Christmas snowflakes

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Material Information

Title:
Christmas snowflakes
Physical Description:
1 v. (unpaged) : ill. ; 26 cm.
Language:
English
Creator:
Pratt, Ella Farman, 1837-1907 ( ed )
Greenaway, Kate, 1846-1901 ( Illustrator )
Greenaway, John, 1816-1890 ( Engraver )
Cox, Palmer, 1840-1924 ( Engraver )
D. Lothrop & Company ( Publisher )
Photo Eng. Co ( Engraver )
Publisher:
D. Lothrop & Co.
Place of Publication:
Boston
Publication Date:

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Children's poetry   ( lcsh )
Children's stories   ( lcsh )
Children's poetry -- 1879   ( lcsh )
Children's stories -- 1879   ( lcsh )
Bldn -- 1879
Genre:
Children's poetry   ( lcsh )
Children's stories   ( lcsh )
Spatial Coverage:
United States -- Massachusetts -- Boston

Notes

Statement of Responsibility:
Illustrated poems by favorite American authors.
General Note:
Date of publication from inscription.
General Note:
Illustrations engraved by J. Greenaway, Palmer Coy and Photo Eng. Co. after K. Greenaway.
Funding:
Preservation and Access for American and British Children's Literature, 1870-1889 (NEH PA-50860-00).

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Holding Location:
Baldwin Library of Historical Children's Literature in the Department of Special Collections and Area Studies, George A. Smathers Libraries, University of Florida
Rights Management:
All rights reserved, Board of Trustees of the University of Florida.
Resource Identifier:
aleph - 002223122
notis - ALG3370
oclc - 00399774
lccn - 17016406
System ID:
UF00047775:00001


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LITTLE EUNICE,








CHRISTMAS SNOWFLAKES.



ILLUSTRATED



POEMS



BY



FAVORITE AMERICAN AUTHORS.



BOSTON:
D. LOTHROP & CO., PUBLISHERS,
30 & 32 FRANKLIN STREET.
















































Copyright by
"D. LOTHROP & COMPANY,
1879.



PRESS OF ROCKWELL AND CHURCHILL,
39 Arch St., Boston.

























AIRY, changeful hosts of Snowflakes
Past me



As, attentive to the pageant, with observant gaze I
sit
Noting how these wintry elves
Do disport and blend themselves;
Finding varied moods and fancies
In each Flake that near me chances.



Here come wild, hilarious Snowflakes I
Riding



Tightly clinging to the bridle of the bitter northern Not
blast
In their cloaks of fleecy fur,
Plying whip and rein and spur;
With a mad and reckless haste
Bounding o'er the wintry waste I



There, some gathered timid Snowflakes
Lightly



Down the icy, winding river. They go, catching at
its brim,
With a half a pause at every turn ;
As questioning, with soft concern,
How far upon the road they be
Toward Evening and the distant Seal



Now, a group of giddy Snowflakes
Try a



a dancer seems reluctant, weakly hesitates or
halts ;
Hand in hand they madly whirl,
Prance and curvet, till a twirl,
Ending in a trip and fall,
Sends them, reeling, to the wall.









Down, a band of Snowflakes, nun-like,
Dumbly



Farther out are other Snowflakes,
Falling



As might angels from some upper sphere too high Limned against the sombre background of the steep
and too remote and wooded hill;
For sympathy with common crowd; These seem working hard to bury
With attitude attent and bowed, Whirling leaves that, brisk and merry,
These seek some dim secluded place, Will not fold their hands and keep
And kneel with rapt and hooded face. To their quiet winter sleep.



Come some Flakes with busy ardor
Now, to



Now, some cunning Snowflakes slily
Past me



Every corner, chink, and crevice, with a brisk, impor- Chasing fitful gusts and eddies with a swift mischiev-
tant lurch. ous slide !
Every pounce does plainly speak: These are they.that pry, at will,
Surely, here is what we seek Under door and window-sill,
But, their object still unfound, That will push a line of snow
Off they go with angry bound Where none others think to go.



Others still, with fixed intentness,
Downward



Yet are these but vague outriders
Of a



With an earnest, soulful purpose that can neither And unending host of Snowflakes that still steadily
rest nor stop; drift past !
Whose wings seem heavy with the weight That with silent solemn power
Of some unknown and priceless freight; Fill the measure of each hour;
These must be messengers, that go And, with soft unquestioning grace,
To comfort faithful flowers below. Fit themselves to any place.



Drop,
pi^^I0









WINNIE'S ,FANCY.

BY ANNIE LINTON.



"MAMMA," said tiny Winnie Corning,
"I know something sweet.
I have watched them all the morning,
And the birdies' feet,

"And the birdies' breasts, bring summer
To my dear lilac tree;
The snow melts off where they sit, mamma,
And the brown bark I see.

"If they would only sit still, mamma,
And warm my little tree,
My little tree would think 'twas summer,
And leaf and blow for me!"



THE WISHING-CAP.

BY C. L. B.



DOLLY, here's a wishing-cap !
I'll tell you all about it;
I've only just to wear it, and
Be careful not to doubt it.

Tommy read aloud, last night,
About a little fellow
Who had one that was just like this,
Black velvet, trimmed with yellow.

Won't papa be surprised, when I
Tell him his cap for smoking



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WINNIE'S ,FANCY.

BY ANNIE LINTON.



"MAMMA," said tiny Winnie Corning,
"I know something sweet.
I have watched them all the morning,
And the birdies' feet,

"And the birdies' breasts, bring summer
To my dear lilac tree;
The snow melts off where they sit, mamma,
And the brown bark I see.

"If they would only sit still, mamma,
And warm my little tree,
My little tree would think 'twas summer,
And leaf and blow for me!"



THE WISHING-CAP.

BY C. L. B.



DOLLY, here's a wishing-cap !
I'll tell you all about it;
I've only just to wear it, and
Be careful not to doubt it.

Tommy read aloud, last night,
About a little fellow
Who had one that was just like this,
Black velvet, trimmed with yellow.

Won't papa be surprised, when I
Tell him his cap for smoking



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Will give him anything he wants !
He'll think I'm only joking.


Now, dear, what shall we wish for, first? -
I'd like a little pony,
So you and I could ride about,
Our own two selves, alone-y.


W\ hy don't it come You naughty doll,
^j- I wish I hadn't spoken !
S You've doubted the dear wishing-cap,
SAnd now the charm is broken I







"WEEDING THE ONION BED.


BY MARY E. C. WYETH.



"- 1 HE days were long, and the
L Jsun shone hot
Upon Farmer Goodson's gar-
den spot,
Where corn and cabbages,
beets and peas,
J / Melons and cucumbers, those
and these,
/ Grew and spread in the sun and
light,
"Wrestling upward and downward
with might,
While in and among them, flour-
ishing still,
As only weeds can, weeds grew with a will.

"Weeds grow apace," the old farmer said,
Leisurely viewing each garden bed;
"Well the plow for the corn for the cabbage the
hoe -
But then, in some places, 's I ought to know,
There's nothing so certain the weeds to destroy
As the fingers and thumbs of a trusty boy."
So, raising his voice, he shouted, Ned !
Here, sonny, come weed out this onion bed !"



The day was hot, and the beds were dry,
As garden beds are, in late July;
And Ned was reading his Fairy Book,
In the cool, sweet shade, by the orchard brook.
While wondering whether he'd come with grace,
Or with frown and pout on his bright young face,
I looked, and lo there was plucky Ned,
Tugging away in the onion bed.
Oft and again as the day wore by,
Till the sun went down in the western sky,
I glanced toward the garden, and always there
I caught the gleam of his gold-brown hair,
As, under the hat, his curly head
Bent low o'er the weeds in the onion bed.
Ah, years have journeyed and gone since then,
And Ned is a man in the world of men.
With heart and hand and a steadfast will,
He is pulling the weeds of evil still.
A shining record and noble fame
Belong to-day to his honored name.
Yet nowise grander he seems to be,
Than long ago he appeared to me,
When promptly bowing his curly head,
Patiently weeding the onion bed.












TELLING A FORTUNE.



BY MRS. S. M. B. PIATT.



YOU little maid, give me your hand ;
You need not cross my own with gold.
The stars I hardly understand,
But truth enough you shall be told.


First, you will travel here and there,
Through miles and miles of night and day,



From somewhere forward to somewhere -
With snows and blossoms all the way.


Your journey will be long, or brief !
If long, some bitter fruit will grow,
Through stormy bough and frosty leaf,
From all these pretty flowers you know.



I cannot help these things for you.
I only think it had been best
If Eve, before the apple grew,
Had let the bud die in her breast.


Yes, yes. I do forget. Oh, dear! -
You blush and ask for wedding rings ?
Why, thirteen Mays! Where did you hear,
Poor child, of all these foolish things ?


But you will be a nun, and fade
In serge, like Sister Edith there,
And wish--that convents were not made,
And you had kept your lovely hair!


No; since you have a pleasant face,
You will be-Madam This or That,
And tire of pearls and paint and lace,
And every mirror you look at.


No; in some cottage you will wear -
Just what you can, I think, and try
To make the best of your sweet share
Of this fine world and sometimes cry.


There do not fold your hands, I pray,
(Though folded hands end every tale;),
Make haste and broider, while you may,
The first buds in your bridal veil !










DROPPING CORN.


BY MARY B. C. SLADE.



L ITTLE Katie went with the gray old squire,
(" Who was he ?" Child, he was your grandsire.)
To the furrowed field, in the dewy morn.
"Now sing," said he, as you drop the corn,
' One for the black-bird, onefor the crow,
Onefor the cut-worm, and two to grow.'"



Crow and black-bird came fluttering 'round,
The cut-worm wriggled beneath the ground,
As five smooth kernels, every time,
Little Katie dropped, with the sing-song rhyme,
" Onefor the black-bird, onefor the crow,
Onefor the cut-worm, and two to grow."



The old squire covered the grain with soil.
" Now see," he said, they will have their spoil -
That's sure; but still we shall get our share,
If you always count, as you drop, with care,
' One for the black-bird, one or the crow,
One for the cut-worm, and two to grow."'



When kernels sprout and the green blades grow,
The crow and blackbird and cut-worm know.
And woe for the corn-field in harvest days,
Unless little Katie in planting says,
" Onefor the black-bird, one for the crow,
Onefor the cut-worm, and two to grow."



Thus do we plant with our older hands,
In wider fields and o'er broader lands-
Since for good seed sown by the land or sea,
In the air or earth a foe may be, -
" Onefor the black-bird, onefor the crow,
Onefor the cut-worm, and two to grow."



The "two to grow !" That is all I ask
As the seed-times bring me my planting task.
I know who leads to his furrowed field;
As He wills I plant, at his will shall yield
" Onefor the black-bird, onefor the crow,
Onefor the cut-worm, and two to grow."



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Ierril 0.
The \\inter 'n;nd set c.ut to blo.w I
He muffled hiis coat up to hi- chin,
And puffed his cheeks out to begin,
\\ith flLirries of snow-dak\rl fealther\\ise
From his cap blihn o er his keen cld eyes.



). Il,: "
He riiurr re.:l I..A,
" I'll make things dance .\ re. er I .o !"
And first he came \whre a 1:,ri-; elm I>:rnilh.
Th,.,.ugh stripped oft its ilra. v airmI nt noi.
Held in its rihgers. s.ininz,-\what
\\'a a ,:,anil;ng m,,ire -poiuc'l he thoui,-ht.



0, ho!
I'd like to know,"
He cried, "who wove and tied this so I
'Tis a miser's pocket, made to hold
Far out of the common reach his gold -
I'll chink and jingle it well about,
And then (he laughed) I'll empty it out! "

O, ho!
Merrily O,
With his puffed-out cheeks and feather of snow,
He shook the branch with a wicked glee,
But never a chink or a jingle heard he !
Not a gleam of coin nor a trinket shone -
All that the pouch once held was gone !



O, ho! "
He whistled low,
As he shook it each way, to and fro,
"'Tis only a bird's nest, after all,
But, ah, how firm for a thing so small!
Only a mother's skill could twine
These threads and shreds so soft and fine!

0, ho !
I'll leave it so,
For the sake of the oriole whose care
In the summer weather hung it there!"
And he shouted louder than ever, "Ho !"
With his puffed-out cheek and feather of snow,
As he started out again to blow.



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QUESTIONS,


BY AMELIA DALEY ALDEN.



D O you think the moon is lonely,
Little one,
When she hangs, a crescent dim,
O'er the waters' farthest rim,
Ere the evening stars alight
In the sombre sky of night, -
Do you think the moon is lonely,
Little one ?


Do you think the moon is happy,
Little one,
When she hangs, serene and high,
In the great star-crowded sky,
And her smile breaks o'er the sea
Reaching to her joyfully, -
Do you think the moon is happy,
Little one?



Do you think the moon is weary,
Little one,
When the night-clouds shrink away
From the fast-approaching day,
And of all the shining race,
She alone has kept her place, -
Do you think the moon is weary,
Little one?


Ah, we give the moon her seeming,
Little one !
Lonely, happy, weary, she
Takes her look from you and me.
In her sad or cheerful mien
Just our spirits' hue is seen, -
Ah, we give the moon her seeming,
Little one !



THE LITTLE



MOTHER.



BY MRS. CLARA DOTY BATES.



LITTLE Gold-locks
Sits, and holds a kitten, and rocks.
Her radiant, sunny face is one
Care never should even look upon.
Yet trouble enough is in her eye,
As she half-way hums a lullaby,
Or sighs, with a tired, impatient "
When the kitten squirms to be let go.

Such another
Wild, odd child, and fair sweet mother,
Never rocked in the self-same chair.
Down to her waist the mother's hair
Drops in a single, ruddy braid;
Many a dimple in ambuscade
Lurks in shoulder and chin and cheek,
Playing forever at hide and seek.



As any saint
The brush of a Raphael might paint,
She sits, with just the hint of a frown,
And with apple-blossom eyelids down;
And, if creeps a golden wisp of hair
Out from its ribbon, the rocking-chair
Back and forth, with its swinging ease,
Makes it the toy of a breath-long breeze.

But the little cat
Is lean and fierce, and black at that
A stray, untamed and restless elf,
Caught now, and held in spite of himself I
The victim against the will of claws,
Of bristling back, and of struggling paws, -
To the sweet impulse of motherhood,
And of love that will not be withstood.



__











QUESTIONS,


BY AMELIA DALEY ALDEN.



D O you think the moon is lonely,
Little one,
When she hangs, a crescent dim,
O'er the waters' farthest rim,
Ere the evening stars alight
In the sombre sky of night, -
Do you think the moon is lonely,
Little one ?


Do you think the moon is happy,
Little one,
When she hangs, serene and high,
In the great star-crowded sky,
And her smile breaks o'er the sea
Reaching to her joyfully, -
Do you think the moon is happy,
Little one?



