am here,

Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and shy as a nun is she;

One weak chirp is her only note.

Braggart, and prince of braggarts is he,

Pouring boasts from his little throat:

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink,

Never was I afraid of man;

Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can,

Chee, chee, chee.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay,

Flecked with purple, a pretty sight:

There as the mother sits all day,

Robert is singing with all his might,

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink,

Nice good wife, that never goes out,

Keeping house while I frolic about,

Chee, chee, chee.

Soon as the little ones chip the shell,

Six wide mouths are open for food;

Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,

Gathering seeds for the hungry brood.

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink,

This new life is likely to be

Hard for a gay young fellow like me,

Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made

Sober with work, and silent with care;

Off is his holiday garment laid,

Half forgotten that merry air:

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink,

Nobody knows but my mate and I

Where our nest and our nestlings lie,

Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes; the children are grown;

Fun and frolic no more he knows,

Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone;

Off he flies, and we sing as he goes:

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink,

When you can pipe that merry old strain,

Robert of Lincoln, come back again,

Chee, chee, chee.

William Cullen Bryant.

White Butterflies

Fly, white butterflies, out to sea,

Frail, pale wings for the wind to try,

Small white wings that we scarce can see,

Fly!

Some fly light as a laugh of glee,

Some fly soft as a long, low sigh;

All to the haven where each would be,

Fly!

Algernon Charles Swinburne.

The Ant and the Cricket

A silly young cricket, accustomed to sing

Through the warm, sunny months of gay summer and spring,

Began to complain, when he found that at home

His cupboard was empty and winter was come.

Not a crumb to be found

On the snow-covered ground;

Not a flower could he see,

Not a leaf on a tree:

"Oh, what will become," says the cricket, "of me?"

At last by starvation and famine made bold,

All dripping with wet and all trembling with cold,

Away he set off to a miserly ant,

To see if, to keep him alive, he would grant

Him shelter from rain:

A mouthful of grain

He wished only to borrow,

He'd repay it to-morrow:

If not, he must die of starvation and sorrow.

Says the ant to the cricket, "I'm your servant and friend,

But we ants never borrow, we ants never lend;

But tell me, dear sir, did you lay nothing by

When the weather was warm?" Said the cricket, "Not I.

My heart was so light

That I sang day and night,

For all nature looked gay."

"You sang, sir, you say?

Go then," said the ant, "and dance winter away."

Thus ending, he hastily lifted the wicket

And out of the door turned the poor little cricket.

Though this is a fable, the moral is good:

If you live without work, you must live without food.

Unknown.

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