When the meadows laugh with lively green, And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene; When Mary, and Susan, and Emily, With their sweet round mouths sing, "Ha, ha, he!"

When the painted birds laugh in the shade, Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread: Come live, and be merry, and join with me To sing the sweet chorus of "Ha, ha, he!" William Blake.

THE LAND OF DREAMS

"Awake, awake, my little boy! Thou wast thy mother's only joy; Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep? O wake! thy father does thee keep."

—"O what land is the Land of Dreams? What are its mountains, and what are its streams? O father! I saw my mother there, Among the lilies by waters fair.

"Among the lambs, clothed in white, She walk'd with her Thomas in sweet delight: I wept for joy; like a dove I mourn:— O when shall I again return!"

—"Dear child! I also by pleasant streams Have wander'd all night in the Land of Dreams:— But, though calm and warm the waters wide, I could not get to the other side."

—"Father, O father! what do we here, In this land of unbelief and fear?— The Land of Dreams is better far, Above the light of the morning star." William Blake.

ROBERT OF LINCOLN

Merrily swinging on briar and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name. Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers. Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, Wearing a bright, black wedding-coat; White are his shoulders, and white his crest, Hear him call in his merry note, Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, Look what a nice, new coat is mine; Sure there was never a bird so fine. Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, Brood, kind creature, you need not 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 drone; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes, Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again. Chee, chee, chee. William Cullen Bryant.

A CHILD'S THOUGHT OF GOD

They say that God lives very high; But if you look above the pines You cannot see our God; and why?

And if you dig down in the mines, You never see Him in the gold, Though from Him all that's glory shines.

God is so good, He wears a fold Of heaven and earth across His face, Like secrets kept, for love, untold.

But still I feel that His embrace Slides down by thrills, through all things made, Through sight and sound of every place;

As if my tender mother laid On my shut lids her kisses' pressure, Half waking me at night, and said, "Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser?" Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

"BOB WHITE"

I see you, on the zigzag rails, You cheery little fellow! While purple leaves are whirling down, And scarlet, brown, and yellow. I hear you when the air is full Of snow-down of the thistle; All in your speckled jacket trim, "Bob White! Bob White!" you whistle.

Tall amber sheaves, in rustling rows, Are nodding there to greet you; I know that you are out for play— How I should like to meet you! Though blithe of voice, so shy you are, In this delightful weather; What splendid playmates you and I, "Bob White," would make together!

There, you are gone! but far away I hear your whistle falling. Ah! may be it is hide-and-seek, And that's why you are calling. Along those hazy uplands wide We'd be such merry rangers; What! silent now, and hidden too? "Bob White," don't let's be strangers.

Perhaps you teach your brood the game, In yonder rainbowed thicket, While winds are playing with the leaves, And softly creaks the cricket. "Bob White! Bob White!"—again I hear That blithely whistled chorus; Why should we not companions be? One Father watches o'er us! George Cooper.

THE DAISIES

Over the shoulders and slopes of the dune I saw the white daisies go down to the sea, A host in the sunshine, an army in June, The people God sends us to set our hearts free.

The bobolinks rallied them up from the dell, The orioles whistled them out of the wood; And all of their saying was, "Earth, it is well!" And all of their dancing was, "Life, thou art good!" Bliss Carman.

WAITING TO GROW

Little white snowdrop just waking up, Violet, daisy, and sweet buttercup, Think of the flowers that are under the snow, Waiting to grow!

And think what a number of queer little seeds, Of flowers and mosses, of ferns and of weeds, Are under the leaves and under the snow, Waiting to grow!

Think of the roots getting ready to sprout, Reaching their slender brown fingers about, Under the ice and the leaves and the snow, Waiting to grow!

No seed is so small, or hidden so well, That God cannot find it; and soon he will tell His sun where to shine, and His rain where to go, Making it grow! Frank French.

THE DANDELIONS

Upon a showery night and still, Without a sound of warning, A trooper band surprised the hill, And held it in the morning.

We were not waked by bugle notes No cheer our dreams invaded, And yet, at dawn, their yellow coats On the green slopes paraded.

We careless folk the deed forgot; Till one day, idly walking, We marked upon the self-same spot A crowd of veterans, talking. They shook their trembling heads and gray, With pride and noiseless laughter, When, well-a-day! they blew away, And ne'er were heard of after. Helen Gray Cone.

A FAIRY TALE

There stands by the wood-path shaded A meek little beggar maid; Close under her mantle faded She is hidden like one afraid.

Yet if you but lifted lightly That mantle of russet brown, She would spring up slender and sightly, In a smoke-blue silken gown.

For she is a princess, fated, Disguised in the wood to dwell, And all her life long has awaited The touch that should break the spell;

And the Oak, that has cast around her His root like a wrinkled arm, Is the wild old wizard that bound her Fast with his cruel charm.

Is the princess worth your knowing? Then haste, for the spring is brief, And find the Hepatica growing, Hid under a last year's leaf! Helen Gray Cone.

A FABLE

The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel, And the former called the latter "Little Prig"; Bun replied, "You are doubtless very big; But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together, To make up a year And a sphere. And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I'm not so large as you You are not so small as I, And not half so spry.

I'll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track; Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut." Ralph Waldo Emerson.

THE NIGHT WIND

Have you ever heard the wind go "Yooooo"? 'Tis a pitiful sound to hear! It seems to chill you through and through With a strange and speechless fear. 'Tis the voice of the night that broods outside When folk should be asleep, And many and many's the time I've cried To the darkness brooding far and wide Over the land and the deep: "Whom do you want, O lonely night, That you wail the long hours through?" And the night would say in its ghostly way: "Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo!"