Do you think the moon is weary,
Little one,
When the night-clouds shrink away
From the fast-approaching day,
And of all the shining race,
She alone has kept her place, -
Do you think the moon is weary,
Little one?


Ah, we give the moon her seeming,
Little one !
Lonely, happy, weary, she
Takes her look from you and me.
In her sad or cheerful mien
Just our spirits' hue is seen, -
Ah, we give the moon her seeming,
Little one !



THE LITTLE



MOTHER.



BY MRS. CLARA DOTY BATES.



LITTLE Gold-locks
Sits, and holds a kitten, and rocks.
Her radiant, sunny face is one
Care never should even look upon.
Yet trouble enough is in her eye,
As she half-way hums a lullaby,
Or sighs, with a tired, impatient "
When the kitten squirms to be let go.

Such another
Wild, odd child, and fair sweet mother,
Never rocked in the self-same chair.
Down to her waist the mother's hair
Drops in a single, ruddy braid;
Many a dimple in ambuscade
Lurks in shoulder and chin and cheek,
Playing forever at hide and seek.



As any saint
The brush of a Raphael might paint,
She sits, with just the hint of a frown,
And with apple-blossom eyelids down;
And, if creeps a golden wisp of hair
Out from its ribbon, the rocking-chair
Back and forth, with its swinging ease,
Makes it the toy of a breath-long breeze.

But the little cat
Is lean and fierce, and black at that
A stray, untamed and restless elf,
Caught now, and held in spite of himself I
The victim against the will of claws,
Of bristling back, and of struggling paws, -
To the sweet impulse of motherhood,
And of love that will not be withstood.



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"THt LITTLE MOTHER.'



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To him no charms
Are in those small, enfolding arms,
That bind him a captive tenderly,
And cling, unwilling to set him free.
But at last, with a struggle and push and mew,
The loving bonds are broken through,
And the scratching kitten-child is gone,
Aud the little mother is left alone !



Little Gold-locks
Sits for a minute and thinks and rocks !
The apple-blossom lids uplift,
And the wisps of gold hair drift and drift,
Back and forth, as she sighs, "Dear me!
How very, very tired I be! "
Then adds, in a wise, reflective tone,
" My child was a very naughty one!"



FUNNY UNCLE PHIL.


BY AMELIA DAILEY-ALDEN.



HEARD the grown folks talking, last night when I lay abed,



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And I thought it was the
ever heard;
And in the evening, when
come down the hill,
I almost couldn't wait to
Phil.



So I shut my eyes and listened to everything they said;
And first they said that Polly and Phil were coming here,
And a good, good soul was Polly, but Phil was always queer;



And they never, never, never, in all their lives could see
How Polly came to marry him, nor how they could agree;
For she was just as bright and sweet as any flower in May,
But he was tight as a drum-head, and as black as a stormy day.

And his nose was always poking into other folks' affairs,
And he was altogether too fond of splitting hairs;
And he had so many corners you never could come near
Without your hitting some of them, or be-
ing in constant fear.



Well, I listened very
hard, and I 'mem-
bered every word,
queerest thing a body

I heard the chaise

see my funny Uncle



But 0! what stories grown folks tell! He wasn't
black at all!
And he hadn't any corners, but was plump and
fair and small;
His nose turned up a little, but then it was so wee,



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How it could poke so very much I really couldn't see.



,, And when he saw me staring, he nodded hard,
and smiled;
SiAnd then he asked them softly if I was Elsie's
child;
And when grandma said I was he took me gently
on his knee,
SAnd wound my longest curl about his finger
carefully.

". "* And he told me 'bout my mamma when she was
a little girl,
: .. '" And all the time he talked he kept his fingers
Tl. lon that curl
Till at last I couldn't stand it, and I slipped
"": down by his chair,
'' And asked him how he came to be so fond of
splitting hair.

My! how he stared! and Jimmy laughed, and grandma shook her head,
And grandpa had his awful look, and Uncle Sam turned red;
And then the clock ticked very loud, the kitchen was so still,
And I knew 'twas something dreadful I had said to Uncle Phil.

But I couldn't help it then, so I told him every word,
And he listened very quietly; he never spoke nor stirred,
Till I told him 'bout the corners, and said I didn't know
How he could have so many when there didn't any show;

And then he laughed and laughed, till the kitchen fairly shook;
And he gave the frightened grown folks such a bright and funny look,
And said, "'Tis true, my little girl, when Polly married me
I was full of ugly corners, but she's smoothed them down, you see."

And then they all shook hands again, and Jimmy gave three
cheers,
And Uncle Sam said little pitchers had most monstrous ears; '
And grandma kissed Aunt Polly; but then she looked at
me,
And said I'd better "meditate while she was getting tea.

That means that I must sit and think what naughty things I've:
done;
It must be 'cause I'm little yet,- they seemed to think 'twas
fun.
I don't quite understand it all; well, by and by I will .
Creep softly up to him, and ask my funny Uncle Phil.














--
SI-



PURPLE violets have died;
Snow-drops lost their leaves of snow;
But in valleys green and wide
Honeysuckles grow;
Robins with their rainbow breasts
Through the sunshine flashing go,
Dreaming of their hidden nests
Builded high and low;
There's a rain of silvery singing,-summer's here,
you know !

From the maple tassels red
All the fire has burned away,
And the soft green leaves instead
On the branches play;
Butterflies with wings of gauze
In the gold air golden glow,
And enthroned in roses pause,
Coaxing them to blow ;
There are blue skies, heavenly tender, summer's
here, you know!



Where the hillsides wept in spring,
Grows the verdure fresh and bright;
And the swollen rivers sing
Rippling with delight;
Lilies, swaying with the tide,
In the shore-kissed waters blow;
And the swallows as they glide
Shadows fling below;
There's a whole world's throbbing pulses,-sum-
mer's here, you know!

Squirrels dart from tree to tree;
In the tangled woods are heard
Whispered strains of ecstasy
When the pines are stirred;
Plumy ferns, that light winds shake,
Rock the sunshine to and fro,
And in quivering shadows make
Plumy ferns below;
There's abandonment of nature,-summer's here,
you know !



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AFTERWARDS.


BY MARY E. BRADLEY.



i~-~-- -



IT was I that did it. Letty and Jane
Were busy stringing a lilac chain,
And never noticed which way I went;
So I walked down to the garden gate
Where hid in the barberry bush she sate -
The little brown wren upon her nest,
Warming her eggs beneath her breast,
And half asleep in her safe content.



The girls had told me all about it-
How the birds had built there every year,
And what a pleasure it was to hear
Their cheery chirp and chatter, and see
Them working together so busily.
It was half the joy of the spring, said Jane,
When the dear little nest was built again,
And the place wouldn't seem the same without it.



I did not forget that; and I knew
It was a mean, mean thing to do;
But still I wanted the eggs; and so
I frightened away the poor little bird
And robbed the nest; and nobody heard,
Although she fluttered and flapped her wings,
And called for her mate, and the two poor things
Flew in their trouble to and fro.
Nobody heard their cry of pain;
And nobody saw me. Letty and Jane,










Stringing their lilacs, never guessed
That I was stealing the eggs from the nest.

Next day I met them going to school,
And they made me feel-well, worse than a fool
When I saw their eyes all swelled and pink,
And heard the words that came with a sob:
" Oh, Tom! what do you, do you think ?
Somebody's been mean enough to rob
The poor little wrens !" And then they cried,
And I longed for a chance to run and hide !
" The poor little wrens that took no rest,"
Said Letty, "until they made that nest
And laid the eggs, and there isn't one
Left for the mother to sit upon !
Some boy has done it, of course," she said.
" Not you," with a shake of her curly head,
"I know you would never, never do it!
But the boy that did, will be found out
Some day, and punished, beyond a doubt -
GOD saw him, and HE will make him rue it! "

So here I sit to-night by myself,
And if Letty and Jane could only see
Those speckled eggs up there on the shelf,
I wonder what they would think of me ?
Nothing worse, I'll venture to say,
Than I think- O, if I could but push
The whole world back into yesterday,
And those wren's eggs into the barberry bush!
But the wrong that's done in a minute or two,
Forever and ever won't undo.

One thing I've heard: that a wrong confessed
(Of your own accord it means, I suppose,



And when it's a thing that nobody knows,
Like this affair) is.half redressed.



I wonder which, after all, is best -
To carry the secret fear about
That Letty and Jane will find me out,
And to feel my face burn hot and red
Whenever I think of what they said,
And to be afraid, as I am to-night,
Of going to bed without a light . .
Or to take the eggs in my hand to-morrow
And say like a man, "Irobbed the nest,
And here is the proof to my shame and sorrow ?"
-I think on the whole that's easiest -
I'll do it . Now I can put out my light,
(God hears in the dark, I guess) and pray
To be forgiven for yesterday.



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.GRANDPA'S STORY.

BY WM. M. F. ROUND.



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S5 F)ORY? a st,.:.y Ahr, \c, m, :ler chil-

' Co .mer, .aiher v.-.u cL-.el 'b'ou' t ranid apa'_; knee ;
S I'll tell \ a:,u a _..rr, a si .ve.,r i tle -lory -
A story that happened to grandnim and. me.



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I-- -IE
. `S=T-








I'm old now I know it my hair is all snowy,
And I've touched the full cycle of three score and ten;
The story I'll tell you--it happened, my darlings,
When I had a grandpa, and I was "Wee Ben."

And grandma, dear grandma, who sits there a-knitting,
Was fair-haired and dimpled, a right pretty lass,
We were playmates, my children, your grandma and I were,
We were lovers as children-ah! how the years pass!

"The story?" Holloa, there is mist on my glasses,
It always will come, when I think of that day;
It will go in a minute-hand grandpa his 'kerchief,
The story I'll tell when I've wiped it away.

You see, we were playing--your grandma and I were-
Were playing that we were the "Babes in the Wood;"
And we said we were lost in the depths of the forest,
And pretended to cry--as lost babies should.

And I saw grandma crying, and forgot she was playing,
And then I cried too, hard as ever I could;
Then grandma she laughed, and I smiled through my crying,
And so we stopped playing the "Babes in the Wood."

And all our lives through we've been working and playing,
And laughing and crying, as we did in the game.
For when grandma has cried, my eyes have grown misty,
And my smiles have all come when grandmamma's came t









S.

*. "' ,.^ ,.. .
~ ...< - . -. -. .
_. "' . ; '_ _ .:











THE DAISIES' AWAKENING.



BY JEANIE ROGERS SHERMAN.


THOUGH now the daisies dance about
In the sunshine of midsummer,
When June first came not one was out
To welcome the glad new-comer.

Where were they all? Why, every one
Was fast asleep in the clover,
And did not wake until the fun
Of the first June night was over.

What was the reason did they tell ?
Of course not, they knew better;
But Dandelion wrote Lily-bell
About it in a letter;

And then in haste he sent it by
Young Zephyr, a careless fellow,
Who tossed it down on the ground, close by
Where I found it, soiled and yellow.

It seems they did not mind at all
What the good earth-mother taught them,
But roamed about so late last fall
That at last Old Winter caught them.

" Early to bed if you would rise
Betimes," was the careful warning;
They gave no heed, and their sleepy eyes
Opened late on a fine June morning.

Yes, opened late, as no eyes should,
And there, despite their napping,
There for a day or more they stood,
With their mouths wide open, gaping.

And now they try to look so wise
That no one will believe me -
But I saw it all with my two eyes,
And they seldom, if ever, deceive me.















THE DOUBLE SUNFLOWER.



' ---
V

J



BY CELIA THAXTER.



HE sunflowers hung their banners out in the sweet Septem-
ber weather;
A stately company they stood by the garden fence together,
And looked out on the shining sea that bright and brighter grew,
And slowly bowed their golden heads to every wind that blew.

.But the double sunflower bloomed apart, far prouder than the rest,
And by his crown's majestic weight he seemed almost oppressed.
He held himself aloof upon his tall and slender stem,
And gloried in the splendor of his double diadem.

All clothed in bells of lovely blue, a morning-glory vine
Could find no friendly stick or stalk about which she might twine;
And prone upon the ground near by, with blossoms red as fire,
A scarlet runner lay for lack of means to clamber higher.

They both perceived the sunflower tall who proudly stood aside,
Nothing to them was his grand air of majesty and pride;
With one accord they charged at him, and up his stalk they ran,
And straight to hang their red and blue all over him began.

O, then he was magnificent, all azure, gold and flame !
But, woe is me! an autumn breeze from out the north-west
came, -
With all their leaves and flowers the vines about him closely
wound,
And with that keen wind's help at once they dragged him to the
ground.

I found him there next morning, his pomp completely wrecked,
His prostrate form all gorgeously with tattered blooms be-
decked;-
"Alas !" I said, no power on earth your glory can recall!
Did you not know, dear sunflower, that pride must have a fall ? "

I raised him up and bore him in, and, ere he faded quite,
In the corner he stood splendid awhile for our delight;
But his humbler, single brethren, in the garden, every one,
With shining disks and golden rays stayed gazing at the sun.











SUMMER'S DONE.



MRS. L. C. WHITON.



THINNER the leaves of the larches show,
Motionless held in the languid air;
Fainter by waysides the sweet-briers grow,
Wide bloom laying their gold hearts bare,
Languishing one by one :
Summer is almost done.


Deeper hued roses have long since died;
Silent the birds through the white mist fly;
Down of the thistles, by hot suns dried,
Covers with pale fleece vines growing nigh;
Little brooks calmer run :
Summer is almost done.


Later the flush of the sunrise sweeps,
Shortening the reign of the slow-coming day;
Earlier shade of the twilight creeps
Over the swallows skimming away;



Crickets their notes have begun:
Summer is almost done.

Darkened to mourning the sad-colored beech
Empty the nests in its purple boughs lie;
Something elusive we never can reach
Deepens the glory of days going by;
Aftermath lies in the sun:
Summer is almost done.

Child why regret that the summer must go ?
Sweet lies the aftermath left in the sun;
Lives that are earnest more beautiful grow
Out of a childhood in beauty begun:
Harvests of gold can be won
Only when summer is done !








































RUBBER BOOTS.


BY ADELAIDE G. WATERS.

A LL one week the children were wandering Oh me such a laughing, such a splashing all about I
roundabout, They made me think of ducklings that have found
Lamenting, like the starling, that they could not get the water out,
out, The hen mamma upon the bank, in very great dis-
Because a rainy curtain had shut upon the hills, may,-
And doubled, white and foaming, the naughty little But I, unlike the hen mamma, had not a word to
rills. say.

But the rain went off at last, as you'll find it's apt to At last, I thought it prudent I should hurry from the
do, din,
And all the earth was green as grass, and all the sky Lest, if I staid much longer, I myself should venture
was blue. in.
All the little growing things had put forth little Is there anything within the range of unforbidden
shoots, fruits,
And off went all the children to find their rubber More charming than a puddle and a pair of rubber
boots. boots?



