Chapter I: Will Be Good To-Day (1)

“I will be good, dear mother,”
I heard a sweet child say;
“I will be good; now watch me--
I will be good all day.”

She lifted up her bright young eyes,
With a soft and pleasing smile;
Then a mother’s kiss was on her lips,
So pure and free from guile.

And when night came, that little one,
In kneeling down to pray,
Said, in a soft and whispering tone,
“Have I been good to-day?”

Oh, many, many bitter tears
’Twould save us, did we say,
Like that dear child, with earnest heart,
“I will be good to-day.”

THE HONEST BOY

Once there was a little boy
With curly hair and pleasant eye,
A boy who always told the truth,
And never, never told a lie.

And when he trotted off to school,
The children all about would cry,
“There goes the curly-headed boy,
The boy that never tells a lie.”

And everybody loved him so,
Because he always told the truth,
That every day, as he grew up,
’Twas said, “There goes the honest youth.”

And when the people that stood near
Would turn to ask the reason why,
The answer would be always this,
“Because he never tells a lie.”

THE LIE

And has my darling told a lie?
Did she forget that God was by--
That God who saw the thing she did,
From whom no action can be hid?
Did she forget that God could see
And hear, wherever she might be?

He made our eyes, and can discern
Whichever way you think to turn;
He made our ears, and he can hear
Whene’er you think no one is near:
In every place, by night or day,
He watches all you do or say.

You thought because you were alone,
Your falsehood never could be known;
But liars always are found out,
Whatever way they wind about:
Then always be afraid, my dear,
To tell a lie, for God can hear.

THE GOLDEN RULE

To do to others as I would
That they should do to me,
Will make me honest, kind, and good,
As children ought to be.

TWO LITTLE TEMPERS

Bad temper, go,
You never shall stay with me;
Bad temper, go,
You and I shall ne’er agree.
For I will always kind and mild
And gentle pray to be,
And do to others as I wish
That they should do to me.
Temper bad,
Go away!
Temper good,
Happy and gay,
Come, sweet temper, come and stay.

MEDDLESOME MATTIE

Matilda was a pleasant child,
But one bad trick she had,
That e’en when all around her smiled
Oft made her friends feel sad.

Sometimes she’d lift the teapot-lid
To peep at what was in it;
Or tilt the kettle, if you did
But turn your head a minute.

As grandmamma went out one day,
Her snuff-box and her specs
She down upon the table lay,
Forgetting Tilly’s tricks.

Immediately upon her nose
She placed the glasses wide,
Then looking round, as I suppose,
The snuff-box, too, she spied.

So thumb and finger went to work,
To move the stubborn lid;
And as she gave it quite a jerk,
Much mischief then she did.

The snuff came puffing in her face
And eyes and nose and chin,
And as she ran about for ease,
The snuff got farther in.

She dashed the spectacles away
To wipe her tingling eyes;
And there in twenty bits they lay,
As grandmamma she spies.

She then, while smarting with the pain,
Sneezing, and sick and sore,
Made many a promise to refrain
From meddling any more.

A GOOD NAME

Children, choose it,
Don’t refuse it,
’Tis a precious diadem;
Highly prize it,
Don’t despise it,
You will need it when you’re men.

Love and cherish,
Keep and nourish,
’Tis more precious far than gold;
Watch and guard it,
Don’t discard it,
You will need it when you’re old.

TRUST AND TRY

“Cannot,” Edward, did you say?
Chase the lazy thought away;
Never let that idle word
From your lips again be heard.
Take your book from off the shelf,
God helps him who helps himself;
O’er your lesson do not sigh:
Trust and try--trust and try.

“Cannot,” Edward? Say not so:
All are weak, full well I know;
But if you will seek the Lord,
He will needful strength afford,
Teach you how to conquer sin,
Purify your heart within:
On your Father’s help rely,
Trust and try--trust and try.

“Cannot,” Edward? Scorn the thought;
You can do whatever you ought:
Every duty’s call obey,
Strive to walk in wisdom’s way;
Let the sluggard, if he will,
Use the lazy “cannot” still;
On yourself and God rely:
Trust and try--trust and try.

PERSEVERE

Go on, go on, go on, go on,
Go on, go on, go on,
Go on, go on, go on, go on,
Go on, _go on_, GO ON!

