But these on the other side, These that wear purple and blue, They are the Velvets, The king with his cloak, The queen with her gown, The prince with his feather.

These are dark and quiet And stay alone.

_I know you, Velvets Color of Dark, Like the pine-tree on the hill When stars shine!_

HILDA CONKLING (_Six years old_)

WHEN SWALLOWS BUILD

When apple-blossom time doth come And with their scent the air is filled, And fields are full of b.u.t.tercups,-- 'Tis then the swallows build.

And when the rippling brooks are deep, Filled to the overflowing, When o'er the hills and meadows fair The south wind's softly blowing,

With sun a-shining, birds a-singing Till their joyous throats are thrilled, And with all the world in laughter,-- 'Tis then the swallows build.

CATHERINE PARMENTER (_Eleven years old_)

SPRING PLANTING

"What shall we plant for our Summer, my boy,-- Seeds of enchantment and seedlings of joy?

Brave little cuttings of laughter and light?

Then shall our summer be flowery and bright."

"Nay!--You are wrong in your planting," said he, "Have we not gra.s.s and the weeds and a tree?

Why should we water and weary away For sake of a flower that lives but a day!"

So she made gardens which he would not dig, Tended her apricot, apple and fig.

Then, when one morning he chanced to appear, Sadly he noticed--"No trespa.s.sing here."

HELEN HAY WHITNEY

IF I COULD DIG LIKE A RABBIT

If I could dig holes in the ground like a rabbit, D'you know what I'd do?

Well, I'd dig a deep hole-- Right under that tree-- Then I'd go down--and down, And find out where the tree starts, And I'd find out how it eats and drinks, And what makes it grow....

Yes I would!

P'r'aps I could dig a hole right up into that tree, And--see--it--grow!...

But p'r'aps I couldn't.

Anyway I could dig 'way down, And see all the flower seeds, And all the gra.s.s seeds, And under that big rock there might be some rock seeds.

And I'd see everything start growing.

Do all the seeds make noises When they start to grow?

What do You s'pose about that?

I s'pose they sing, 'Cause they're so glad to come up here and see the sunshine....

Well, anyway I'd find out all about it, 'way down there, And then I'd want to come up home, And I'd have so much to tell to You!

If I could dig holes like a rabbit, That's just what I would do.

ROSE STRONG HUBBELL

THE LITTLE G.o.d

Mother says there's a little G.o.d Lives in my garden.

I asked her--"In the tree?"-- I asked her--"In the fountain?"

And she said, yes, that she, Plain as plain could be, Everywhere could see The little G.o.d.

"What's he look like, mother?"

"Oh," she said, "like the flowers, Like the summer showers, Like the morning dew,-- Like you."

She says he's everywhere In my garden--I can't see him there.

KATHARINE HOWARD

DAISIES

At evening when I go to bed I see the stars shine overhead; They are the little daisies white That dot the meadow of the Night.

And often while I'm dreaming so, Across the sky the Moon will go; It is a lady, sweet and fair, Who comes to gather daisies there.

For, when at morning I arise, There's not a star left in the skies; She's picked them all and dropped them down Into the meadows of the town.

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN

THE ANXIOUS FARMER

It was awful long ago That I put those seeds around; And I guess I ought to know When I stuck 'em in the ground.

'Cause I noted down the day In a little diary book,-- It's gotten losted somewhere and I don't know where to look.

But I'm certain anyhow They've been planted most a week And it must be time by now For their little sprouts to peek.

They've been watered every day With a very speshul care, And once or twice I've dug 'em up to see if they were there.

I fixed the dirt in humps Just the way they said I should; And I crumbled all the lumps Just as finely as I could.

And I found a nangle-worm A-poking up his head,-- He maybe feeds on seeds and such, and so I squushed him dead.

A seed's so very small, And dirt all looks the same;-- How can they know at all The way they ought to aim?

And so I'm waiting round In case of any need; A farmer ought to do his best for every single seed!

BURGES JOHNSON

OVER THE GARDEN WALL

By the side of a wall in a garden gay, A little Rose-bush grew; In the first dear days of the month of May, Loved by the sun and dew.