I_ __ ___





















h A 41wi-IT


































AND THE WELL.



BY ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.



N pleasant solitude
A cosy homestead stood;
Neighbored by orchard trees, with bloom and shade,-
A quiet country place,
With ample door-yard space,
Where robins sung unscared, and children played.

From that serene abode
A winding, wandering road
Went straying down the hillside, here and there,
With many a needless crook,
And ended in a nook
Wherein a little spring gushed cool and fair.

Tall rushes grew close by
And flags waved broad and high,
And purple iris raised her queenly head;
While celandine beside
Her golden eai *lr.:.:i.p tried,
And loose-strife tipped its yellow stars with red.



And hence, for many a year,
The busy dwellers near
Had carried water, through the snow or dew;
And still, in cold or heat,
The spring gushed fresh and sweet,
Nor ever dried or froze the seasons through.

Till once, as it befel,
They thought to dig a well
Between their doorway-arbor and the swing,
To ease the tiresome load
Of bringing up the road
So many pails of water from the spring.

But on the day when first
The wished-for water burst
Into the shaft, and filled it bounteously,
The children chanced to stray
Along the crooked way,
And lo, they found the dear old spring was dry I



THE SPRING







Only a muddy space
Remained to mark the place
Where the clear tide had sparkled day and night;
And weeds and celandine
Began to droop and pine,
Missing the water which had kept them bright.

"The spring has run away "
They whispered in dismay.
"Where has it gone ? and pray, how could it tell -
How did it know, poor thing,
That we should never bring
Our palls for water, now we have a well ? "



And yet no wizzard strange
Had wrought the sudden change;
A workman's spade had chanced to weave the spell,
By finding in its course
The spring's unfailing source,
And stealing all its treasure for the weli

The children did not see
How simple this might be;
And many a day thereafter they would tell,
Still wondering and wide-eyed,
About the spring that died
Because it was so jealous of a well!



BIG TOE.


BY ELLA M. BAKER.



DO you know old Big Toe ?
He's the head of the row,
So it's his place to show
Every fat, smaller toe
How to be good and grave,
And just how to behave.
But this naughty Big Toe,
I must say, don't do so;
He is wilful and bold,
Don't stay where he is told;
Just as papa's pigs do,
He tries to get out, too.

One day company came,
And think what a shame!
This same naughty Big Toe
Not keeping, you know,
In nice shoe and stocking,
Crept out O, how shocking! -

And put his head through
A window in the shoe,
As saucy as could be !
Everybody could see,
And poor mamma was so
Mortified at Big Toe !



But I'll tell you what then;-
" You sha'n't do so again,"
She said to bad Big Toe.
She went right and bought, 0 1
Such stout copper toes !
If he gets out of those,



..

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- -i



That shut him in, tight
And snug, out of sight
With the other toes small,
The right place for them all,
I am sure I don't know
What she'll do with Big Toe I



?k




















-...--
-A- s-



MAMMA'S DOLLS.


IY ELLA FARMAN.


"0 MAMMA, were your little doll-girls
ever bad
Like mine ? so bad they made their little
mamma sad?
Would your dolls twitch when you combed out
their little curls ?
You said you once were small and had some
dolly-girls.


Tell me about your dolls, and when your
name was Kit, -
Just little Kit, like me, you know. Mamma,
is it
As nice to be a woman ? Don't you want to be
Little again? Why didn't you save your dolls
for me?


"Did you have lots of dolls ? What kind did
you like best -
The little naked ones, or those you bought all
dressed ?
And did your mamma give you pieces of her
dress ?
Oh when she gave you silk, then you was glad,
I guess !


Saved you my dolls !- should I tell you, my lit-
tle Kit,
About when Iwas little Kit, you'd laugh at it.










That Kit lived miles and miles from dolly-stores; and,
worse,
Her mamma had no dolly-money in her purse.

So, Kit, what do you think that little Kit did do, -
That poor, poor Kit ? Her dolls would not have done
for you !
She rolled a piece of cloth, and sewed it in a roll,
Eyes, nose, mouth, hair, she marked them with a
piece of coal !

The pipe-stem arms were cloth, the pipe-stem legs
were cloth,
Kit's mamma took a stitch to bend the ankles both;
And Kit felt grand to get a piece of calico
For dolly's dress grandmamma had no silk, you
know.

"And that was all she had ? -mamma, I feel so bad "
Oh, no, sweet pet, a bigger doll she often had:
She pinned a pillow in her little blanket-shawl, -
Don't laugh she loved that soft fat dolly best of all.



"Poor mamma! if I'd lived then, I'd have give you
some
My dolls. I'm glad you staid and lived until I come.


















It's made up now. Because you didn't have doll
you see,
When you were little, now you have papa and me I "



OLD WATCH TO THE MOON.


BY MRS. C. J. MILLER.



Bow, wow, wow!
Out to their posts the stars come now,
And we must begin the Moon and I -
Our still night watch; she in the silver sky,
While down low in the dewy grass I lie.

Bow, wow, wow !
Within the dark house the dear ones sleep now-
And close I sit all through the silent night
With my heart as full as the Moon's of light -
They trust old Watch and sleep, and they do right.



Bow, wow, wow!
O, Moon so near to heaven, 0, you
Must know! I have no words to speak my pain -
But, tell me, Moon, are faith and love in vain ?
Will there not come a time when all is plain ?

Bow, wow, wow!
I hear the dear ones talking soft and low
Of some fair land where they journey soon,
Where all shall gain some longed-for boon -
And shall I not be with them there, 0 Moon ?



Bow, wow, wow!
I shall tell them there that I loved them so -
What if I did wrong in the Old-Time Land,
Where they used to blame me with word and hand?
It was only -I could not understand.









MOTHER'S SONG.


HARRIET MCEWEN KIMBALL.



THE brooklet runs over the stones -
Pretty stones !
The larches are hung with cones -
Pretty cones !
The brooklet sings, but the larch is sighing
" 0, summer is fled, and autumn flying !
Heigho "



And Baby can sing like the brook -
Pretty brook !
As it leaps from its moss-fringed nook -
Pretty nook!
And Baby's singing shall drown the crying
Of the cross old world and its endless sighing:
Heigho!"



MY QUEENS.



ON one pillow, soft and snowy,
Sleep my little Treasures.
Not a pain to trouble ; only
Tired with pleasures.
Dainty Treasures! Ah,
Dare I leave you in the Dreamland far?

Mother-heart must follow after,
Waiting lonely
At the Dreamland's golden gate-way;
Hoping only
That the Angels may
Whisper how they win you glad away !

Now the parting sunset crowns you
With its glory,
As do costly gems the real
Queens of story;
Brown and golden hair
Shining diadems of light do wear.

Pure and precious faces! Mother
Watching, dreams too,
Down the years of sunset looking,
Fairer finds you,-
Nestling buds of Spring,
Opened into richest blossoming !



One hath learned to sing in poems
Of sweet measure,
Life's rich meaning ;-and how love is
Its one treasure.
Royal made in praise,
"Queen," she walketh down her golden days !
Clad in broidered, silken raiment,
Jewels gleaming
In her rippling hair,- the other,
In my dreaming
Rich in grace I ween,-
Mid her loyal hearts, sits, beauty's Queen."'
But the night-fall draws me closer
To my Treasures;
And a fear breaks on my heart which
No word measures.
Dare I proudly choose
What the dear, wise Master may refuse ?

Choose Thou, Master ;- only let me
In the New Song "
Hear my Darlings ;- let me find them
Mid the bright Throng,
Pure as silver dove -
Crowned Queens," for lowliness of love !



E









MOTHER'S SONG.


HARRIET MCEWEN KIMBALL.



THE brooklet runs over the stones -
Pretty stones !
The larches are hung with cones -
Pretty cones !
The brooklet sings, but the larch is sighing
" 0, summer is fled, and autumn flying !
Heigho "



And Baby can sing like the brook -
Pretty brook !
As it leaps from its moss-fringed nook -
Pretty nook!
And Baby's singing shall drown the crying
Of the cross old world and its endless sighing:
Heigho!"



MY QUEENS.



ON one pillow, soft and snowy,
Sleep my little Treasures.
Not a pain to trouble ; only
Tired with pleasures.
Dainty Treasures! Ah,
Dare I leave you in the Dreamland far?

Mother-heart must follow after,
Waiting lonely
At the Dreamland's golden gate-way;
Hoping only
That the Angels may
Whisper how they win you glad away !

Now the parting sunset crowns you
With its glory,
As do costly gems the real
Queens of story;
Brown and golden hair
Shining diadems of light do wear.

Pure and precious faces! Mother
Watching, dreams too,
Down the years of sunset looking,
Fairer finds you,-
Nestling buds of Spring,
Opened into richest blossoming !



One hath learned to sing in poems
Of sweet measure,
Life's rich meaning ;-and how love is
Its one treasure.
Royal made in praise,
"Queen," she walketh down her golden days !
Clad in broidered, silken raiment,
Jewels gleaming
In her rippling hair,- the other,
In my dreaming
Rich in grace I ween,-
Mid her loyal hearts, sits, beauty's Queen."'
But the night-fall draws me closer
To my Treasures;
And a fear breaks on my heart which
No word measures.
Dare I proudly choose
What the dear, wise Master may refuse ?

Choose Thou, Master ;- only let me
In the New Song "
Hear my Darlings ;- let me find them
Mid the bright Throng,
Pure as silver dove -
Crowned Queens," for lowliness of love !



E












































BABY'S DAY.

BY MRS. L. C. WHITON.



T HE reason I call it Baby's Day is funny
enough to tell ;
The first thing she did was give syrup of squills to
dolly to make her well;
And then when I told her how wrong it was, she said,
with a quivering sigh,
"I'm sorry I made her so sticky, mamma, but I
couldn't let dolly die."

Then comforted wholly she went away, and was just
as still as a mouse,
And I thought to be sure I should find her at once in
the nursery playing house ";



But, lo! on the way as I started to look, a queer little(
piece I found,
Just like a centre of snowy lawn that the scissors
had scalloped round.

I cried O, baby what have you done? You have
been to somebody's drawer,
And taken from out of the handkerchief pile the
most beautiful one that you saw! "
And then the dear little head weit down pathetic as
it could be,
While she sobbed, There was nothing for me to cut,
and I thought I'd take two or three "











It was only a little later on, that the water began to
splash,
And I jumped and found she was rubbing away on
her sister's holiday sash ;
But, catching a look of utter dismay, as she lifted her
innocent eyes,
She whispered: Don't worry, I'll wash it all clean,
and hang it up till it dries."

But the funny mishaps of that wonderful day I could
not begin to relate;
The boxes of buttons and pins she spilled, like a
cherub pursued by fate !



And still, all the while, the dear little dove was flut-
tering 'round her nest,
And the only thing I really could do was to smooth
out her wings on my breast.

But the day drifted on till it came to an end, and the
great moon rose in sight,
And the dear soft lids o'er the dear soft eyes dropped
tenderly their good night.
And I thought, as I looked on her lying asleep, I
was glad (for once in a way),
That my beautiful child was human enough for a
mischievous "Baby Day."



FAMILY CARES.


BY MARY D. BRINE.



"0 DEAR! I'm in sus twuble !
I tan't det down dese 'tairs;
My apun teeps a-dwopping,
An' all my dolly's hairs
Are getting out of turl, an'
Se spills out on de f'oor.
An' no one turns to help me, -
I s'ant try any more.

"I'll dess sit down an' west me !
Tan't hardly det a bweath !
Dot so much cares to bozzer
Most p'agued myse'f to death!
Dere! now my kitty's mewing,
I spec' I squeezed her some.
O dear! I couldn't help it!
Why don't my mamma turn?

"My s'ippers all s'ipped off,
And my 'tocking won't tay up.
And dere I fink it's awful!
I've los' my littlee cup !



An' some one's gone an' bwoke it-
I'm sure it wasn't me-



0 DEAR! I'M IN SUS TWUBLE!
It ain't dot any handle
No more, dat I tan see.







"I dess my kitty bwoke it
When se fell down de 'tairs
Wight out of my ol' apun:
I wonder if se dares
To tell a naughty 'tory,
An' say se didn't do it?
Mamma tol' me not to tus it,
And maybe kitty knew it.



"Won't sit here any longer -
Nobody'll turn all day.
Wish dere weren't any 'tairs, toz
I want to go an' play."
She gathers up her apron,
And lifts her foot Alas !
A tumble-rumble bumble
Is all that comes to pass.



A VALENTINE.

BY MRS. L. C. WHITON.

W INSOME little maiden, with your fancies "I have brought you sweetest flowers to-day,
white, But my little love is sweeter, sweeter far than they.'"
Pure as April snowdrops grown in silver light,
Lilies of the valley, like a breath of spring, Lovely little maiden, waiting like a bird,
In your hands are lying as Love's offering; Till your golden dreaming into song be stirred,
"Little love," I say, Exquisite your silence; but, when falls a strain,










With delight of singing you will sing again:
"Little love," I say,
"Do not (dreaming) any more delay ;
Sing as thrush by dawn enraptured on a summer's
day."

Ah a soul's white mystery who can understand ?



Soft I see you smiling, lilies in your hand;
And with song or silence I will be content,-
Notes that are divinest but for Heaven are meant.
"Little love, I say,
"I would keep you as you are to-day;
But I know that summer thrushes sing--and go,
away "



DRIVING THE CLOUDS.

BY CHARLOTTE F. BATES.



" I'LL hold the reins just as you do,
Now, please, a little while, papa;
They truly, truly shan't slip through ;
Do please say 'Yes,' -that's it, hurrah "

With little hands severely taxed,
And tiny figure straighter grown,
His pride and courage stronger waxed,-
To feel an arm about him thrown.

Chafing beneath a curbing hand,
He thrust it off to be all free,
Then raised himself to take command,
With a redoubled dignity.

Now looking here, now looking there,
As he had seen his father do,



He cast a glance into the air,
Where rode a fleecy cloud or two.

An eager smile o'erspread his face,
"Oh, see I drive the clouds, papa "
The head slides back to watch their pace,
The reins slip through- aha aha !

Now, Master Ned, how well for you
Into papa's great hand they fall !
You pushed it from you, it withdrew
But little distance, after all.

The Father sits beside us all,
His froward, self-sufficient ones
Our weak child-fancies to forestall,
He keeps his arm around his sons !



HER OWN LITTLE ROOM.


BY HARRIET McEWEN KIMBALL.



H ERE is my own little room;
Fair as a lily in bloom -
That was what mother dear said.
Just see how lovely it looks !
Here are my desk and books,
Here is my own little bed.



This is my sewing-chair;
That is my work-box there,
Everything I shall use;
Thimble, and scissors, and thread,
Stocking-ball, darning I dread -
Emery, needles to choose.