THE GENEROUS HEART

Be the portion small or great,
The loving, generous heart
Will always find it large enough
To give away a part.

BUSY LITTLE FARMER

I’m a little husbandman,
Work and labor hard I can;
I’m as happy all the day
At my work as if ’twere play:
Though I’ve nothing fine to wear,
Yet for that I do not care.

When to work I go along,
Singing loud my morning song,
With my wallet on my back,
And my wagon-whip to crack,
Oh, I’m thrice as happy then
As the idle gentleman.

I’ve a hearty appetite
And I soundly sleep at night;
Down I lie content, and say
I’ve been useful all the day:
I’d rather be a ploughboy, than
A useless little gentleman.

IS IT YOU?

There is a child, a boy or girl--
I’m sorry it is true--
Who does not mind when spoken to:
I hope it isn’t you!

There is a child, a boy or girl--
I trust that such are few--
Who struck a little playmate friend:
I hope it wasn’t you!

I know a child, a boy or girl--
I’m sorry that I do--
Who told a lie; yes, told a lie!
It cannot be ’twas you!

There is a boy--I know the boy--
I cannot love him, though--
Who robs the little birdie’s nest:
That bad boy can’t be you!

There is a girl, a girl I know,
And I could love her too,
But that she’s very proud and vain:
That surely isn’t you!

DAISY’S PRAYER

Darling little Daisy,
With her golden hair,
Sitting at the table
In her own high chair;

Closed the dewy eyelids
Over blue eyes bright,
Drooped the golden lashes
Over cheeks so white,

Bent above the table
Little head so fair;
Daisy’s supper’s waiting
Till she says her prayer.

So she clasps her fingers
As when wont to pray;
“Oh, dear me,” sighs Daisy,
“What does papa say?”

Lower bows her forehead
O’er the table then;
And she whispers softly,
“Jesus’ sake, Amen.”

Darling little Daisy,
With your winsome face,
May the blessed Saviour
Daily give his grace!

May you never venture
Any path to take
Till you ask God’s blessing
For dear Jesus’ sake.

THE SHADOWS

The candles are lighted, the fires blaze bright,
The curtains are drawn to keep out the cold air;
What makes you so grave, little darling, to-night?
And where is your smile, little quiet one, where?

“Mamma, I see something so dark on the wall;
It moves up and down, and it looks very strange;
Sometimes it is big, sometimes it is small;
Pray tell me what is it, and why does it change?”

It’s only my shadow that puzzles you so;
And there is your own close beside it, my love:
Now run ’round the room, it will go where you go;
When you sit ’twill be still, when you rise it will move.

And when you are out some fine day in the sun,
I’ll take you where shadows of apple-trees lie;
And houses and cottages, too, every one
Casts a shade when the sun’s shining bright in the sky.

Now hold up your mouth and give me a sweet kiss--
Our shadows kiss too--don’t you see it quite plain?
“Oh, yes; and I thank you for telling me this;
I’ll not be afraid of a shadow again.”

CHILD’S SELF-EXAMINATION

Ere I in sleep my eyelids fold
These things I must in memory hold:
What I’ve been doing all the day--
What were my acts at work or play?
What have I learnt that’s worth the knowing?
What have I done that’s worth the doing?
What have I done that I should not?
What duty was this day forgot?
Ere I in sleep my eyelids fold
These things I must in memory hold:
If I’ve done ill, then I must pray
That God would wash my sins away,
And for the merits of his Son
Forgive the evil I have done;
Then, pardoned daily, filled with love,
I’ll be prepared to dwell above,
And there, with angels ‘round the throne,
The love of God forever own.

LITTLE STAR

Good-night, little star;
I will go to my bed
And leave you to burn,
While I lay down my head

On my pillow to sleep
Till the morning light;
When you will be fading,
And I shall be bright.

GOOD-NIGHT

Good-night, my dear mother--dear mother, good-night;
You may take out the lamp and shut the door tight:
Your dear little Ellen will not be afraid,
Though left quite alone in her own quiet bed.

Afraid, my dear mother, afraid, when I know
God watches on high, while you watch below?
And though the thick darkness all round me is spread,
I know that from him I can never be hid.

WHY SHOULD I FEAR?