My mother told me long ago (When I was a little tad) That when the night went wailing so, Somebody had been bad;

And then, when I was snug in bed, Whither I had been sent, With the blankets pulled up round my head, I'd think of what my mother'd said, And wonder what boy she meant! And "Who's been bad to-day?" I'd ask Of the wind that hoarsely blew; And the voice would say in its meaningful way: "Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo!"

That this was true I must allow— You'll not believe it, though! Yes, though I'm quite a model now, I was not always so. And if you doubt what things I say, Suppose you make the test; Suppose, when you've been bad some day And up to bed are sent away From mother and the rest— Suppose you ask, "Who has been bad?" And then you'll hear what's true; For the wind will moan in its ruefulest tone: "Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo!" Eugene Field.

DON'T KILL THE BIRDS

Don't kill the birds, the pretty birds That sing about your door, Soon as the joyous spring has come And chilling storms are o'er. The little birds, how sweet they sing! Oh, let them joyous live, And never seek to take the life That you can never give!

Don't kill the birds, the pretty birds That play among the trees; 'Twould make the earth a cheerless place Should we dispense with these. The little birds, how fond they play! Do not disturb their sport; But let them warble forth their songs Till winter cuts them short.

Don't kill the birds, the happy birds, That bless the fields and grove; So innocent to look upon, They claim our warmest love. The happy birds, the tuneful birds, How pleasant 'tis to see! No spot can be a cheerless place Where'er their presence be. J. Colesworthy.



A THANKSGIVING FABLE

It was a hungry pussy cat, upon Thanksgiving morn, And she watched a thankful little mouse, that ate an ear of corn. "If I ate that thankful little mouse, how thankful he should be, When he has made a meal himself, to make a meal for me!

"Then with his thanks for having fed, and his thanks for feeding me, With all his thankfulness inside, how thankful I shall be!" Thus mused the hungry pussy cat, upon Thanksgiving Day; But the little mouse had overheard and declined (with thanks) to stay. Oliver Herford.

THE BALLAD OF THE TEMPEST

We were crowded in the cabin, Not a soul would dare to sleep,— It was midnight on the waters, And a storm was on the deep.

'Tis a fearful thing in winter To be shattered by the blast, And to hear the rattling trumpet Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"

So we shuddered there in silence,— For the stoutest held his breath, While the hungry sea was roaring And the breakers talked with Death.

As thus we sat in darkness, Each one busy with his prayers, "We are lost!" the captain shouted, As he staggered down the stairs.

But his little daughter whispered, As she took his icy hand, "Isn't God upon the ocean, Just the same as on the land?"

Then we kissed the little maiden, And we spoke in better cheer, And we anchored safe in harbor, When the morn was shining clear. James T. Fields.

A CHILD'S PRAYER

God make my life a little light, Within the world to glow,— A tiny flame that burneth bright, Wherever I may go.

God make my life a little flower, That giveth joy to all;— Content to bloom in native bower Although its place be small.

God make my life a little song, That comforteth the sad; That helpeth others to be strong, And makes the singer glad.

God make my life a little staff Whereon the weak may rest,— That so what health and strength I have May serve my neighbor best.

God make my life a little hymn Of tenderness and praise,— Of faith, that never waxeth dim, In all His wondrous ways. Matilda B. Edwards.

JACK FROST

The Frost looked forth one 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 drest With diamonds and pearls; and over the breast Of the quivering lake he spread A coat of mail, that it need not fear The downward point of many a spear That he hung on its margin, far and near, Where a rock could rear its head.

He went to the windows 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 with 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.

FAIRY SONG

Shed no tear! oh, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more! oh, weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root's white core. Dry your eyes! oh, dry your eyes! For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies,— Shed no tear.

Overhead! look overhead! 'Mong the blossoms white and red— Look up, look up! I flutter now On this fresh pomegranate bough. See me! 'tis this silvery bill Ever cures the good man's ill. Shed no tear! oh, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Adieu, adieu—I fly—adieu! I vanish in the heaven's blue,— Adieu, adieu! John Keats.

THE DOVE

I had a dove, and the sweet dove died; And I have thought it died of grieving: Oh, what could it grieve for? its feet were tied With a silken thread of my own hands' weaving. Sweet little red feet! Why should you die— Why would 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.

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 The 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 urchins, that stand with their thievish eyes Forever on watch, ran off each with a prize.

Then away to the fields 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 a spray, Or the travelers 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 great 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 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.

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 said I 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.

THE GRASS

The grass so little has to do,— A sphere of simple green, With only butterflies to brood, And bees to entertain,

And stir all day to pretty tunes The breezes fetch along, And hold the sunshine in its lap And bow to everything;

And thread the dews all night, like pearls, And make itself so fine,— A duchess were too common For such a noticing.

And even when it dies, to pass In odors so divine, As lowly spices gone to sleep, Or amulets of pine.

And then to dwell in sovereign barns, And dream the days away,— The grass so little has to do, I wish I were the hay. Emily Dickinson.

WHITE SEAL

Oh! hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us, And black are the waters that sparkled so green. The moon, o'er the combers, looks downward to find us At rest in the hollows that rustle between.

Where billow meets billow, there soft be thy pillow; Ah, weary, wee flipperling, curl at thy ease! The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee, Asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging seas. Rudyard Kipling.