---c-



PI










With delight of singing you will sing again:
"Little love," I say,
"Do not (dreaming) any more delay ;
Sing as thrush by dawn enraptured on a summer's
day."

Ah a soul's white mystery who can understand ?



Soft I see you smiling, lilies in your hand;
And with song or silence I will be content,-
Notes that are divinest but for Heaven are meant.
"Little love, I say,
"I would keep you as you are to-day;
But I know that summer thrushes sing--and go,
away "



DRIVING THE CLOUDS.

BY CHARLOTTE F. BATES.



" I'LL hold the reins just as you do,
Now, please, a little while, papa;
They truly, truly shan't slip through ;
Do please say 'Yes,' -that's it, hurrah "

With little hands severely taxed,
And tiny figure straighter grown,
His pride and courage stronger waxed,-
To feel an arm about him thrown.

Chafing beneath a curbing hand,
He thrust it off to be all free,
Then raised himself to take command,
With a redoubled dignity.

Now looking here, now looking there,
As he had seen his father do,



He cast a glance into the air,
Where rode a fleecy cloud or two.

An eager smile o'erspread his face,
"Oh, see I drive the clouds, papa "
The head slides back to watch their pace,
The reins slip through- aha aha !

Now, Master Ned, how well for you
Into papa's great hand they fall !
You pushed it from you, it withdrew
But little distance, after all.

The Father sits beside us all,
His froward, self-sufficient ones
Our weak child-fancies to forestall,
He keeps his arm around his sons !



HER OWN LITTLE ROOM.


BY HARRIET McEWEN KIMBALL.



H ERE is my own little room;
Fair as a lily in bloom -
That was what mother dear said.
Just see how lovely it looks !
Here are my desk and books,
Here is my own little bed.



This is my sewing-chair;
That is my work-box there,
Everything I shall use;
Thimble, and scissors, and thread,
Stocking-ball, darning I dread -
Emery, needles to choose.



---c-



PI










Soon as I learned to sew,
Mend my own linen, you know,
Take all the care for my own,



/-` :5'

ce-" p
-F..
--
r- :



Dusting and making my bed,
Mother always has said :
"Sister shall room all alone."

Not that the children may
Not be allowed here to play
Sometimes when they are good;
But when I'm reading, you know,



Romping and shouting they go;
Then I want solitude.

Here I shall often sit,
(Mother cari read or knit!)
Resting my book on this shelf.
Here my birdie will swing
Right overhead, the dear thing,
Singing away to himself.

Pictures ? 0 yes, I forget!
This is St. Margaret, -
None of them costly, but dear /-
This is Aurora, and this -
This is The Playmate's Kiss,
And yesus and Mary here.

Here in the winter time
I shall have ivies to climb
And my Hermosa rose,
All through the winter in bloom,
How it will brighten my room !
I shall forget that it snows.

This pretty student-lamp's mine;
I may sit up until nine,
But I shall join mother dear
Till I come up for the night,
So I my candle shall light
Unless she sits with me here.


Sometimes, my friends will come in
Very soon I shall begin
Asking them duly to come.
Here I mean to "receive ;"
0, you may laugh, but believe !
For this is my home in my home.













WEIGHING THE BABY.



BY HARRIET E. BENEDICT.



C ALL up grandpa from his book,
Bid papa be present! !
Draw the lace-hung cradle out
In the sunshine pleasant. L



Since the little stranger came
'Tis a month this Monday-
To each and every one
Of all days the one day.

None can show a finer boy,
Whosoever they be;
But, to set all doubts at rest,
We will weigh the baby.

Grandpa's eyes beneath his specs
Show a merry twinkle ;
Grandma's smiles are lighting up
Every dear old wrinkle;

Mamma lays the baby down;
Everything is ready -
Papa holds the blanket up
In his fingers steady.

See the darling's laughing eyes !
Wisely wondering, maybe,
Why we make so great a fuss
When we weigh the baby.

Kiss him twenty times around;
Tuck in all the flounces;
Do not make the least mistake
In the pounds and ounces.

Slide the weight along the line -
Papa's swift substraction,



Unheeding grandpa's estimate,
Gets it to a fraction.

fust twelvepounds / You pre-
cious pet !
Not a baby going,
In a few short weeks, has done
Such a sight of growing!

Grandpa's chuckle of delight
Vain he tries to smother.
Papa's eyes rest proudly on
Baby's pretty mother.

Shines a tear-drop in her eye,
Gazing on her treasure ?
Thinks she of the love untold
God alone can measure ?

Years of manhood, years of toil,
Grief or sin, we may be
Weighing with unconscious hand
When we weigh the baby.

Nay, let smiles replace the tear !
'Tis a mother's duty
Just to smile, and smile, upon
Such a bunch of beauty.

Close and closer to her heart
Her wee darling pressing,
Mother-lips above the child
Breathe this fervent blessing:

Whether life be long or short,
Bright or dark the way be,
Heaven protect the darling boy !
Angels guard the baby!









































?T~~

'2:~ ; J..















--._ /



THE CHRIST-CRADLE: A CHRISTMAS BALLAD.

["CHRIST-CRADLE" IS THE OLD SAXON NAME FOR MINCE PIE.]


BY MARGARET J. PRESTON.



"T WAS the time of the old Crusaders;
And back with his broken band
The Lord of Lancarvan Castle
Had come from the Holy Land.


He was tired of wars and sieges,
And it sickened his soul to roam
*So far from his wife and children,
So long from his English home.


And yet with a noble courage
He loved for the Faith to fight;
For he carried upon his shoulder
The sign of the Red-Cross Knight.

It was Christmas Eve in the castle;
The yule-log burnt in the hall;
And helmet and shield and banner
Threw shadows upon the wall;



And the baron was telling stories
To the little ones at his knees,
Of some of the holy places
He had visited over seas.


Then he spake of the watching shepherds
Who saw such marvelous sights,
And the song that the angels chanted
That first of the Christmas nights;


He told of the star whose shining
Outsparkled the brightest gem;
He told of the hallowed cradle
They showed him at Bethlehem.


And the eyes of the children glistened,
To think that a rack sufficed,
With only the straw for blankets,
To cradle the baby Christ.









"Nay, dry up your tears, my darlings! "
Right gaily the baron cried ;
" For nothing but smiles must greet me -
I'm home and it's Christmas-tide !

" Come, wife I have thought of a cradle
Another than this, I say,
Which thou in thy skill shalt make me,
To honor this Christmas day.

"We would not forget the manger;
So choose of thy platters fair
The one that is largest, deepest,
And cover it, in thy care,

"With flakes of the richest pastry,
Wrought cunningly by thy hands,
That thus it may bring before us
The wrap of the swaddling-bands.

"And out of thy well-stored larder
Set forth of thy very best:
Is aught that we have too precious
To honor this Christmas guest?



"Strew meats of the finest shredding,
(The straw was chopped in the stall!)
Bring butter and wine and honey
To lavish around them all.

"Let raisins and figs of Smyrna,
That draw to the East our thought,
Let spices that call the Magi,
With their gifts, to mind, be brought.

" Let sweets that suggest frankincense,
Let fruits from the Southern sea,
Be given ungrudged : remember,
His choicest he gave for thee !

"Then over the piled-up platter
A cover of pastry draw,
With a star in its midst, to mind us
Of that which the Wise Men saw.

" Christ's Cradle is what we'll call it;
And ever, sweet wife, I pray,
With such thou wilt make us merry
At dinner each Christmas Day I "



SPRING FUN.



THE best of fun, I tell you, boys -
I wonder if you know ?-
Is to get a dozen polywogs
SAnd find out how frogs grow.

You go and catch them in the pond,
Along in early spring;
And when you stir them up O, my !
They squirm like anything !

They are just like a little spot
Of jelly, with two eyes;
And such a funny little tail,
Of quite astounding size.

You put them in a great big dish -
A large bowl is the best.
They swim and squirm, and squirm and swim,
And never seem to rest.



Put in some dirt and water plants-
I've known them to eat meat.
They'll grow and grow so beautiful
The girls would call them sweet.

And bunches by and by appear-
On each side there are two.
And little legs, like sprouting plants,
Will pretty soon peep through.

The legs grow long, the tail grows short;
And by and by you'll see
There isn't any tail at all
Where a tail used to be.

And froggy now can jump on land,
Or in the water swim.
And scientific men will now
"Amphibious call him.










THE EARTH'S LITTLE BABIES.



BY MRS. M. F. BUTTS.



WE went to gather the Mayflower,
Out on the woody hill;
The snow lay white in the hollows,
The air was clear and chill.
Little three-year-old Millie
Ran gaily into the gloom,
Peering with childish wonder
To find the butus bloom."



She was the first to espy it,
And put out her eager hand,
Then drew it back with a gesture
That we did not understand;
And said, looking up in earnest,
Her glance as clear as the day,
"These are the earth's little babies !
We oughtn't to take 'em away."



WILL-O'-THE-WISP.


BY MARY A. LATHBURY.


-, WANDERING Will-o'-the-Wisp,
S"Will you never find the way ?
/I watch the wavering spark
S i-' Of your lantern down in the dark,
S' And I think I hear you say,
j' Lost lost! lost !
For a thousand years and a day "


J- "i 0O, tell me, Will-o'-the.Wisp,
Are you a spirit astray -
An angel-child ? Did you fall
Over the jasper wall
i Of Paradise, that you say,
Z "Lost! lost! lost!
For a thousand years and a day ? "


Dear little Will-o'-the-Wisp,
Come up from the fens, I pray;
For heaven is not so far
SAs the -very nearest star,
And the song we sing always
.- Is Saved! saved! saved!
Forever and a day "



,J










THE EARTH'S LITTLE BABIES.



BY MRS. M. F. BUTTS.



WE went to gather the Mayflower,
Out on the woody hill;
The snow lay white in the hollows,
The air was clear and chill.
Little three-year-old Millie
Ran gaily into the gloom,
Peering with childish wonder
To find the butus bloom."



She was the first to espy it,
And put out her eager hand,
Then drew it back with a gesture
That we did not understand;
And said, looking up in earnest,
Her glance as clear as the day,
"These are the earth's little babies !
We oughtn't to take 'em away."



WILL-O'-THE-WISP.


BY MARY A. LATHBURY.


-, WANDERING Will-o'-the-Wisp,
S"Will you never find the way ?
/I watch the wavering spark
S i-' Of your lantern down in the dark,
S' And I think I hear you say,
j' Lost lost! lost !
For a thousand years and a day "


J- "i 0O, tell me, Will-o'-the.Wisp,
Are you a spirit astray -
An angel-child ? Did you fall
Over the jasper wall
i Of Paradise, that you say,
Z "Lost! lost! lost!
For a thousand years and a day ? "


Dear little Will-o'-the-Wisp,
Come up from the fens, I pray;
For heaven is not so far
SAs the -very nearest star,
And the song we sing always
.- Is Saved! saved! saved!
Forever and a day "



,J













RAIN-SONG.



BY MRS. J. MILLER.



' THE beautiful, beautiful rain !
., Sing praises Sing praises !
The little brown wren leaned out of her nest
And sang it with the daisies.

" the beautiful, beautiful rain !
Sing praises Sing praises !



The brook sang over her pebbly lane
In wonderful alto phrases.

From brooks and banks, from fields and flowers,
The lovely chorus raises :
" 0, the beautiful, beautiful rain !
Sing praises! Sing praises "



WHY THE ROSES FADE.

BY E. F.


The Bugkins live in the sweet rose tree,
Their clothes are as green as green can be,
And that is the reason, without doubt,
That they never before have been found out.


But there they are, as you can see,
Quite at home in the great rose-tree;
They live on dews and essences,
And the biggest does as the littlest says.


As soon as ever the first rose blows,
Up to get it Miss Ambrose goes;
She cuts the stem with her fine white teeth,
And hands it down to baby, beneath.


Papa, mamma, and little Kotouse,
Wait below on the budding boughs;
They sip as soon as a flower is made,
And that is the reason our roses fade.













RAIN-SONG.



BY MRS. J. MILLER.



' THE beautiful, beautiful rain !
., Sing praises Sing praises !
The little brown wren leaned out of her nest
And sang it with the daisies.

" the beautiful, beautiful rain !
Sing praises Sing praises !



The brook sang over her pebbly lane
In wonderful alto phrases.

From brooks and banks, from fields and flowers,
The lovely chorus raises :
" 0, the beautiful, beautiful rain !
Sing praises! Sing praises "



WHY THE ROSES FADE.

BY E. F.


The Bugkins live in the sweet rose tree,
Their clothes are as green as green can be,
And that is the reason, without doubt,
That they never before have been found out.


But there they are, as you can see,
Quite at home in the great rose-tree;
They live on dews and essences,
And the biggest does as the littlest says.


As soon as ever the first rose blows,
Up to get it Miss Ambrose goes;
She cuts the stem with her fine white teeth,
And hands it down to baby, beneath.


Papa, mamma, and little Kotouse,
Wait below on the budding boughs;
They sip as soon as a flower is made,
And that is the reason our roses fade.













PLAYING NOAH'S ARK.



" A IN'T anyfing in the world to
._T4 Ev'yfing's old and b'oke!"
Grumbled the little ones, in the way
Of all the world's little folk.

So sister thought up a wonderful ga
And told them all to hark; "
It hadn't any particular name, -
She called it "Playing Noah's Arl

"We'll take this tub for a Nark, you
And then the aminals come,
Two by two, as they used to go.
I'm Mrs. Methuselum;

And Teddy, he's Father Noah, we'll
We'll get inside, and mark,
Right down in a register-book, the v
You all come into the Nark."

"We'd better have some preachin', I
Noah prob'ly did, I guess."



BY ANNA F. BURNHAM.

play! So Mrs. Methuselum in pink,
And Noah in his baby dress,

Preach and preach to the wicked folks :"
"Be dood !" and Love my Lord "
me, "Mind your movver and Go to shurch "
But, alas! with one accord,

k." They laugh in his face- poor Father Noah,
Preaching with might and main !
know, Dess 'at we've seen a shower before !
Who's f'yaid of your old wet rain ? "

The kittens think it the best of jokes;
Old Rover begins to bark.
play; They're playing they are the wicked folks
A-left out of the Nark."
aay
There's another tub on the edge of the sink;
It falls with a splash and a thud.
fink; Poor little "wicked folks " Didn't fink
Old Noah meant a truly flood "



A SPRING OUTFIT.

BY MRS. M. F. BUTTS.

HIPPITY-HOP over the hills,
Hippity-hop to the dandelion mills;
Get me a necklace of gold and green
To wear when I pay my court to the queen.

Trittity-trot over the moor,
Trittity-trot to the tulip-store;
Get me a train of white and red,
And a yellow crown to wear on my head.

Spiddity-speed, and up and down,
Spiddity-speed to Hyacinth town;
Cover me over with bells to ring,
When I go to the palace of the king.













