What does the daisy see Down in the gra.s.sy thickets?

The gra.s.shoppers green and brown, And the shining, coal-black crickets.

It sees the bobolink's nest, That no one else can discover, And the brooding mother-bird With the floating gra.s.s above her.

--_Anon._

THE NIGHT WIND.

Have you ever heard the wind go "Yoooooo"?

'Tis a pitiful sound to hear; It seems to chill you through and through With a strange and speechless fear.

'Tis the voice of the wind that broods outside When folks should be asleep, And many and many's the time I've cried To the darkness brooding far and wide Over the land and the deep: "Whom do you want, O lonely night, That you wail the long hours through?"

And the night would say in its ghostly way: "Yoooooo! Yoooooooooo! Yoooooooooo!"

My mother told me long ago When I was a little lad That when the night went wailing so, Somebody had been bad; And then when I was snug in bed, Whither I had been sent, With the blankets pulled up round my head, I'd think of what my mother said, And wonder what boy she meant.

And, "Who's been bad to-day?" I'd ask Of the wind that hoa.r.s.ely blew, And the voice would say in its meaningful way: "Yoooooo! Yoooooooooo! Yoooooooooo!"

That this was true, I must allow-- You'll not believe it though, Yes, though I'm quite a model now, I was not always so.

And if you doubt what things I say, Suppose you make the test; Suppose that when you've been bad some day, And up to bed you're sent away From mother and the rest-- Suppose you ask, "Who has been bad?"

And then you'll hear what's true; For the wind will moan in its ruefulest tone: "Yoooooo! Yoooooooooo! Yoooooooooo!"

--_Eugene Field._

THE BLUE BIRD'S SONG.

Little white snowdrop, I pray you arise: Bright yellow crocus, come, open your eyes: Sweet little violets hid from the cold, Put on your mantles of purple and gold.

Daffodils, daffodils, say, do you hear?

Summer is coming and springtime is here.

--_Anon._

SUPPOSE.

Suppose the little cowslip Should hang its golden cup, And say, "I'm such a tiny flower, I'd better not grow up;"

How many a weary traveler Would miss its fragrant smell, And many a little child would grieve To lose it from the dell.

Suppose the little breezes, Upon a summer's day, Should think themselves too small To cool the traveler on his way; Who would not miss the smallest And softest ones that blow, And think they made a great mistake, If they were talking so?

Suppose the little dewdrop Upon the gra.s.s should say, "What can a little dewdrop do?

I'd better roll away."

The blade on which it rested, Before the day was done, Without a drop to moisten it, Would wither in the sun.

How many deeds of kindness A little child can do, Although it has but little strength, And little wisdom, too!

It wants a loving spirit, Much more than strength, to prove How many things a child may do For others by its love.

--_Anon._

AUTUMN LEAVES.

"Come, little leaves," said the wind one day; "Come over the meadows with me, and play, Put on your dresses of red and gold, Summer is gone and the days grow cold."

Soon the leaves heard the wind's loud call, Down they fell fluttering, one and all.

Over the brown fields they danced and flew, Singing the soft little songs they knew.

Dancing and flying, the little leaves went; Winter had called them, and they were content.

Soon fast asleep in their earthy beds, The snow laid a white blanket over their heads.

--_Anon._

IF I WERE A SUNBEAM.

"If I were a sunbeam, I know what I'd do: I would seek white lilies Rainy woodlands through: I would steal among them, Softest light I'd shed, Until every lily Raised its drooping head.

"If I were a sunbeam, I know where I'd go: Into lowliest hovels, Dark with want and woe: Till sad hearts looked upward, I would shine and shine; Then they'd think of heaven, Their sweet home and mine."

Art thou not a sunbeam, Child whose life is glad With an inner radiance Sunshine never had?

Oh, as G.o.d has blessed thee, Scatter rays divine!

For there is no sunbeam But must die, or shine.

--_Lucy Larcom._

MEADOW TALK.

A b.u.mble bee, yellow as gold Sat perched on a red-clover top, When a gra.s.shopper, wiry and old, Came along with a skip and a hop.

"Good morrow" cried he, "Mr. b.u.mble Bee, You seem to have come to stop."

"We people that work," said the bee with a jerk, "Find a benefit sometimes in stopping, Only insects like you, who have nothing to do Can keep perpetually hopping."

The gra.s.shopper paused on his way And thoughtfully hunched up his knees: "Why trouble this sunshiny day,"

Quoth he, "with reflections like these?

I follow the trade for which I was made We all can't be wise b.u.mble-bees; There's a time to be sad and a time to be glad, A time for both working and stopping, For men to make money, for you to make honey, And for me to keep constantly hopping."

--_Caroline Leslie._

THE OLD LOVE.

I once had a sweet little doll, dears, The prettiest doll in the world; Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears, And her hair was so charmingly curled: But I lost my poor little doll, dears, As I played on the heath one day, And I cried for her more than a week, dears, And I never could find where she lay.

I found my poor little doll, dears, As I played on the heath one day; Folks say she is terribly changed, dears, For her paint is all washed away; And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears, And her hair not the least bit curled: Yet for old time's sake, she is still to me The prettiest doll in the world.

--_Charles Kingsley._