THE CAMEL'S HUMP

The Camel's hump is an ugly lump Which well you may see at the Zoo; But uglier yet is the hump we get From having too little to do.

Kiddies and grown-ups too-oo-oo, If we haven't enough to do-oo-oo, We get the hump— Cameelious hump— The hump that is black and blue!

We climb out of bed with a frouzly head And a snarly-yarly voice. We shiver and scowl and we grunt and we growl At our bath and our boots and our toys!

And there ought to be a corner for me (And I know there is one for you) When we get the hump— Cameelious hump— The hump that is black and blue!

The cure for this ill is not to sit still, Or frowst with a book by the fire; But to take a large hoe and a shovel also, And dig till you gently perspire.

And then you will find that the sun and the wind And the Djinn of the Garden too, Have lifted the hump— The horrible hump— The hump that is black and blue!

I get it as well as you-oo-oo, If I haven't enough to do-oo-oo, We all get hump— Cameelious hump— Kiddies and grown-ups too! Rudyard Kipling.

THE TREE

The Tree's early leaf buds were bursting their brown; "Shall I take them away?" said the Frost, sweeping down. "No, leave them alone Till the blossoms have grown," Prayed the Tree, while he trembled from rootlet to crown.

The Tree bore his blossoms, and all the birds sung: "Shall I take them away?" said the Wind, as he swung. "No, leave them alone Till the berries have grown," Said the Tree, while his leaflets quivering hung.

The Tree bore his fruit in the mid-summer glow: Said the girl, "May I gather thy berries now?" "Yes, all thou canst see: Take them; all are for thee," Said the Tree, while he bent down his laden boughs low. Bjornstjerne Bjornson.

CHOOSING A NAME

I have got a new-born sister. I was nigh the first that kissed her. When the nursing-woman brought her To papa, his infant daughter, How papa's dear eyes did glisten! She will shortly be to christen, And papa has made the offer I shall have the naming of her.

Now, I wonder what would please her— Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa? Ann and Mary, they're too common; Joan's too formal for a woman; Jane's a prettier name beside, But we had a Jane that died. They would say, if 'twas Rebecca, That she was a little Quaker; Edith's pretty, but that looks Better in old English books;

Ellen's left off long ago; Blanche is out of fashion now. None that I have named as yet Are so good as Margaret. Emily is neat and fine; What do you think of Caroline? How I'm puzzled and perplexed What to choose or think of next! I am in a little fever Lest the name that I should give her Should disgrace her or defame her:— I will leave papa to name her. Mary Lamb.

CALLING THE VIOLET

Dear little Violet, Don't be afraid! Lift your blue eyes From the rock's mossy shade! All the birds call for you Out of the sky: May is here, waiting, And here, too, am I.

Why do you shiver so, Violet sweet? Soft is the meadow-grass Under my feet. Wrapped in your hood of green, Violet, why Peep from your earth-door So silent and shy?

Trickle the little brooks Close to your bed; Softest of fleecy clouds Float overhead; "Ready and waiting!" The slender reeds sigh: "Ready and waiting!" We sing—May and I.

Come, pretty Violet, Winter's away: Come, for without you May isn't May. Down through the sunshine Wings flutter and fly;— Quick, little Violet, Open your eye!

Hear the rain whisper, "Dear Violet, come!" How can you stay In your underground home? Up in the pine-boughs For you the winds sigh. Homesick to see you, Are we—May and I.

Ha! though you care not For call or for shout, Yon troop of sunbeams Are winning you out. Now all is beautiful Under the sky: May's here—and violets! Winter, good-by! Lucy Larcom.

THE BROWN THRUSH

There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree. "He's singing to me! He's singing to me!" And what does he say, little girl, little boy? "Oh, the world's running over with joy! Don't you hear? Don't you see? Hush! Look! In my tree, I'm as happy as happy can be!"

And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see, And five eggs, hid by me in the juniper tree? Don't meddle! don't touch! little girl, little boy, Or the world will lose some of its joy! Now I'm glad! now I'm free! And I always shall be, If you never bring sorrow to me."

So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree, To you and to me, to you and to me; And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy, "Oh, the world's running over with joy! But long it won't be, Don't you know? Don't you see? Unless we are as good as can be!" Lucy Larcom.

THE WIND AND THE MOON

Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out. You stare In the air Like a ghost in a chair, Always 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."

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."

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, "What'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.

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, She had never heard the great Wind blare. George Macdonald.

A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there. The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,— When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash; The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow Gave a luster of mid-day to objects below; When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name: "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!— To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall, Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all!" As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, So, up to the housetop the coursers they flew, With the sleigh full of toys,—and St. Nicholas too. And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound; He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. His eyes how they twinkled; his dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry; His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow. The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath. He had a broad face and a little round belly That shook when he laughed like a bowl full of jelly. He was chubby and plump—a right jolly old elf— And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself. A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head, Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ere they drove out of sight, "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight!" Clement C. Moore.

HUNTING SONG

Up, up! ye dames and lasses gay! To the meadows trip away. 'Tis you must tend the flocks this morn, And scare the small birds from the corn. Not a soul at home may stay: For the shepherds must go With lance and bow To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

Leave the hearth and leave the house To the cricket and the mouse: Find grannam out a sunny seat, With babe and lambkin at her feet. Not a soul at home may stay: For the shepherds must go With lance and bow To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day. Samuel T. Coleridge.

THE FIR-TREE

The winds have blown more bitter Each darkening day of fall; High over all the house-tops The stars are far and small I wonder, will my fir-tree Be green in spite of all?