PLAYING NOAH'S ARK.



" A IN'T anyfing in the world to
._T4 Ev'yfing's old and b'oke!"
Grumbled the little ones, in the way
Of all the world's little folk.

So sister thought up a wonderful ga
And told them all to hark; "
It hadn't any particular name, -
She called it "Playing Noah's Arl

"We'll take this tub for a Nark, you
And then the aminals come,
Two by two, as they used to go.
I'm Mrs. Methuselum;

And Teddy, he's Father Noah, we'll
We'll get inside, and mark,
Right down in a register-book, the v
You all come into the Nark."

"We'd better have some preachin', I
Noah prob'ly did, I guess."



BY ANNA F. BURNHAM.

play! So Mrs. Methuselum in pink,
And Noah in his baby dress,

Preach and preach to the wicked folks :"
"Be dood !" and Love my Lord "
me, "Mind your movver and Go to shurch "
But, alas! with one accord,

k." They laugh in his face- poor Father Noah,
Preaching with might and main !
know, Dess 'at we've seen a shower before !
Who's f'yaid of your old wet rain ? "

The kittens think it the best of jokes;
Old Rover begins to bark.
play; They're playing they are the wicked folks
A-left out of the Nark."
aay
There's another tub on the edge of the sink;
It falls with a splash and a thud.
fink; Poor little "wicked folks " Didn't fink
Old Noah meant a truly flood "



A SPRING OUTFIT.

BY MRS. M. F. BUTTS.

HIPPITY-HOP over the hills,
Hippity-hop to the dandelion mills;
Get me a necklace of gold and green
To wear when I pay my court to the queen.

Trittity-trot over the moor,
Trittity-trot to the tulip-store;
Get me a train of white and red,
And a yellow crown to wear on my head.

Spiddity-speed, and up and down,
Spiddity-speed to Hyacinth town;
Cover me over with bells to ring,
When I go to the palace of the king.












Trippity-trip, and do not stop,
Trippity-trip to the violet shop;
Make me some sapphire finger-rings,
And fill my belt with the fragrant things.

Hurry away to the lily loom,
Bring me a cup in perfect bloom;
Bring it of silver, lined with gold,
And as full of honey as it can hold.



Stop on the way at the pansy place,
Make me a fan to cool my face;
A fan of purple, as soft as silk,
Dotted with spots as white as milk.

Flittity-flit, as a bird flies over,
Bring me a sash of sweet red clover; -
Won't I be a sight to be seen,
When I go to pay my court to the queen ?



E SNOW-BIRDS.



"I VEAR little birdies, white and brown,
" Gay and beautiful, lighting down
With a cheery twitter upon the snow,
Whence do they come, and where do they go ?"

They come, when the winter days grow cold,
Down from the home of the icebergs old;
They go, when the spring grows mild and warm,
Back to the lands of snow and storm.

"What do they find to eat, when bare
Lie the snowy fields in the wintry air?
What do they drink, when the bitter frost
Has frozen the spring, and the brook is lost ?"

They light on the stems of grass and weeds,
And bend them over, and peck the seeds;



They need no water; they take instead
The beautiful snow-flakes round them spread.

It falls from heaven, the pearly snow,
As the manna fell, so long ago.
God feeds his little birds to-day
Like the Israelites on their desert way.

"Why do their little feet not freeze
On the frozen snow and the icy trees ?
What keeps the tiny things alive
When the killing night-winds rage and drive ? "

We only know that the Lord takes care
Of his little tender birds of the air;
And the snow-bird's life is safe and gay
As the robin's life in merry May.








n



AT HANS ANDERSEN'S FUNERAL.


BY MRS. S. M. B. PIATT.


W HY, all the children in all the world had listened around his knee,
But the wonder-tales must end;
So, all the children in all the world came into the church to see
The still face of their friend.

"But were any fairies there ? Why, yes, little questioner of mine,
For the fairies loved him too
And all the fairies in all the world, as far as the moon can shine,
Sobbed, what shall we do ?' "

Well, the children who played with the North's white swans, away in the North's
white snows,
Made wreaths of fir for his head
And the South's dark children scattered the scents of the South's red rose
Down at the feet of the dead.

Yes, all the children in all the world were there, with their tears that day;
But the boy who loved him best,
Alone in a damp and lonesome place (not far from his grave) he lay,
And sadder than all the rest.

" Mother," he moaned, never mind the king. Why, what if the king is there?
Never mind your faded shawl;
The king may never see it; for the king will hardly care
To look at your clothes at all."

So, close to his coffin she crouched, in the breath of the burial flowers,
And begged for a bud or a leaf ;
" If I cannot have one, 0, sirs, to take to that poor little room of ours,
My boy will die of his grief "

My child, if the king was there, and I think he was (but, then, I forget),
Why, that was a little thing.
Did a dead man ever lift his head from its place in the coffin yet,
Do you think, to bow to the king ?

" But could he not see him up in Heaven ? I never was there, you know;
But Heaven is too far, I fear,
For the ermine, and purple, and gold that make up the king, to show
So bravely as they do here.

But he saw the tears of the peasant-child in the beautiful light he took
From the earth, in his close-shut eyes;
For tears are the sweetest of all the things we shall see, when we come to look
From the windows of the skies.








WE BOYS.


MRS. R. N. TURNER.



DID you ever think, dear friends,
What a source of joy-
What a blessed thing it is
Just to be a boy ?
Just to feel so free and glad
Troubles seem but air ?
Just to think, but not to know,
What is meant by care ?



Do you think that on this planet
Anything 's so free,
Anything is half so joyous-
Half so gay as we ?
Why, the world is just our kingdom,
We are sovereigns all,
And we rule, without a doubt,
This terrestrial ball !



BABY IN THE CRIB, THINKING.



BY MRS. L. C. WHITON.



.. .- .- -



BEAUTIFUL little mamma,
What do you think I'd do
If you were a baby smiling,
And la mamma like you?



I never would leave my baby,
Waiting to be caressed,
But reach out my arms and take her,
And gather her on my breast!
That's what I'd do
If I were you!

Beautiful little mamma,
Sometimes I hear you sigh,
Sitting alone at the window,
Looking up at the sky.
If Ihad a baby cooing,
"Trying to win a smile,
I'd kiss her, and so be happy,
And forget, forget for a while!
That's what I'd do
If I were you!

Beautiful little mamma,
How would you like to be
A wide awake, patient baby,
Nobody looking to see ?
If Were a beautiful mamma,
And knew what my baby knew,
I'd be at the crib to welcome
After her nap was through 1
That's what I'd do
If I were you !








WE BOYS.


MRS. R. N. TURNER.



DID you ever think, dear friends,
What a source of joy-
What a blessed thing it is
Just to be a boy ?
Just to feel so free and glad
Troubles seem but air ?
Just to think, but not to know,
What is meant by care ?



Do you think that on this planet
Anything 's so free,
Anything is half so joyous-
Half so gay as we ?
Why, the world is just our kingdom,
We are sovereigns all,
And we rule, without a doubt,
This terrestrial ball !



BABY IN THE CRIB, THINKING.



BY MRS. L. C. WHITON.



.. .- .- -



BEAUTIFUL little mamma,
What do you think I'd do
If you were a baby smiling,
And la mamma like you?



I never would leave my baby,
Waiting to be caressed,
But reach out my arms and take her,
And gather her on my breast!
That's what I'd do
If I were you!

Beautiful little mamma,
Sometimes I hear you sigh,
Sitting alone at the window,
Looking up at the sky.
If Ihad a baby cooing,
"Trying to win a smile,
I'd kiss her, and so be happy,
And forget, forget for a while!
That's what I'd do
If I were you!

Beautiful little mamma,
How would you like to be
A wide awake, patient baby,
Nobody looking to see ?
If Were a beautiful mamma,
And knew what my baby knew,
I'd be at the crib to welcome
After her nap was through 1
That's what I'd do
If I were you !









































,Ti7.tI ___ -~e~
---AM
"WEl Boys."












. ,,-*sA



A CHRISTMAS POEM.


BY MRS. L. C. WHITON.



B EAUTIFUL child, that stood in the
spring
Hearing the wild birds rapturous sing,
Seeing from brown earth lilies praise,
Feeling the thrill of the soft, warm days, -
Tell me, I pray,
'Why you breathed no regret when spring glided
away?
Was it because Sweet, whisper and tell
Was it because you loved summer so well ?


Beautiful child, I listen in vain ;
Rose-crowned, I saw you in summer again,
Watching the clover-bloom rocked by the breeze
Bathed in the golden light cleft by the trees,
Still you could smile,
Though the wild roses died, summer fading the
while.
Was it because Sweet, whisper and tell-
"Was it because you loved autumn so well?



Beautiful child, you will answer to-day;
Gold-breasted birds have flown southward away,
Purple the hills in the tender mists glow,
Red lie the maple leaves flaming below.
Child, wherefore so gay,
While the autumn mists moan, and the leaves drop
away ?
Is it because Sweet, whisper and tell -
Is it because you love Christmas so well?


"How could I guess ? Nay, I knew when you
smiled;
The dawning of Christmas is bliss to a child;
And the spring and the summer and autumn may go,
Since the birthday of Jesus comes back with the
snow.
Oh, Love without end,
27Tat gave the Redeemer and Saviour and Friend7
And your dream of yon heaven is-whisper and tell -
With Christ through an infinite Christmas to dwell.
























































AT RECESS.



TICK-A-TICK, click-a-click,
See them going, hoop and stick!
Hoop it up, hoop it down,
Keep it rolling through the town.
Now it's whirling like a wheel -
Ah, it's falling I see it reel !
Tipa-tip that will do -
Now it's bouncing! good for you !



BY PALMER COX.

Round the hydrant, toe and toe,
Round the fountain, how they go
Who's ahead ?" "Mamie Grant."
We can beat her !" No, you can't."
She's in earnest-see her hat,
See her tresses what of that ?
Little Mamie doesn't care,
She'll be first around the square.



f--
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,
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_.,s-?~T,I.U :c?;
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.LX 4-
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- '-1 .



THE LOST DIMPLE.


BY MARY D. BRINE.



M Y little boy lies in his trundle bed,
With chubby arms above his head,
And a rosy flush on his cheek so fair,
And a gleam of gold in his tangled hair;
His beautiful eyes, so soft and blue,
'Neath rose leaf lids are hidden from view ;
For sound asleep is my little boy,
My troublesome comfort, baby Roy !


But ah! there's something upon his cheek
Of which I do not like to speak;
So I kneel beside my baby dear,
And softly kiss away the tear.
And I kiss from his rosy mouth a pout,
Which even slumber has not smoothed out.
And I have another kiss to spare,
To smooth the frown from his forehead fair.



How came the tear and the pout and frown
On this dear little face to settle down ?
Ah well! I'm sorry to have to say
That Roy was a naughty boy to-day.
It wasn't pleasant to play, you see,
When Roy and mamma couldn't agree;
So he went to Dreamland to find a smile,
And the dimples will come in a little while.

There's one should be in his cheek, right there,
And one belongs in his chin. 'Tis rare
That I look in vain for the merry trace
Of the winsome dimples in baby's face I
But, by and by, he will open his eyes,
All soft and blue as the summer skies;
And when he laughs at my merry call,
I shall find the dimples, the smiles, and all.



=-I---1














II



Iii
.1'



THE SAD STORY OF A LITTLE GIRL.


BY MRS. S. M. B. PIATT.



OH, never mind her eyes and hair,
(Though they were dark and it was gold !)-
That she was sweet is all I care
To tell you-till the rest is told.
---- "But is the story old?"


Hush. She was sweet-- Why do I cry?
Because-her mother loved her so.
I told you that she did not die ;
But she is gone. "Where did she go?"
Ah me, I do not know.


" How old was she when she was sweet?"
Why, one year old, or two, or three.
Here is her shoe--what little feet,
And yet they walked away, you see.
(I must not say from me.)


"Did Gypsies take her?" Surely, no.
But-something took her; she is lost:



No track of hers in dew or snow,
No heaps of wild buds backward tossed,
To show what paths she crossed.

"Did Fairies take her?" It may be.
For Fairies sometimes, I have read,
Will climb the moonshine secretly
To steal a baby from its bed
And leave an imp instead.

This Changeling, German tales declare,
Makes trouble in the house full soon:
Cries at the tangles in its hair,
Beats the piano out of tune,
And wants to sleep till noon!

And, while it keeps the lost child's face,
It grows less lovely, year by year-
Yes, in that pretty baby's place
There was a Changeling left, I fear.
My little maid, do you hear?













TWO LITTLE BOYS.



BY HOLME MAXWELL.



I.

COZY sits a mother by her bright hearth-side,
Rock-a-rock-a-rock her fair boy rocks a ride;
Light she counts the silver from a silken purse,
Gayly shouts the laddie on the rocking-horse:
Outside falls the snow,
Outside the winds blow;
The mother sings low,
"Oh, the walls of Home are builded bright and high,
Reaching, warm and crimson, to the very sky."



Rose-and-white the blankets on the many beds,
Half the snowy pillows never pressed by heads;
"Little coaties, some with fur, and some with gold,
Hanging in the fragrant closets, fold on fold:
Outside sweeps the snow,
Outside the blasts blow;
The mother sings low,
" God is good, and Love enwraps his darlings warm -
Nestlings we, safe sleeping on Love's mighty arm."

All her happy heart it opens like a rose,
Warm as summer is the home amid the snows;
In the rose the child is folded lovingly, -
Little honey-fed and downy-coated bee:



Outside whirls the snow,
Outside the drifts grow;
The mother sings low,
"Life is good, and Home is bright, and Love is sweet,
0 God, spare us Love, Home, and Life, we entreat! "

II.

Past the stately windows, silken-curtained, goes
Little ragged figure, shiv'ring through the snows,
Gravely looking up his bedroom for the night.
Everywhere are sheets and pillows piled so white,
But not this white spot,
Nor yet this white cot-
The beggar is not
Ready yet to choose one from the many streets,
Though the high white snow-loom weaves him freshest
sheets.


Wild and white and thick the midnight on the town !
Slowly round and round, and on, and up and down,
Trying marble step, and trying alley dim, -
Never does a blessed doorway ope to him,
Till 'tis a sweet lot
To seek this white cot;
The beggar need not
Knock at anybody's frowning door for this,
Free to him this great, white, solemn bed-room is.


Lonesome for the little laddie it must be,
And no tender mother brings her lamp to see,
Yet the sweetest, strangest deepest of all rest,
Settles like a dream upon the beggar's breast.
There in that wild spot,
Within his white cot,
The beggar forgot,
While the high winds piled his bed-clothes, fold on
fold,
Evermore, that he had hungered or been cold.










III.

