Over the cradle the mother hung, Softly crooning a slumber song: And these were the simple words she sung All the evening long.

"Cheek or chin, or knuckle or knee Where shall the baby's dimple be?

Where shall the angel's finger rest When he comes down to the baby's nest?

Where shall the angel's touch remain When he awakens my babe again?"

Still as she bent and sang so low, A murmur into her music broke: And she paused to hear, for she could but know The baby's angel spoke.

"Cheek or chin, or knuckle or knee, Where shall the baby's dimple be?

Where shall my finger fall and rest When I come down to the baby's nest?

Where shall my finger touch remain When I awaken your babe again?"

Silent the mother sat and dwelt Long in the sweet delay of choice, And then by her baby's side she knelt, And sang with a pleasant voice:

"Not on the limb, O angel dear!

For the charm with its youth will disappear; Not on the cheek shall the dimple be, For the harboring smile will fade and flee; But touch thou the chin with an impress deep, And my baby the angel's seal shall keep."

--_J. G. Holland._

[3] From "The Complete Poetical Writings of J. G. Holland,"

copyright 1879-1881 by Charles Scribner's Sons.

THIRD GRADE

DISCONTENT.

Down in a field one day in June, the flowers all bloomed together, Save one who tried to hide herself, and drooped that pleasant weather.

A robin who had flown too high, and felt a little lazy, Was resting near this b.u.t.tercup who wished she was a daisy.

For daisies grow so slim and tall! She always had a pa.s.sion For wearing frills about her neck in just the daisies' fashion.

And b.u.t.tercups must always be the same old tiresome color; While daisies dress in gold and white, although their gold is duller.

"Dear Robin," said the sad young flower, "Perhaps you'd not mind trying To find a nice white frill for me, some day when you are flying."

"You silly thing!" the Robin said, "I think you must be crazy; I'd rather be my honest self, than any made-up daisy.

"You're nicer in your own bright gown; the little children love you.

Be the best b.u.t.tercup you can, and think no flower above you.

Though swallows leave _me_ out of sight, we'd better keep our places: Perhaps the world would all go wrong with one too many daisies.

Look bravely up into the sky and be content with knowing That G.o.d wished for a b.u.t.tercup, just here where you are growing."

--_Sarah Orne Jewett._

OUR FLAG.

There are many flags in many lands, There are flags of every hue, But there is no flag in any land Like our own Red, White and Blue.

I know where the prettiest colors are, I'm sure, if I only knew How to get them here, I could make a flag Of glorious Red, White and Blue.

I would cut a piece from the evening sky Where the stars were shining through, And use it just as it was on high For my stars and field of Blue.

Then I want a part of a fleecy cloud And some red from a rainbow bright, And I'd put them together, side by side For my stripes of Red and White.

Then "Hurrah for the Flag!" our country's flag, Its stripes and white stars too; There is no flag in any land Like our own "Red, White and Blue."

--_Anon._

SONG FROM "PIPPA Pa.s.sES."

The year's at the spring, And day's at the morn; Morning's at seven; The hill-side's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn: G.o.d's in his heaven-- All's right with the world.

--_Robert Browning._

LITTLE BROWN HANDS.

They drive home the cows from the pasture, Up through the long shady lane, Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-fields, That are yellow with ripening grain.

They find, in the thick, waving gra.s.ses, Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows.

They gather the earliest snowdrops, And the first crimson buds of the rose.

They toss the new hay in the meadow; They gather the elder-bloom white; They find where the dusky grapes purple In the soft-tinted October light.

They know where the apples hang ripest, And are sweeter than Italy's wines; They know where the fruit hangs the thickest On the long, th.o.r.n.y blackberry-vines.

They gather the delicate sea-weeds, And build tiny castles of sand; They pick up the beautiful sea-sh.e.l.ls-- Fairy barks that have drifted to land.

They wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops Where the oriole's hammock-nest swings; And at night-time are folded in slumber By a song that a fond mother sings.

Those who toil bravely are strongest; The humble and poor become great; And so from these brown-handed children Shall grow mighty rulers of state.

The pen of the author and statesman-- The n.o.ble and wise of the land-- The sword, and the chisel, and palette, Shall be held in the little brown hand.

--_M. H. Krout._

WINTER AND SUMMER.

Oh, I wish the Winter would go, And I wish the Summer would come, Then the big brown farmers will hoe, And the little brown bee will hum.

Then the robin his fife will trill, And the wood-piper beat his drum; And out of their tents on the hill The little green troops will come.

Then around and over the trees With a flutter and flirt we'll go, A rollicking, frolicking breeze, And away with a frisk ho! ho!

--_Anon._

THE BROOK.

I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down the valley.