O grief is colder—colder Than wind from any part; And tears of grief are bitter tears, And doubt's a sorer smart! But I promised to my fir-tree To keep the fragrant heart. Josephine Preston Peabody.

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 to go 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, for just 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 bedclothes 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.

THE LITTLE LADYBIRD

Ladybird, ladybird! fly away home! The field-mouse has gone to her nest, The daisies have shut up their sleepy red eyes, And the bees and the birds are at rest.

Ladybird, ladybird! fly away home! The glow-worm is lighting her lamp, The dew's falling fast, and your fine speckled wings Will flag with the close-clinging damp.

Ladybird, ladybird! fly away home! Good luck if you reach it at last! The owl's come abroad, and the bat's on the roam, Sharp set from their Ramazan fast.

Ladybird, ladybird! fly away home! The fairy bells tinkle afar! Make haste or they'll catch you, and harness you fast With a cobweb to Oberon's car.

Ladybird, ladybird! fly away home! To your house in the old willow-tree, Where your children so dear have invited the ant And a few cozy neighbors to tea.

Ladybird, ladybird! fly away home! And if not gobbled up by the way, Nor yoked by the fairies to Oberon's car, You're in luck! and that's all I've to say! Caroline B. Southey.

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 look 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!" Emily Huntington Miller.

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 blue-bell 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 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.

THE VIOLET

Down in a green and shady bed A modest violet grew; Its stalk was bent, it hung its head, As if to hide from view.

And yet it was a lovely flower, Its colors bright and fair! It might have graced a rosy bower, Instead of hiding there.

Yet there it was content to bloom, In modest tints arrayed; And there diffused its sweet perfume, Within the silent shade.

Then let me to the valley go, This pretty flower to see, That I may also learn to grow In sweet humility. Jane Taylor.

THE FERN SONG

Dance to the beat of the rain, little Fern, And spread out your palms again, And say, "Tho' the Sun Hath my vesture spun, He hath labored, alas, in vain, But for the shade That the Cloud hath made, And the gift of the Dew and the Rain." Then laugh and upturn All your fronds, little Fern, And rejoice in the beat of the rain! John Bannister Tabb.

KING SOLOMON AND THE BEES A Tale of the Talmud

When Solomon was reigning in his glory, Unto his throne the Queen of Sheba came, (So in the Talmud you may read the story) Drawn by the magic of the monarch's fame, To see the splendors of his court, and bring Some fitting tribute to the mighty king.

Nor this alone; much had her Highness heard What flowers of learning graced the royal speech; What gems of wisdom dropped with every word; What wholesome lessons he was wont to teach In pleasing proverbs; and she wished, in sooth, To know if Rumor spoke the simple truth.

Besides, the queen had heard (which piqued her most) How through the deepest riddles he could spy; How all the curious arts that women boast Were quite transparent to his piercing eye; And so the queen had come—a royal guest— To put the sage's cunning to the test.

And straight she held before the monarch's view, In either hand, a radiant wreath of flowers; The one, bedecked with every charming hue, Was newly culled from Nature's choicest bowers; The other, no less fair in every part, Was the rare product of divinest Art.

"Which is the true, and which the false?" she said, Great Solomon was silent. All-amazed, Each wondering courtier shook his puzzled head, While at the garlands long the monarch gazed, As one who sees a miracle, and fain, For very rapture, ne'er would speak again.

"Which is the true?" once more the woman asked, Pleased at the fond amazement of the king; "So wise a head should not be hardly tasked, Most learned liege, with such a trivial thing!" But still the sage was silent; it was plain A deepening doubt perplexed the royal brain.

While thus he pondered, presently he sees, Hard by the casement,—so the story goes,— A little band of busy, bustling bees, Hunting for honey in a withered rose. The monarch smiled, and raised his royal head; "Open the window!"—that was all he said.

The window opened at the king's command; Within the room the eager insects flew, And sought the flowers in Sheba's dexter hand! And so the king and all the courtiers knew That wreath was Nature's; and the baffled queen Returned to tell the wonders she had seen.

My story teaches (every tale should bear A fitting moral) that the wise may find In trifles light as atoms in the air, Some useful lesson to enrich the mind, Some truth designed to profit or to please,— As Israel's king learned wisdom from the bees! John G. Saxe.

LULLABY OF AN INFANT CHIEF

O hush thee, my baby, thy sire was a knight,— Thy mother a lady both lovely and bright; The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see, They all are belonging, dear baby, to thee.

O fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows, It calls but the warders that guard thy repose; Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red, Ere the step of a foeman drew near to thy bed.

O hush thee, my baby, the time soon will come, When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum; Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may, For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day. Sir Walter Scott.

HAIL, COLUMBIA!

Hail, Columbia! happy land! Hail, ye heroes! heaven-born band! Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, And when the storm of war was gone,

Enjoyed the peace your valor won. Let independence be our boast, Ever mindful what it cost; Ever grateful for the prize, Let its altar reach the skies.

Firm, united, let us be, Rallying round our Liberty; As a band of brothers joined, Peace and safety we shall find.

Immortal patriots! rise once more: Defend your rights, defend your shore: Let no rude foe, with impious hand, Let no rude foe, with impious hand, Invade the shrine where sacred lies Of toil and blood the well-earned prize. While offering peace sincere and just, In Heaven we place a manly trust, That truth and justice will prevail, And every scheme of bondage fail.