Pale and light he soared up to the heavens fair,
While the snow lay yet upon his cold, wet hair;
And the angels that leaned on the high, bright w
Gravely looked they down upon the spirit small.
In the heavenly light,
Spreading golden-white,
They beheld his flight,
And said they, "Oh, little soul, why have you co
Little straying soul, you will be missed at home!

"Didn't have no home," said he, and it was co
And he warmed his fingers in the air of gold.
"Would no happy people open to you theirs?
Sure we heard a grateful mother singing prayers
In the red firelight,
With her child so bright, -
Surely the sad plight
Of a wandering, homeless, starving little boy
Would have touched her in her happy, grateful j

"No," said he, "they didn't never let me in!"
"On their heads," the angels said, be all the si
On their heads who, praising God, will not divid
With his helpless Poor their happy fireside !"



In the heavenly light
Their large eyes grew bright
With tears at the plight
Of this little soul the earth did so condemn,
And they reached and took him into heaven
them I



IV.



all,





me ?


"Id "



In the rose-soft blankets mother's darling lay,
Warm and soft the night, and sweeter than the day;
But his sleep was touched with tossing and annoy-
In his dream he saw the piteous beggar-boy:



Clear the gold-light gleam
y Shone in on his dream,
And strange it did seem
That the little shivering spirit there should stand,
n Pleading to the angels with his icy hand.

And he heard the angry angels, though he slept,
SSaying 'twas his "Little Brother" that they wept;
And his death should be upon the happy heads
Of the people with thedfires and downy beds.
Oh, in the sharp gleam
-- That shone on his dream,
It surely did seem
That he must and that he would share all he had
With that little shivering spirit, and be glad!


And he called up to the angels in the sky,
And the angels shouted to him sweet and high.
"Tell me," cried he, tell me and my mother-
Tell us how we'll know a Little Brother ?"
Then a grand, full gleam
Of glory did seem
To burst on his dream.
with All the angels shouted back, Remember this/
WHO HAS LESS THAN YOU, A LITTLE BROTHER IS !"













L~s a



THE BATTLE OF THE THREE.


BY MRS. CLARA DOTY BATES.


T HEY are out in the soft new snow,
And their cheeks are all aglow,
And their fingers tingle with cold;
Their voices pipe up shrill,
As the battle begins with a will,
Gold-Locks laughing, timid and sweet, and Teddy so bluff and bold,

While Edith, the Saxon, stands
And holds in her ready hands
Missiles that look like wool;
Flinging them here and there,
Till Teddy's hatless hair
Is white as the beard of Santa Claus, and eyes and mouth are full

Each one is supposed to be
The other one's enemy;
But Gold-Lock's tactics are,
To open upon the one
Who seems the surest to run,
Which brings upon her with double stress a double tide of war,

And a final overthrow
In a smothering ruin of snow;
When Teddy to her relief
Uprises in his place,
And full into Edith's face
Sends showers of puffy, powdered frost! but he, too, comes to grief.









For she, with a Saxon's strength,
Measures him at full length,
And on either ruddy cheek
Rubs, till a cardinal rose
Buds there, blossoms and glows,
While for laughing like two bobolinks, can neither of them speak.

Now, on the rolls of fame
All great wars have a name,
And what shall this conflict be ? -
There is Gold-Locks and her Fall? "
"Or, Teddy and his Snow-ball? "
Or "Saxon Edith's Victory? "-or "The Battle of The Three ?"




THE SNOW STORM.


BY E. F.


K ITTI-KIN leans in the window-sill,
My little dear girl Kitti-kin;
The snow-flakes fall, white, thick and still,
The snow brings dreams to Kitti-kin;
Her large, bright blue eye never winks, -
You'd like to know what Kitti-kin thinks?
What are you thinking, Kitti-kin ?


The snow-flakes float, down, up, and by,
The storm enchants my Kitti-kin;
Wonderful things are kept in the sky,
There's the pearly rain, sweet Kitti-kin,
Moon, sun, clouds of purple and rose,
The stars and these beautiful snows, -
Are these your thoughts, my Kitti-kin?


Ah, I know girls by heart; I know
The thoughts of dreaming Kitti-kin;
The lovely, floating, fleecy snow
Means sleds and slides for Kitti-kin;
The snow makes beautiful ways
For little girls' pleasures and plays, -
These are the thoughts of Kitti-kin.













































*



k0~ 'llc



MY LITTLE



BY MARY CLEMMER.



MY little love has eyes of blue,
A wild-rose mouth all sweet with dew;
And her heart is as tender a little thing
As the first anemone of the spring.



From the wilding spring to winter gray,
She is seeking ever her own sweet way.
My little love has a temper, too,
Though her eyes are made out of Heaven's own blue.



LOVE.



*PDIPII 1----



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How glad I am she's a child of earth,
That I have no doubt of her mortal birth !
I never think, when she croons and sings,
That I must look for her budding wings.

What should I do in earth's rain and snow
With a stray little angel, I'd like to know.
" My bad little girl" is dearer far
Than any cherub from yonder star.

With her eyes of love and her anxious brow,
Who is our little care-taker, now?
Who comes tugging her.brother's coat,
As he idly sails his painted boat ?

Who feeds the birds from the window-sill?
Who cries over kitty, stiff and chill ?
Who leads her dollies," with mother-hand,
Far out into realms of wonder-land ?

Who weeps, with such a tender thrill,
For "a weal live baby" to tend and still -
"A baby-sister in long fite fock,"
"A baby-brother to hug and wock ?"

Who, when the children rush in pairs,
Comes heavy laden down the stairs?
Who carries after them, down the road,
All of the other children's load ?



Who, but my little lover dear,
With her heart of care and her laugh of cheer,
With her wild-rose mouth, and eyes of blue;
The brave little woman, fond and true !

I'm happier, far, for my little love;
Her tiny arms ever lift me above
The weary cares of my working-day,
Into a heaven of mirth and play.

And dear, when the twilight is at its best,
To gather her into my arms to rest -
To think, when her baby days are done,
How it will be with the little one.

Into these liquid eyes of blue,
Will love for love flow deep and true ?
Will they find these burden-bearing arms -
A pair as quick to shield them from harms?

Ah, my little love! She who lifts the load,
May carry it always down the road;
Sometimes, but seldom, she finds the friend
Who will lift and carry it to the end.

I fold thee close. I read thy fate,
Dear little lover how soon or late
Thou wilt pour, unstinted, love's largess,
And find thy blessing is to bless.



SEEING THE



WORLD.



BY MRS. S. M. B. PIATT.



I.

L ET Baby see the world ?-he lies
Covered so close, here in his bed,
With just the dark shut in his eyes,
You guess he thinks that he is dead ? -
No wonder that he cries and cries ?

II.
If he can cry, I fear he knows
He is alive! But he shall see



The world -that buds with its first rose,
And sings with its first bird. . So he
Thinks it's a brave world, I suppose.

III.
Hush, child! There are no snakes to-day
If one should tell him of the things
That are not quite too sweet, I say,
Why, he might lift two pretty wings
And fly away, away, away.






















A QUESTION OF BUSINESS.


BY E. F.



"AIN'T I going to divide?
Well, that's what I call cool, you Jack!
Lying at home here on your back, -
But then, if you think that it pays
To sleep these grand old Saturdays,
Sleep but, mind, I don't divide !


But nutting is only fun ? "
Of course that's easy enoughh to say;
The woods are jolly, anyway,
And 'tisn't bad to climb the trees
And shake such plumpers down as these-
O, it really is prime fun.


Yes, I own nutting is fun, -
You hunt 'round in such golden leaves,
The squirrels scold and call you "Thieves! "
And 'tis the stillest place to lie,
And look up, far up, in the sky, -
No objections to the fun.


But well I tell you, you Jack,
There's something else, you tote that bag
Home as I did, and feel it sag, -
Say, Jack, see here, I'll sell you some,
If you want nuts 'thout work- yes, come,
That's the way to get 'em, Jack!



0 you don't buy nuts that grow
In father's woods -they're half yours now ?
Tust so. Only, I don't see how



I'LLL SELL YOU SOME'



You'll get your half unless you go
For 'em yourself; I shan't, I know.
Jack, your half is where they grow I



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A QUEER GIRL.

BY ELLA FARMAN.



W HAT was that, mother, think I better not
go?"
Why, mother, the fun of the winter's the snow,-
I like to be out in a regular blow!

I don't mean the cold snow that glistening lies
And sparkles, and dazzles, and puts out your eyes, -
Though I rather like skating, neathh evening skies,


When the ice is like steel in the dark blue air,
And that marble glisten is everywhere,
The moon riding high, but, mother, I'd not dare

Face a great, white winter midnight all alone !
I'd as soon see a ghost, if the truth were known,-
Yes, I do drop my curtains at night, I own.

But, mother, a nice, honest snowstorm like this. -
Why, it's just jolly! there, please give me a kiss,
I'll wrap me up warm and the walk will be bliss.










:,: t --'~ '


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No, I shan't get wet. This is snow; snow is dry.
See! feathers! they float up so soft and so high,
0, don't they whirl-though when the wind whistles by I


I just like a frolic in the falling snow!
I just like to put on my things and to go I
And I wish the wind then to rise up and blow


It's nothing at all but the jolliest joke
When a girl's wrapped up in her waterproof cloak, -
I just brace myself like a tough little oak.


Do you know, I think when I'm a woman grown
I'll be one of those women standing alone
All joyously doing a work of my own ?


" I'm such a queer child ?" Mother, dear, if it's wrong
I'm sorry. Kiss me now-I shan't be gone long.
0, snowflakes, 0, storm wind, I feel like a song I











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A HINT FROM HOMER.*



BY MRS. S. M. B. PIATT.



* -
~jr'.



I LET the sun stand still this lonesome day,
And hardly heard the very baby coo,
(Meanwhile the earth went on the other way!)
That I might watch the siege of Troy with you.


The great Achilles (whom we know) was there-
His shining shield was what we guessed him by;
And Hector with his plume of horse's hair
Frightened his child and laughed to hear it cry.


Poor Hector Never sorrow for the dead,
In these three thousand rather piteous years,
Stole into sweeter words than Helen said
Beside him through the dropping of her tears.
*" Stories from Homer," by Rev. Alfred J. Church.



We grieved with Priam for his gracious son.
Much-wandering Ulysses with his craft
Cheated us through strange seas and every one
Came straight to grief with him upon his raft.

Not one among you but could draw his bow,
After its rust in Ithaca, and bring
A suitor down -In the dark backward, oh,
How sad the swallow-twitter of its string !

Now that it's time to shut the shadowy book-
( Ah me, they clash together, left and right,
And Greek meets Greek -or Trojan! Only look!)
What have you learned from it? You say: "To
fight!"










ON GUARD.
ADAPTED FROM THE GERMAN.

BY E. F.


TS the father at home ?" "In the field is he."
.I. "Is the mother within ? In the field is she."
711" Ah, well, little Hlans, I'll go in and sit down."
'it But the way is locked and barred with a frown.
S Not so, Mrs. Woman, I'm the Watch at the door;
No one goes through while I sit before "
And then the Watch adds, with a wee wink droll:
""If I let you in you must first pay toll."
"i "0O, ho! indeed Is it thus the wind blows ?
S How much ?" and she tweaks the Watchman's nose.
ii 1 '" Three rosy apples," says the grave little Guard;
"" Yet not too small, nor must they be hard."
I Mrs. Woman" bends low on her oaken staff.
I have none," says she, with a chiding laugh.
S"Ha says the Guard, with a shake of his head,
I And a dimple in both of his cheeks so red:
"I have been behind thy cellar door;
Thou'st apples plenty in the straw on the floor! "
"0, you rogue here's kisses three for thy cheek,
S'-'"" And three slaps for thy hands, so brown and sleek!"
And the flaxen-haired Guard is suddenly seized
-'-- .:. In his grandmother's arms, and unmercifully
squeezed.





THE KINGFISHER.

BY CELIA THAXTER.

C OULD you have heard the king-fisher scream He clamored so loud and harshly I laughed at him
and scold at me for his pains,
When I went this morning early, down to the smiling And off he flew with a shattered note, like the sound
sea of falling chains.










ON GUARD.
ADAPTED FROM THE GERMAN.

BY E. F.


TS the father at home ?" "In the field is he."
.I. "Is the mother within ? In the field is she."
711" Ah, well, little Hlans, I'll go in and sit down."
'it But the way is locked and barred with a frown.
S Not so, Mrs. Woman, I'm the Watch at the door;
No one goes through while I sit before "
And then the Watch adds, with a wee wink droll:
""If I let you in you must first pay toll."
"i "0O, ho! indeed Is it thus the wind blows ?
S How much ?" and she tweaks the Watchman's nose.
ii 1 '" Three rosy apples," says the grave little Guard;
"" Yet not too small, nor must they be hard."
I Mrs. Woman" bends low on her oaken staff.
I have none," says she, with a chiding laugh.
S"Ha says the Guard, with a shake of his head,
I And a dimple in both of his cheeks so red:
"I have been behind thy cellar door;
Thou'st apples plenty in the straw on the floor! "
"0, you rogue here's kisses three for thy cheek,
S'-'"" And three slaps for thy hands, so brown and sleek!"
And the flaxen-haired Guard is suddenly seized
-'-- .:. In his grandmother's arms, and unmercifully
squeezed.





THE KINGFISHER.

BY CELIA THAXTER.

C OULD you have heard the king-fisher scream He clamored so loud and harshly I laughed at him
and scold at me for his pains,
When I went this morning early, down to the smiling And off he flew with a shattered note, like the sound
sea of falling chains.











He perched on the rock above me, and kept up such
a din,
And looked so fine with his collar snow-white beneath
his chin,
And his cap of velvet, black and bright, and his
jacket of lovely blue,
I looked, admired, and called to him, Good-morn-
ing how do you do?"

But his kingship was so offended! He hadn't a
pleasant word,
Only the crossest jargon ever screamed by a bird.



And the brown song-sparrow on the wall made haste
with such a song,
To try and drown that jarring din but it was all too
strong.
And the swallows, like a steel-blue flash, swept past
and cried aloud,
"Be civil, my dear kingfisher, you're far too grand
and proud.

But it wasn't of any use at all, he was too much dis-
pleased,
And only by my absence could his anger be appeased.



The gray sandpiper on one leg stood still in sheer
surprise,
And gazed at me, and gazed at him, with shining
bead-black eyes,

And pensively sent up so sweet and delicate a note,
Ringing so high and clear from out her dainty, mot-
tled throat,
That echo round the silent shore caught up the clear
refrain,
And sent the charming music back again, and yet
again.



So I wandered off, and as I went I saw him flutter
down,
And take his place once more upon the seaweed wet
and brown.

And then he watched for his breakfast, all undisturbed
at last,
And many a little fish he caught as it was swimming
past.
And I forgot his harsh abuse, for, up in the tall elm tree,
A purple finch sat high and sang a heavenly song fol
me.