Sound, sound, the trump of Fame! Let WASHINGTON'S great name Ring through the world with loud applause; Ring through the world with loud applause; Let every clime to Freedom dear, Listen with a joyful ear. With equal skill, and godlike power, He governed in the fearful hour Of horrid war; or guides, with ease, The happier times of honest peace.

Behold the chief who now commands, Once more to serve his country, stands— The rock on which the storm will beat, The rock on which the storm will beat; But, armed in virtue firm and true, His hopes are fixed on Heaven and you; When hope was sinking in dismay, And glooms obscured Columbia's day, His steady mind, from changes free, Resolved on death or liberty. Joseph Hopkinson.

THE SNOWDROP

Many, many welcomes, February fair-maid! Ever as of old time, Solitary firstling, Coming in the cold time, Prophet of the gay time, Prophet of the May time, Prophet of the roses, Many, many welcomes, February fair-maid! 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.

A TRAGIC STORY

There lived a sage in days of yore, And he a handsome pigtail wore; But wondered much and sorrowed more Because it hung behind him.

He mused upon this curious case, And swore he'd change the pigtail's place, And have it hanging at his face, Not dangling there behind him.

Said he, "The mystery I've found,— I'll turn me round."— He turned him round; But still it hung behind him.

Then round and round, and out and in, All day the puzzled sage did spin; In vain—it mattered not a pin— The pigtail hung behind him.

And right, and left, and round about, And up, and down, and in, and out He turned; but still the pigtail stout Hung steadily behind him.

And though his efforts never slack, And though he twist, and twirl, and tack, Alas! still faithful to his back The pigtail hangs behind him. William M. Thackeray.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

There's a song in the air! There's a star in the sky! There's a mother's deep prayer And a baby's low cry! And the star rains its fire while the Beautiful sing, For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king.

There's a tumult of joy O'er the wonderful birth, For the virgin's sweet boy Is the Lord of the earth. Ay! the star rains its fire and the Beautiful sing, For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king.

In the light of that star Lie the ages impearled; And that song from afar Has swept over the world. Every hearth is aflame, and the Beautiful sing In the homes of the nations that Jesus is King.

We rejoice in the light, And we echo the song That comes down through the night From the heavenly throng. Ay! we shout to the lovely evangel they bring, And we greet in his cradle our Saviour and King. J.G. Holland.

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 tops 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 tremble to think of you, World, at all; And yet, when I said my prayers, to-day, A whisper inside me seemed to say, 'You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot: You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!" William B. Rands.

NOBODY KNOWS

Often I've heard the Wind sigh By the ivied orchard wall, Over the leaves in the dark night, Breathe a sighing call, And faint away in the silence, While I, in my bed, Wondered, 'twixt dreaming and waking, What it said.

Nobody knows what the Wind is, Under the height of the sky, Where the hosts of the stars keep far away house And its wave sweeps by— Just a great wave of the air, Tossing the leaves in its sea, And foaming under the eaves of the roof That covers me.

And so we live under deep water, All of us, beasts and men, And our bodies are buried down under the sand, When we go again; And leave, like the fishes, our shells, And float on the Wind and away, To where, o'er the marvellous tides of the air, Burns day. Walter de la Mare.

THE TRUANTS

Ere my heart beats too coldly and faintly To remember sad things, yet be gay, I would sing a brief song of the world's little children Magic hath stolen away.

The primroses scattered by April, The stars of the wide Milky Way, Cannot outnumber the hosts of the children Magic hath stolen away.

The buttercup green of the meadows, The snow of the blossoming may, Lovelier are not than the legions of children Magic hath stolen away.

The waves tossing surf in the moonbeam, The albatross lone on the spray, Alone know the tears wept in vain for the children Magic hath stolen away.

In vain: for at hush of the evening, When the stars twinkle into the grey, Seems to echo the far-away calling of children Magic hath stolen away. Walter de la Mare.

WILL EVER?

Will he ever be weary of wandering, The flaming sun? Ever weary of waning in lovelight, The white still moon? Will ever a shepherd come With a crook of simple gold, And lead all the little stars Like lambs to the fold?

Will ever the Wanderer sail From over the sea, Up the river of water, To the stones to me? Will he take us all into his ship, Dreaming, and waft us far, To where in the clouds of the West, The Islands are? Walter de la Mare.

WANDERERS

Wide are the meadows of night, And daisies are shining there, Tossing their lovely dews, Lustrous and fair; And through these sweet fields go, Wanderers amid the stars— Venus, Mercury, Uranus, Neptune, Saturn, Jupiter, Mars.

'Tired in their silver, they move, And circling, whisper and say, Fair are the blossoming meads of delight Through which we stray. Walter de la Mare.

CHRISTMAS

While shepherds watched their flocks by night, All seated on the ground, The angel of the Lord came down, And glory shone around.

"Fear not," said he,—for mighty dread Had seized their troubled mind— "Glad tidings of great joy I bring To you and all mankind.

"To you, in David's town, this day Is born, of David's line, The Saviour, who is Christ the Lord; And this shall be the sign:

"The heavenly babe you there shall find To human view displayed, All meanly wrapped in swathing bands, And in a manger laid."

Thus spake the seraph; and forthwith Appeared a shining throng Of angels, praising God, and thus Addressed their joyful song:

"All glory be to God on high, And to the earth be peace: Good-will henceforth from heaven to men Begin and never cease!" Nahum Tate.

THE SNOW-BIRD'S SONG

The ground was all covered with snow one day, And two little sisters were busy at play, When a snow-bird was sitting close by on a tree, And merrily singing his chick-a-dee-dee, Chick-a-dee-dee, chick-a-dee-dee, And merrily singing his chick-a-dee-dee.

He had not been singing that tune very long, Ere Emily heard him, so loud was his song; "Oh, sister, look out of the window," said she, "Here's a dear little bird singing chick-a-dee-dee. Chick-a-dee-dee, chick-a-dee-dee, Here's a dear little bird singing chick-a-dee-dee.

"Oh, mother, do get him some stockings and shoes, And a nice little frock, and a hat if you choose; I wish he'd come into the parlor, and see How warm we would make him, poor chick-a-dee-dee! Chick-a-dee-dee, chick-a-dee-dee, How warm we would make him, poor chick-a-dee-dee!"

"There is One, my dear child, though I cannot tell who, Has clothed me already, and warm enough too. Good morning! Oh, who are so happy as we?" And away he went singing his chick-a-dee-dee. Chick-a-dee-dee, chick-a-dee-dee, And away he went singing his chick-a-dee-dee. F.C. Woodworth.

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 SANDPIPER

Across the narrow beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I; And fast I gather, bit by bit, The scattered driftwood bleached and dry. The wild waves reach their hands for it, The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I.

Above our heads the sullen clouds Scud black and swift across the sky; Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds Stand out the white lighthouses high. Almost as far as eye can reach I see the close-reefed vessels fly, As fast we flit along the beach,— One little sandpiper and I.

I watch him as he skims along, Uttering his sweet and mournful cry; He starts not at my fitful song, Or flash of fluttering drapery. He has no thought of any wrong; He scans me with a fearless eye. Staunch friends are we, well tried and strong, The little sandpiper and I.

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night When the loosed storm breaks furiously? My driftwood fire will burn so bright! To what warm shelter canst thou fly? I do not fear for thee, though wroth The tempest rushes through the sky: For are we not God's children both, Thou, little sandpiper, and I? Celia Thaxter.

O LITTLE TOWN OF BETHLEHEM

O little town of Bethlehem, How still we see thee lie! Above thy deep and dreamless sleep The silent stars go by; Yet in thy dark streets shineth The everlasting Light; The hopes and fears of all the years Are met in thee to-night.

For Christ is born of Mary, And, gathered all above, While mortals sleep, the angels keep Their watch of wondering love. O morning stars, together Proclaim the holy birth! And praises sing to God the King, And peace to men on earth.

How silently, how silently, The wondrous gift is given! So God imparts to human hearts The blessings of His heaven. No ear may hear His coming, But in this world of sin, Where meek souls will receive Him still, The dear Christ enters in.

O holy Child of Bethlehem! Descend to us, we pray; Cast out our sin, and enter in, Be born in us to-day. We hear the Christmas angels The great glad tidings tell; Oh, come to us, abide with us, Our Lord Emmanuel! Phillips Brooks.

THE SANDMAN

The rosy clouds float overhead, The sun is going down, And now the sandman's gentle tread Comes stealing through the town.

"White sand, white sand," he softly cries, And, as he shakes his hand, Straightway there lies on babies' eyes His gift of shining sand. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

From sunny beaches far away, Yes, in another land, He gathers up at break of day His store of shining sand. No tempests beat that shore remote, No ships may sail that way; His little boat alone may float Within that lovely bay. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

He smiles to see the eyelids close Above the happy eyes! And every child right well he knows— Oh, he is very wise! But if, as he goes through the land, A naughty baby cries, His other hand takes dull gray sand To close the wakeful eyes. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

So when you hear the sandman's song Sound through the twilight sweet, Be sure you do not keep him long A-waiting on the street. Lie softly down, dear little head, Rest quiet, busy hands, Till, by your bed his good-night said, He strews the shining sands. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town. Margaret Vandegrift.

RED RIDING-HOOD

On the wide lawn the snow lay deep, Ridged o'er with many a drifted heap; The wind that through the pine-trees sung The naked elm-boughs tossed and swung; While, through the window, frosty-starred, Against the sunset purple barred, We saw the sombre crow flap by, The hawk's gray fleck along the sky,

The crested blue-jay flitting swift, The squirrel poising on the drift, Erect, alert, his broad gray tail Set to the north wind like a sail. It came to pass, our little lass, With flattened face against the glass, And eyes in which the tender dew Of pity shone, stood gazing through The narrow space her rosy lips Had melted from the frost's eclipse: "Oh, see," she cried, "the poor blue-jays! What is it that the black crow says? The squirrel lifts his little legs Because he has no hands, and begs; He's asking for my nuts, I know; May I not feed them on the snow?"

Half lost within her boots, her head Warm-sheltered in her hood of red, Her plaid skirt close about her drawn, She floundered down the wintry lawn; Now struggling through the misty veil Blown round her by the shrieking gale; Now sinking in a drift so low Her scarlet hood could scarcely show Its dash of color on the snow.

She dropped for bird and beast forlorn Her little store of nuts and corn, And thus her timid guests bespoke: "Come, squirrel, from your hollow oak,— Come, black old crow,—come, poor blue-jay, Before your supper's blown away! Don't be afraid, we all are good; And I'm mamma's Red Riding-Hood!"

O Thou whose care is over all, Who heedest even the sparrow's fall, Keep in the little maiden's breast The pity which is now its guest! Let not her cultured years make less The childhood charm of tenderness, But let her feel as well as know, Nor harder with her polish grow! Unmoved by sentimental grief That wails along some printed leaf, But prompt with kindly word and deed To own the claims of all who need, Let the grown woman's self make good The promise of Red Riding-Hood! John G. Whittier.