NAMING THE DOLLY.



MY niece, Azalia Holly,
Had a beautiful new dolly
Sent to her at Christmas; a beauty I declare ;
And though she had a plenty
Already, maybe twenty,
There was not one among them that was strictly in
repair.
For the leg of one was broken;
And Puss had left a token
Of her claws upon another; and old age had set its
seal
On a third; the fourth a horrid
Wicked blow got in the forrid,
That made a wound no surgeon far or near could ever
heal.
And it really was distressing,
But the nose of one was missing;
And one had lost her eyesight, and one, a-lack-a-day,
By the sawdust slowly oozing,
We knew that we were losing
Her, that by the springtime, she would surely fade
away.
So, as the case demanded,
Another dolly landed,
Early Christmas morning, right in Azalia's arms,
Marked Miss Azalia Holly;
But I feel it would be folly,
To try to do full justice to the radiant creature's
charms.
She had lovely golden tresses,
And a half-a-dozen dresses,
A very sweet expression, and very gentle ways;
Her traveling suit was made of
A very pretty shade of,
Two shades, in fact, of brown, in skirt and polonaise.
Miss Holly danced with pleasure,
Her rapture knew no measure ;
The lame and halt and blind were forgotten in her
bliss;
But Santa had neglected,
To have a name selected,
Perhaps he knew none fine enough for such a doll as
this.



But of course no doll was ever
Known to grow up good and clever
Without a pretty name, so we hunted high and low;
French, Indian and Spanish,
Egyptian, Dutch and Danish,
But not a single one of all the lot would do.
I suggested Dolly Dimple
As being sweet and simple;
That she firmly voted down, with a solemn little shake
Of the head; "do you suppose
I'd give such a name as those"-
Here her eye fell on a number of her favorite Wide
Awake.



Then cried out my little maidie,
"Do you think the Wide 'Wake lady
Would be 'fended if I christened my dolly after she "
And I said I thought wouldd be a
Very, very, sweet idea
And I thought the Wide 'Wake lady would be pleased
as she could be.
So Miss Azalia Holly,
Gave her precious little dolly
A name that's growing dearer to children all the time;
And she asked me I'm her aunty,
(And she loves me next to Santy)
To write and tell the story the best I could in rhyme.









HOW MAUD KEPT WATCH.


BY MARY D. BRINE.



" "THY, Rover, I'm surprised at you!
IV've got too many things to do
To waste my time in play, so now
You needn't come with bow-wow-wow
To tempt me. It is time, you see,
For papa to come home to tea;
And I must warm his slippers and
His dressing-gown, you understand I

You cannot help me, ha-ha-ha!
What vain old things some doggies are !
You'd go to sleep before the fire !
You do not know what folks require
When they come home all tired at night.
I'm papa's girl. I know what's right.
I'll keep a bright lookout, you'll see,
Till my papa comes home to me.

For it would hurt his feelings so
If no one watched for him, you know.
I wouldn't trust you, Mr. Rover,
To watch for him. You just go over
And lay down there till I am through.
O dear I've got so much to do !
For mamma said she'd trust to me
To welcome papa home to tea.

There, now, lie rest in papa's chair;
There is a half an hour to spare
Before he comes. O, Rover, dear,
fsn't it nice and warm in here ? -
Do you feel sleepy? -well, I knew
There'd be no sense in trusting you.



I wish my papa- Mamma said-"
Down dropped the curly, nodding head,

And over eyes so soft and blue
Down dropped the golden lashes, too,



i/
0)^"""^ _
/p- -- I, i>--* "



THE ONE WHO KEPT AWAKE.

While very quiet grew the room,
Fast filling with the twilight's gloom.
And thus the minutes hastened past,
Till -some one's step was heard at last.
But it was Rover, don't you see ?
Who welcomed papa home to tea!



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CUCKOO!



BY LILLIE E BARR.


[From the Spanish of Don T. Yriarte.]



" do have done, and give your voice a rest! "
Thus to the Cuckoo spoke the Honeybee.
" You'd better far be building your own nest,
Than calling up and down from tree to tree,
' Cuckoo! Cuckoo and nothing but 'Cuckoo !'
The song is tiresome, if you only knew."

"Marry, my plodding cousin! were I you
I would not such a foolish speech have made;
With your eternal hexagons -' Cuckoo !'-



And honey of precisely the same shade,
And humming monotone,- fiddle-a-dee !
Takes you to talk about variety."

"My dear," the bee replied, "too busy I
To chatter with you, or to make excuse;
It is no fault to lack variety
In things of real wortz, or real use
But things for mere amusement are a bore
If you must hear them o'er, and o'er, and o'er."



BUZZ, BUZZ!


BY MRS. L. C. WHITON.



"T" UZZ, buzz!" said the bee,
"B Summer's here, you see;
And the lilies blooming whitely
Seem inviting to repose,
But I cannot pass by lightly
The sweetness of the rose;
And the queen would think it funny
If I should want to stay,
And so I'll take my honey
And then I'll fly away;
Buzz, buzz," said the bee,
Summer's here, you see.

I should like to rest an hour
In the petals of a flower,
And be tucked in quite securely
So that nobody could know,



And then come out demurely
When the bud began to blow;
But the queen would think it funny
If I should want to stay,
And so I'll take my honey
And then I'll fly away;
Buzz, buzz," said the bee,
" Summer's here, you see.

" Buzz, buzz," said the bee,
" It would never do for me
To be idle in the summer
When there is so much to do;
And though such a constant comer
I must look the clover through;
And the queen would think it funny
If I should want to stay,










CUCKOO!



BY LILLIE E BARR.


[From the Spanish of Don T. Yriarte.]



" do have done, and give your voice a rest! "
Thus to the Cuckoo spoke the Honeybee.
" You'd better far be building your own nest,
Than calling up and down from tree to tree,
' Cuckoo! Cuckoo and nothing but 'Cuckoo !'
The song is tiresome, if you only knew."

"Marry, my plodding cousin! were I you
I would not such a foolish speech have made;
With your eternal hexagons -' Cuckoo !'-



And honey of precisely the same shade,
And humming monotone,- fiddle-a-dee !
Takes you to talk about variety."

"My dear," the bee replied, "too busy I
To chatter with you, or to make excuse;
It is no fault to lack variety
In things of real wortz, or real use
But things for mere amusement are a bore
If you must hear them o'er, and o'er, and o'er."



BUZZ, BUZZ!


BY MRS. L. C. WHITON.



"T" UZZ, buzz!" said the bee,
"B Summer's here, you see;
And the lilies blooming whitely
Seem inviting to repose,
But I cannot pass by lightly
The sweetness of the rose;
And the queen would think it funny
If I should want to stay,
And so I'll take my honey
And then I'll fly away;
Buzz, buzz," said the bee,
Summer's here, you see.

I should like to rest an hour
In the petals of a flower,
And be tucked in quite securely
So that nobody could know,



And then come out demurely
When the bud began to blow;
But the queen would think it funny
If I should want to stay,
And so I'll take my honey
And then I'll fly away;
Buzz, buzz," said the bee,
" Summer's here, you see.

" Buzz, buzz," said the bee,
" It would never do for me
To be idle in the summer
When there is so much to do;
And though such a constant comer
I must look the clover through;
And the queen would think it funny
If I should want to stay,





















































And so I'll take my honey
And then I'll fly away;
Buzz, buzz," said the bee,
" Summer's here, you see.



" Buzz, buzz," said the bee,
" Summer's short, you see,
And there is so much of beauty
Springing up on nature's breast
That I think it is my duty
To be busy with the rests



And the queen would think it funny
If I should want to stay,
And so I'll take my honey
And then I'll fly away;
Buzz, buzz," said the bee,
" Summer's short, you see."











WORK AND PLAY.



BY MARY A. LATHBURY.



W HAT did the idle fairies say
To Kitty, sewing her seam one day ?






.

.;, ,,-



"Kitty, you are so tired," they said,
"Drop your needle, and hide your thread,



And come, -the gate in the garden swings
To let you pass, and the robin sings
Among the alders about a nest
And five little well, you will know the rest
When you hear her sing by the running brook,
And bring your doll, and the fairy book."

Naughty fairies! Why need you go
To a little girl with a seam to sew,
To twitch her needle, and knot her thread,
And tangle up in her curly head
Your cob-web fancies, until she dreams
Of ferns and fairies instead of seams,
Until the stitches are all awry,
A knot gets into the needle's eye
And like a butterfly down the lane
Flits careless Kitty, at play again?



UNDER THE SNOW.

BY MARY E. C. WYETH.

I. III.
W HAT is there going on under the snow ? Ha! ha laughs Willy. Things grow in the snow!
Under the silent and echoeless snow Why, down there under the cold, freezing snow,
Strange things are happening down there; I know. All the ground's hard as a rock! Guess Iknow."
"Ha! ha! laughs Willy. "And who told you so ? "

II. IV.
Something is growing there, under the snow- Still it is growing- down under the snow,
Under the feathery, powdery snow Swelling and growing, beneath the pure snow.
Something for Willy and Lilly. Know. Growing for 0 the whole world. So Iknow.











WORK AND PLAY.



BY MARY A. LATHBURY.



W HAT did the idle fairies say
To Kitty, sewing her seam one day ?






.

.;, ,,-



"Kitty, you are so tired," they said,
"Drop your needle, and hide your thread,



And come, -the gate in the garden swings
To let you pass, and the robin sings
Among the alders about a nest
And five little well, you will know the rest
When you hear her sing by the running brook,
And bring your doll, and the fairy book."

Naughty fairies! Why need you go
To a little girl with a seam to sew,
To twitch her needle, and knot her thread,
And tangle up in her curly head
Your cob-web fancies, until she dreams
Of ferns and fairies instead of seams,
Until the stitches are all awry,
A knot gets into the needle's eye
And like a butterfly down the lane
Flits careless Kitty, at play again?



UNDER THE SNOW.

BY MARY E. C. WYETH.

I. III.
W HAT is there going on under the snow ? Ha! ha laughs Willy. Things grow in the snow!
Under the silent and echoeless snow Why, down there under the cold, freezing snow,
Strange things are happening down there; I know. All the ground's hard as a rock! Guess Iknow."
"Ha! ha! laughs Willy. "And who told you so ? "

II. IV.
Something is growing there, under the snow- Still it is growing- down under the snow,
Under the feathery, powdery snow Swelling and growing, beneath the pure snow.
Something for Willy and Lilly. Know. Growing for 0 the whole world. So Iknow.











V.

For I saw grandpa, ere fell the soft snow -
Nourishing, cherishing, beautiful snow--
Lead out the sowers his wheat-seed to sow.

VI.

Over the fields where now lies the pure snow,
In the brown ridges now covered with snow,
Down dropped the grains in their earth-bed so low.



VII.

Bright summer suns shone, ere came the chill snow,
Soft autumn rains fell, before the still snow,
All of them help the seed growing- Iknow.

VIII.

Something is going on under the snow.
BREAD! BREAD is growing there, under the snow.
" Ha ha! laughs Willy. "Why, surely 'tis so."



LITTLE KING JOHN.


BY ELLA FAPMAN.



L ITTLE KING JOHN sits up in a tree,
A tip-top throne has little King John;



L --

-- --5iff--- -



But no fair queen by his side has he,
For how, pray tell, could a queen hold on ?


Little King John, O, where is your crown ?
Or, little King John, where is your hat ?
You've burnt your nose to a coffee-brown,
And what'll your mother say to that ?



But little King John, he hugs his throne,
The sea, the sun, the wind is sweet,
And up in the clouds, high and alone,
The tree's a wonderful wishing-seat.

Little King John is sailing his ships -
In the Open Polar Sea, perhaps;,
At least, his grand discovery-trips
Spoil all the old Geography-maps.

Little King John is leading his men,
On a gallant horse he sweeps the field,
The bands play up and he cheers and then
The guns! the charge the enemy yield!

Little King John -he is grand and tall,
He looks just as the President should,
Like Washington -yes, a man, of all,
Would wish to look like him if he could.


Little King John, -he is scrambling down,
He barks his knees on the wishing-tree, -
At the tea-bell's sound his dreams have flown,
And naught but a hungry boy is he.



r














MY LADY'S CHRISTMAS.



BY CARL DYKEMAN.


'/HE Christmas morn is long, and bright, and cold.
SMy Lady leans upon her golden cane,
And looks from many-windowed Castle Fane,
Q .i-,"j And says the Christmas morn is long and cold.

Beyond the frozen moat My Lady looks-
-,, The Castle drawing-room is bright and still;
"She sees a little chimney neathh the hill,
And children sliding on the frozen brooks.


Long, and bright, and silent is the room;
Silent, without, the long and armored hall
"1 Silent and wide the Castle chambers all
Wait overhead in draped and beauteous glo:nm.



My Lady turns and walks away;
My Lady leans upon her golden cane;-
Upon this Christmas morn My Lady Jane
Walks where she has not walked since Christmas
Day.

Smooth are My Lady's bands of snowy hair,
Snooded beneath the lovely, ancient lace, .
The lovely nun-wrought lace, that shades the face
So cold, so sorrowful, so haughty fair.


My Lady leaves the bright and silent room,
And slow she trails her ruffled silken gown
The shining stairs and shining floors down,
And passes far along the bannered gloom.

She passes in behind the arras old;
The light streams dimly through the gallery panes;
But still the eyes of all the pictured Fanes
Light on My Lady with their smile of gold.










My Lady slowly looketh at them all;
But as she passes, in her weary eyes
All suddenly the Fane's own smile doth rise, -'- -i-/ .i .
And down her haughty cheeks the tear-drops fall.

Before one little picture dim
My Lady lowly falleth;
She clasps her hands upon the rim,
And low in sobs she calleth.

And backward all the long years roll--
She's tiny Lady Jenny,
A little lonely mourning soul,
Who, unmissed by any,

Each day did climb the gallery stair,
One step upon the other,
To come and love the portrait face
They told her was her mother.



My Lady riseth from her knees;
She kisseth sweet the pictured mother;
And Christmas kiss she giveth these Downward My Lady turneth,
Two mailed men, father and brother. Where, on the fretted antique frames
Of pictures three, with red gold flames,
The gay Christmas sun burneth.


77'Ah, there she stands the sweet young Lady Janie,
Her flowing hair the goldenest of any
In the world, with eyes of glowing gray
Shining beneath her stately hat and feather,
And standing in the midst of leafy May,
S I And smiling with her lips of tender red,
J r--- I Sweet Lady Janie Fane! she was, 'tis said,
SThe Toast when all the gallants met together.

r- ---- And here, another Lady Janie Fane !-
".. My Lady's lips part in a wan, sweet smile.
My Lady droops upon her golden cane,
1l- And moans as 'twere in dreary pain:
Then she uplifts her large wet eyes a while.