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.

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER

I remember, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day; But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away.

I remember, I remember, The roses, red and white; The violets and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday,— The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember, Where I was used to swing; And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember, The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky; It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from Heaven Than when I was a boy. Thomas Hood.

TALKING IN THEIR SLEEP

"You think I am dead," The apple tree said, "Because I have never a leaf to show— Because I stoop, And my branches droop, And the dull gray mosses over me grow! But I'm still alive in trunk and shoot; The buds of next May I fold away— But I pity the withered grass at my root."

"You think I am dead," The quick grass said, "Because I have parted with stem and blade! But under the ground I am safe and sound With the snow's thick blanket over me laid. I'm all alive, and ready to shoot, Should the spring of the year Come dancing here— But I pity the flower without branch or root." "You think I am dead," A soft voice said, "Because not a branch or root I own. I never have died, But close I hide In a plumy seed that the wind has sown. Patient I wait through the long winter hours; You will see me again— I shall laugh at you then, Out of the eyes of a hundred flowers." Edith M. Thomas.

LITTLE DANDELION

Little bud Dandelion Hears from her nest, "Merry heart, starry eye, Wake from your rest!" Wide ope the emerald lids; Robin's above; Wise little Dandelion Smiles at his love.

Cold lie the daisy-banks, Clad but in green, Where in the Mays agone Bright hues were seen. Wild pinks are slumbering, Violets delay— True little Dandelion Greeteth the May.

Meek little Dandelion Groweth more fair, Till dries the amber dew Out from her hair. High rides the thirsty sun, Fiercely and high,— Faint little Dandelion Closeth her eye.

Dead little Dandelion, In her white shroud, Heareth the angel-breeze Call from the cloud. Tiny plumes fluttering Make no delay, Little winged Dandelion Soareth away. Helen L. Bostwick.

* * * * * * * * * *

INDEX OF TITLES

Afternoon in February Henry W. Longfellow Ant and the Cricket, The Anonymous April Day, An Henry W. Longfellow April Welcome, An Phoebe Cary Autumn Alice Cary Autumn Fires Robert Louis Stevenson

Ballad of the Tempest, The James T. Fields Birds in Summer Mary Howitt Bluebird, The Emily Huntington Miller Blue Jay, The Susan Hartley Swett "Bob White" George Cooper Brook-Song, The James Whitcomb Riley Brown Thrush, The Lucy Larcom Busy Day, A Anonymous

Calling the Violet Lucy Larcom Camel's Hump, The Rudyard Kipling Captain's Daughter, The (See "Ballad of the Tempest") Chestnut Burr, The Anonymous Child's Prayer, A Matilda B. Edwards Child's Thought of God, A Elizabeth Barrett Browning Choosing a Name Mary Lamb Christmas Nahum Tate Christmas Carol, A J.G. Holland

Daisies, The Bliss Carman Dandelion Kate L. Brown Dandelions, The Helen Gray Cone Day, A Emily Dickinson Daybreak Henry W. Longfellow Don't Kill the Birds J. Colesworthy Dove, The John Keats "Down to Sleep" Helen Hunt Jackson

Emperor's Bird's Nest, The Henry W. Longfellow

Fable, A Ralph Waldo Emerson Fairies of the Caldon Low, The Mary Howitt Fairy Queen, The Anonymous Fairy Song John Keats Fairy Tale, A Helen Gray Cone Farewell, A Charles Kingsley Fern Song, The John Bannister Tabb Fir-Tree, The Josephine Preston Peabody Fraidie-Cat Clinton Scollard

Grass, The Emily Dickinson

Hail, Columbia! Joseph Hopkinson Hiawatha's Fishing Henry W. Longfellow Hiawatha's Friends Henry W. Longfellow Hiawatha's Hunting Henry W. Longfellow Hiawatha's Sailing Henry W. Longfellow How the Leaves Came Down Susan Coolidge Hunting Song Samuel T. Coleridge

I Remember, I Remember Thomas Hood

Jack Frost Gabriel Setoun Jack Frost Hannah F. Gould Jack in the Pulpit Clara Smith Jumblies, The Edward Lear

King Solomon and the Bees John G. Saxe Kriss Kringle Thomas Bailey Aldrich

Land of Dreams, The William Blake Land of Story-Books, The Robert Louis Stevenson Laughing Chorus, A Anonymous Laughing Song, A William Blake Lesson of Mercy, A Alice Cary Life Lesson, A James Whitcomb Riley Little by Little Anonymous Little Dandelion Helen L. Bostwick Little Gottlieb Phoebe Cary Little Ladybird, The Caroline B. Southey Little Orphant Annie James Whitcomb Riley Lobster Quadrille, A Lewis Carroll Lost Doll, The Charles Kingsley Lullaby for Titania William Shakespeare Lullaby of an Infant Chief Sir Walter Scott

Marjorie's Almanac Thomas Bailey Aldrich Morning Song, A William Shakespeare

Night William Blake Night Wind, The Eugene Field Nobody Knows Walter de la Mare November Alice Gary

October's Bright Blue Weather Helen Hunt Jackson Old Christmas Mary Howitt "Old, Old Song," The Charles Kingsley O Little Town of Bethlehem Phillips Brooks Our Heroes Phoebe Cary Owl, The Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Pig and the Hen, The Alice Gary Pirate Story Robert Louis Stevenson Pobble Who Has No Toes, The Edward Lear