-,flmiq-. All in her simple girlish white
She glances through her screen of roses,
I Upon the rider plumed and bright
SI"!;:i1. ,I' The winding castle road discloses






























































































MY LADY LEANS UPON HER GOLDEN CANE.









'To her who waits within her bower-perch -
so airy-
Her cousin-liege, the Castle's heir, hand-
some Sir Harry. -__

O, long ago that summer day!
And long ago that Christmas wedding !
And long ago that happy life !
And long ago that lovely wife
And long ago that funeral wound its way
And long the Castle yews been shedding -
Their mournful drip and gloom
Upon his stately tomb!

My Lady bendeth on her golden cane,
And passeth down the glittering floor, -
And looketh through the Christmas sun, I
And pitieth that widowed Lady Jane, i
Who sitteth in the little frame of gold i,
All in her black, and reading letters old ;
Who sitteth there forevermore
All in her black, in Castle Fane, My Lady bows her low upon her cane
.And readeth love forever done. And heavily My Lady walks;
And back My Lady slowly goes through Castle Fane,
/ And to herself she sighs and talks.

Low and fast she calls on those she loves;
The air is sweet wi:h phantom smiles,
Ir ,'l A child's sweet cry her brain beguiles:
Outside, the white and purple castle doves
SCoo in the Christmas sunshine neathh the warmed
II -eaves,
And fleet the deer run through the dead and rustling
X ,leaves,
I And shout the children of the cottager-
,i There was -there is no other sound My Lady
knows,
.I I F And 0, for the voices so dear to her !
And O, for the little voices that never were !-

Back where her pil6d Yule-logs burn, and sits, and
'Ii i dreams, and looks
"I Through all the chiming ( iirn I, hours, so bright
and still,
Down where the little chimney smokes beneath the
hill,
,I And where the noisy children slide upon the frozen
brooks.
























THE GROWN-UP CLOCK.


BY A. G. PLYMPTON.


O, dear me, what a fuss Tick, tock tick, tock!
Pray, what are you talking about, old clock,
All the day long ? why, I really don't think
You stop long enough to sleep a wink.


For once in the night when I was awake -
S'pose I was sick 'cause I ate the plum-cake, -
I heard you in the hall, tick, tock tick, tock !
0, did you have a pain, old- clock, old clock ?


Tick, tock! You're a grown-up clock, I know,
If you weren't you wouldn't keep talking so;
For somebody'd say, at just the first word,
Little folks, Bob, should be seen and not heard.'

You are dreadful stuck up, I think, and tall;
And you don't like nice little boys at all;
For when eight o'clock comes you just "raise Ned,"
So Jane will hear it and put me to bed.

Dear me I wish you would lose your tongue,
Just as I used to do when I was young,
And company came and spoke to me, -
(Of course you would tell when 'twas time for tea).

S'pose the little clock mamma bought last spring,
And grandpa called a new-fangled thing,
Is your child; and the reason he don't go
Is 'cause you've scolded him for chatt'ring so,





























THE SHAVING-CURLS.


BY MRS. CLARA DOTY BATES.



T HE workman trims the clean white boards
Whirring and purring,
Skims the plane along its way,
The while he whistles, blithe and gay;
And about his bench the little girls
Search for the longest, finest curls.
Edith's own thick flaxen thatch
Is quite enough for a summer cover,
But the yellow shaving ringlets match,
And she hangs them all around, and over,
Deft as a mermaid on the rocks,
Who sits in the sun to twine her locks.


But if she is odd, with her added wig,
Then quaint as a saint,
With a halo wide about her spread,
Is the little girl with the golden head;
The rustle and flutter cannot shade
The sunny glow of her own long braid



As she chatters and twitters with a zest,
Such gleams of her ruddy hair I see,
That I think of orioles building nests
With stolen twine in the apple-tree, -
All that you know is, overhead
Is a flash of color, a trailing shred.


The workman looks at the busy twain;
Whirring and purring,
Skims the plane along its way;
And he stops his whistle to smile, and say:
"Always the very same, you see,
What's play for them is work for me!
Yet I think, as they flutter and buzz and hum,"
(Here grave shades darken on his brow),
How, in the not far years to come,
Whiter than shavings make them now,
With Care's white frost, and Time's white snow,
These happy little heads will grow !"



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IN THE SWING.

BY EDGAR FAWCETT.

0 PSHAW, Johnny, swing me up higher! Mamma
I'm not a bit timid, you see ; It's so:
I'm not like that faint-hearted Mabel, (0, that
No "rock-a-by-baby for me I pick
To suit my immense aspirations I tell ma
No tree can be found that's too tall; Our n
I like to go up in the branches, (You bo)
And pay the shy birdies a call! Run u
Why is it grown people hate swinging? What, Jc
They all say it makes them feel ill; You r
I hope I shall prove an exception, Well, do
Indeed, I am certain I will. But lel



says I'm such a wild hoyden;
mething at which she quite grieves;
was magnificent, Johnny;
ed a whole handful of leaves !)
mma all of us follow
atures, and red isn't blue;
ys are such excellent swingers,
under me once again -do)
)hnny you can't swing me longer ?
really and truly must go ?
n't stop me all of a sudden.
t the old cat die, you know !



PUDDING AND MILK.


BY ELLA FAPMAN.



A DINNER for two!
It's ready at last!
Begun in the spring,
Now summer is past.


This dinner for two -
O, to just think how
The farmer-men worked
With horses and plow,
And the planting-boys,
With their nimble hoes,
A-dropping the corn
In the long, straight rows -
In April and May,
At night, and at morn,



In June and July,
They worked in the corn!










IN THE SWING.

BY EDGAR FAWCETT.

0 PSHAW, Johnny, swing me up higher! Mamma
I'm not a bit timid, you see ; It's so:
I'm not like that faint-hearted Mabel, (0, that
No "rock-a-by-baby for me I pick
To suit my immense aspirations I tell ma
No tree can be found that's too tall; Our n
I like to go up in the branches, (You bo)
And pay the shy birdies a call! Run u
Why is it grown people hate swinging? What, Jc
They all say it makes them feel ill; You r
I hope I shall prove an exception, Well, do
Indeed, I am certain I will. But lel



says I'm such a wild hoyden;
mething at which she quite grieves;
was magnificent, Johnny;
ed a whole handful of leaves !)
mma all of us follow
atures, and red isn't blue;
ys are such excellent swingers,
under me once again -do)
)hnny you can't swing me longer ?
really and truly must go ?
n't stop me all of a sudden.
t the old cat die, you know !



PUDDING AND MILK.


BY ELLA FAPMAN.



A DINNER for two!
It's ready at last!
Begun in the spring,
Now summer is past.


This dinner for two -
O, to just think how
The farmer-men worked
With horses and plow,
And the planting-boys,
With their nimble hoes,
A-dropping the corn
In the long, straight rows -
In April and May,
At night, and at morn,



In June and July,
They worked in the corn!










(0, the tall green corn,
All tassel and toss!
O, the broad-leaved corn
With its tangles of floss !)


Then one August day
The green forests fell;
And the men to husk,
And the men to shell,
Were ready to work,
And worked with a will,










GRINDING COFFEE.
FROM THE GERMAN OF FRIEDRICH OLDENBERG.


BY SARA ELIZABETH FARMAN.


GRIND, grind away, mill!
Grind, grind, and I'll fill.
Ouf! mill, thy throat is big and hollow,
An ounce goes down at every swallow -
But grind away, mill,
Grind, grind, and I'll fill.

Grind, grind away there !
Now thou grumblest like a bear.
She who will breakfast in the morning,
At the music-box must be turning, -
Grind, grind away there,
Grumble, rumble, like a bear !

Grind, grind a minute more -
See the brown current pour !
They who lie abed to-morrow
Their coffee where they can may borrow,
I'll not give the sloths a drop -
There, there, mill may stop !



And got the corn ready
To carry to mill -
0, the plow and hoe,
The sickle and wheel, -
The end of their toil
Is a bag of meal,


As yellow as gold,
And as soft as silk,
And two little girls
Eating pudding-and-milk!
























A CHILD'S CALENDAR.

BY CAROLINE METCALF.

IJ

A PRIL summer's coming! Now begins the
year,
For the snow has melted, and the blue-bird's here !
SWoolly catkins swinging on the alder-bush
Whisper, "Leaves are starting! we can feel them
S- push!"








}IL.







IVIay! the leaves are dancing in the sunny air!
Ferns uncurl, and blossoms spring up everywhere.
Sweet the breezes blowing where pink may-flowers .
Under last year's Pf-fl o :---warm hil . .-.
.. -....


II.

May the leaves are dancing in the sunny air !
Ferns uncurl, and blossoms spring up everywhere.
Sweeththe breezes blowing where pink may-flowers -


Under last year's leaf-fall on the warm hillside. --'--..













III.
June! why, every June-day is a happy dream -.. '
Buttercups and daisies, strawberries and cream!
Hush! hid in the clover, would you ever think ''
All that glee could come from just one bobo-
link ?










I-Iv.
ii July! off at sunrise picking blackberries I
-Climbing after birds'-nests up the tallest trees !














August! fire-flies brighten when the daylight fails; .
In the swampy meadows grow the tall "cats'-
tails; .
By the shady brookside who can feel the heat,
While the water ripples over naked feet ?











VI.
Wild grapes in September tempt to climbs and --
leaps;
In the fragrant orchard apples lie in heaps.
'Round the cider-presses, thronging with the bees,- .
"Don't it taste like honey, sucked through straws .'
like these ?"










"VII.
Jolly, crisp October Then the chestnut-burrs
\ RRattle down like hail-stones if the least wind stirs I
.,,Gold and crimson leaf-showers from the tree-tops fall,
Squirrels scamper gaily o'er the old stone wall 1








VIII.
Gray skies in November bring the first light snow;
Whirling softly downward see the white flakes
go!
In dear grandma's kitchen peering, eager eyes
Spy out "Such a turkey! such Thanksgiving
pies !"



N-














IX.
"Christmas! cries December. How the stockings
look
Loaded down with bundles in the chimney-nook "
Tumbling up at day-break out of downy beds -
"Santa knew we wanted just these skates and
sleds !"



X.



January's buried in a great snow-fall;
On with coat and mittens! out to slide and ball!
Merry sleigh-bells jingle in the frosty air,
And the grand ice-palace rises white and fair.



XI.



February hurries. Only twenty-eight
Days of wintry weather! 'Tisn't long to wait.

* Icicles, a-dropping, shattered lie in rows;
Poor old Winter's white coat many a brown patch
shows.



, I t -



j

r.













XII.



March! has Winter vanished? Hear the river's
rush !
Brooklets run and ripple! Snow is turned to
slush!
Wading through the door-yards, in big rubber
boots,
You may catch Spring peeping out-in crocus-
shoots !



THE DOVES.


BY HARRIET MCEWEN KIMBALL.



PRETTY doves, so blithely ranging
Up and down the street;
Glossy throats all bright hues changing,
Little scarlet feet !


Pretty doves I among the daisies
They should coo and flit !
All these toilsome, noisy places
Seem for them unfit.


Yet amidst our human plodding,
They must love to be;
With their little heads a-nodding,
Busier than we.


Close to hoof and wheel they hover,
Glancing right and left,



Sure some treasure to discover;
Rapid, shy, and deft.


Friendliest of feathered creatures,
In their timid guise;
Wisdom's little silent teachers,
Praying us be wise.


Fluttering at footsteps careless,
Danger swift to flee,
Lowly, trusting, faithful, fearless, -
O, that such were we!


In the world and yet not of it,
Ready to take wing, -
By this lesson could we profit
It were everything I






























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pXI










CHICK-A-DEE'S BREAKFAST.
A TRUE INCIDENT.

BY RUTH DYER.



C HICK-A-DEE came to the window,
But where could his breakfast be?
It had always been there, enough and to spare,
And prompt as the morn was he;
But now the cold ice covered the sill,
And where could his breakfast be ?


Chick-a-dee, wise little fellow,
All in his black and white,
Danced round in the storm to keep himself warm,
Scolding with all his might:
" 0, you people," said he, have forgotten me,
In the space of one winter night "



Chick-a-dee wanted his breakfast,
And looked for it sharp as could be ;
Through the thin, clear, sheet-like glass at his feet,
The crumbs he could plainly see -
He turned in a trice and sat down on the ice,
As still as a bird could be,


With his tail on the glass of the window,
Spread out in the funniest way,
Till his warm little feathery body
Had melted the ice away.
Then, thanking himself for his breakfast,
He ate it and bade good-day.



WILLY-WEE'S GRACE.

BY MARGARET J. PRESTON.



HE wasn't two years old, you see;
He couldn't utter well
A single word, this Willie-Wee,
Of whom I'm going to tell.


Yet if you gave him something good,
He always tried to say
His "Thank you, ma'am," as best he could,
In pretty, baby way.


And, kneeling by his little bed,
In gown of dainty white,



He shut his great blue eyes, and said
Our Father," every night.

One morning, when the bell for prayers
Had summoned all the house,
He glided down the nursery stairs
,As softly as a mouse.

"Hi, honey wha' ye gwine widout
You' hy'ar been smooven down ?"
His mammy* cried: "The chile's about
Some mischief, I'll be boun'."
*The invariable name for nurse, with all Virginia children.










CHICK-A-DEE'S BREAKFAST.
A TRUE INCIDENT.

BY RUTH DYER.



C HICK-A-DEE came to the window,
But where could his breakfast be?
It had always been there, enough and to spare,
And prompt as the morn was he;
But now the cold ice covered the sill,
And where could his breakfast be ?


Chick-a-dee, wise little fellow,
All in his black and white,
Danced round in the storm to keep himself warm,
Scolding with all his might:
" 0, you people," said he, have forgotten me,
In the space of one winter night "



Chick-a-dee wanted his breakfast,
And looked for it sharp as could be ;
Through the thin, clear, sheet-like glass at his feet,
The crumbs he could plainly see -
He turned in a trice and sat down on the ice,
As still as a bird could be,


With his tail on the glass of the window,
Spread out in the funniest way,
Till his warm little feathery body
Had melted the ice away.
Then, thanking himself for his breakfast,
He ate it and bade good-day.



WILLY-WEE'S GRACE.

BY MARGARET J. PRESTON.



HE wasn't two years old, you see;
He couldn't utter well
A single word, this Willie-Wee,
Of whom I'm going to tell.


Yet if you gave him something good,
He always tried to say
His "Thank you, ma'am," as best he could,
In pretty, baby way.


And, kneeling by his little bed,
In gown of dainty white,



He shut his great blue eyes, and said
Our Father," every night.

One morning, when the bell for prayers
Had summoned all the house,
He glided down the nursery stairs
,As softly as a mouse.

"Hi, honey wha' ye gwine widout
You' hy'ar been smooven down ?"
His mammy* cried: "The chile's about
Some mischief, I'll be boun'."
*The invariable name for nurse, with all Virginia children.