Quangle Wangle's Hat, The Edward Lear

Rainbow, The William Wordsworth Rain in Summer Henry W. Longfellow Rainy Day, The Henry W. Longfellow Red Riding-Hood John G. Whittier Robert of Lincoln William Cullen Bryant Robin Redbreast William Allingham Romance Gabriel Setoun

Sandman, The Margaret Vandegrift Sandpiper, The Celia Thaxter September Helen Hunt Jackson Snow-bird's Song, The F.C. Woodworth Snowdrop, The Alfred, Lord Tennyson Song of the Fairy William Shakespeare Song Sparrow, The Henry van Dyke Spider and the Fly, The Mary Howitt Spring Celia Thaxter

Talking in Their Sleep Edith M. Thomas Thanksgiving Fable, A Oliver Herford Three Fishers, The Charles Kingsley To a Butterfly William Wordsworth Tragic Story, A William M. Thackeray Tree, The Bjornstjerne Bjornson Truants, The Walter de la Mare

Under the Greenwood Tree William Shakespeare Unseen Playmate, The Robert Louis Stevenson

Violet, The Jane Taylor Visit from St. Nicholas, A Clement C. Moore Voice of Spring, The Mary Howitt

Waiting to Grow Frank French Walrus and the Carpenter, The Lewis Carroll Wanderers Walter de la Mare We Are Seven William Wordsworth While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks By Night (See "Christmas") White Seal Rudyard Kipling Will Ever? Walter de la Mare Wind and the Moon, The .George Macdonald Wind in a Frolic, The William Howitt Wind, The Robert Louis Stevenson Winter William Shakespeare Winter-Time Robert Louis Stevenson Wishing William Allingham Wonderful World, The William B. Rands World's Music, The Gabriel Setoun

* * * * * * * * * *

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

A boy named Peter Across the German Ocean Across the narrow beach we flit "And where have you been, my Mary A silly young cricket, accustomed to sing A simple Child At evening when the lamp is lit "Awake, awake, my little boy! A wee little nut lay deep in its nest A wind came up out of the sea

Come, follow, follow me Come up, April, through the valley

Dance to the beat of the rain, little Fern Dear little Violet Don't kill the birds, the pretty birds Down in a green and shady bed

Ere my heart beats too coldly and faintly

Forth into the forest straightway Forth upon the Gitche Gumee

"Give me of your bark, O Birch-Tree! God make my life a little light Good-bye, good-bye to Summer "Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful world

Hail, Columbia! happy land! Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings Have you ever heard the wind go "Yooooo"? He is a roguish little elf Here's a hand to the boy who has courage How beautiful is the rain! How pleasant the life of a bird must be

I am coming, I am coming! I had a dove, and the sweet dove died I have got a new-born sister I know the song that the bluebird is singing "I'll tell you how the leaves came down" I'll tell you how the sun rose In the other gardens I once had a sweet little doll, dears I remember, I remember I saw a ship a-sailing I saw you toss the kites on high I see you, on the zigzag rails I shan't tell you what's his name It was a hungry pussy cat, upon Thanksgiving morn I've watched you now a full half hour

Jack in the pulpit Just as the moon was fading

Ladybird, ladybird! fly away home! Late lies the wintry sun a-bed Little brook! Little brook! Little bud Dandelion "Little by little," an acorn said Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay Little white snowdrop just waking up

Many, many welcomes Merrily swinging on briar and weed My fairest child, I have no song to give you My heart leaps up when I behold

November woods are bare and still Now he who knows old Christmas

O Blue Jay up in the maple tree Often I've heard the Wind sigh Oh I hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us Oh, such a commotion under the ground O hush thee, my baby, thy sire was a knight O little town of Bethlehem Once the Emperor Charles of Spain On the top of the Crumpetty Tree On the wide lawn the snow lay deep O suns and skies and clouds of June Over hill, over dale Over the shoulders and slopes of the dune

Ring-Ting! I wish I were a Primrose Robins in the tree-top

Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out Shed no tear! oh, shed no tear! Shorter and shorter now the twilight clips

The alder by the river The bluff March wind set out from home The Camel's hump is an ugly lump The day is cold, and dark, and dreary The day is ending The door was shut, as doors should be The Frost looked forth one still, clear night The goldenrod is yellow The grass so little has to do The ground was all covered with snow one day The leaves are fading and falling The mountain and the squirrel The pig and the hen The Pobble who has no toes There is a bird I know so well There! little girl! don't cry! There lived a sage in days of yore There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree There's a song in the air There stands by the wood-path shaded The rosy clouds float overhead The sun descending in the west The sun was shining on the sea The Tree's early leaf buds were bursting their brown The wind one morning sprang up from sleep The winds have blown more bitter The world's a very happy place They say that God lives very high They went to sea in a sieve, they did Three fishers went sailing away to the west Three of us afloat in the meadow by the swing 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Two good friends had Hiawatha

Under the greenwood tree Upon a showery night and still Up, up! ye dames and lasses gay!

We were crowded in the cabin When all the world is young, lad When cats run home and light is come When children are playing alone on the green When icicles hang by the wall When Solomon was reigning in his glory When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy When the warm sun, that brings While shepherds watched their flocks by night Wide are the meadows of night Will he ever be weary of wandering "Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail "Will you walk into my parlor?"

You spotted snakes with double tongue "You think I am dead"

THE END