I will not fear,
For God is near.
Through the dark night
As in the light;
And while I sleep
Safe watch will keep.
Why should I fear,
When God is near?

A SONG TO BRING SLEEP

Two little eyes,
Two little lips,
Two little hands,
Two little feet:
What shall we ask for them all?

Two little eyes,
Blue, blue,
Blue as the azure deep of the skies--
Now so roguish, now wondrous wise,
Solemn and funny, all in a twink,
Changing and changing with every wink:
What shall we ask for these little eyes?

Open them, Lord,
To see in thy Word
Wondrous things;
Light them with love,
And shade them above
With angels’ wings.

Two little lips,
Red, red,
Red as the flamy coral tips,
Sweet as the rose the wild bee sips,
Singing and prattling all day long,
And kissing and coaxing with witchery strong:
What shall we ask for these little lips?

From thine altar, Lord, above,
Touch those lips with fire of love;
Pure, pure let them be,
Speaking holy melodies
Out of a holy heart that rise,
Warm, bright, up to thee!

Two little hands,
Busy, busy,
Busy as bird and busy as bee,
Gathering “funny things” for me.
Weaving webs, and building a house
“Just the size for a wee, wee mouse”:
What shall we ask for these little hands?

Lord, with wisdom filled,
Teach these hands to build
Thine own temple;
Let them skilful be--
Cunning to work for thee
By thine example.

Two little feet,
Nimble, nimble,
Trot-foot and Light-foot, oh, what a pair;
Now here, now there, now everywhere:
Running of errands, dancing in glee,
Skipping and jumping merrily:
What shall we ask for these little feet?

Lead them a blessed pilgrimage,
From childhood through to saintly age,
Dear Lord, we pray:
Hold them a light in the dim, dark night,
And out of the narrow path of the right
Ne’er let them stray!

Two little eyes--closed!
Two little lips--shut!
Two little hands--clasped!
Two little feet--still!
God give my darling pleasant dreams!

GOING TO REST

When darkness veils the distant hill,
The little birds are hid and still;
And I my sweet repose may take,
Since my Creator is awake:

How sweet upon my little bed
Since my Creator guards my head,
And doth the little infant keep
Through all the hours of silent sleep.

AT CLOSE OF DAY

At close of day, with petals pressed,
Each little rosebud sinks to rest.
Each little bird, too tired to sing,
At close of day must fold its wing.

Each little child at close of day
Kneels at his mother’s knee to pray;
Then, like the happy outdoor things,
He, too, must softly close his wings.

HO FOR SLUMBERLAND

When the little ones get drowsy and heavy lids droop down
To hide blue eyes and black eyes, gray eyes and eyes of brown,
A thousand boats for Dreamland are waiting in a row,
And the ferrymen are calling, “For the Slumber Islands, ho!”

Then the sleepy little children fill the boats along the shore,
And go sailing off to Dreamland; and the dipping of the oar
In the Sea of Sleep makes music that the children only know
When they answer to the boatmen’s “For the Slumber Islands, ho!”

CHORUS

Ho, ho, ho! in Dreamland boats we go,
Row, row, row, oh, Boatman, gently row,
Low, low, low, sing, wavelets, sing below;
Along the tide of Sleep we glide
To Slumber Islands, ho!

SLUMBER ISLANDS

K. E. C. (_Chorus, with motion_[1]) K. E. C.

Ho, ho, ho! in Dreamland boats we go,
Row, row, row, oh, Boatman, gently row,
Low, low, low, sing, wavelets, sing below; Along
the tide of Sleep we glide To Slumber Islands, ho!

[1] The rowing of a boat

ASLEEP

While mother birdlets murmur--“Peep!
Sleep, nestlings, sleep!”
And tired Margery’s flaxen head
Is resting on the cradle bed;
The babe, its white lids closed, afloat
In dreams, swings light in its fairy boat,
Sleep, nestlings, sleep.

_K. E. C._

LITTLE POOR RELATIONS

I am only a little sparrow,
A bird of low degree;
My life is of little value,
But the dear Lord cares for me.

LITTLE POOR RELATIONS

LITTLE, BUT WISE

Who showed the little ant the way
Her narrow hole to bore,
And spend the pleasant summer day
In laying up her store?

The sparrow builds her clever nest
Of wool and hay and moss;
Who told her how to weave it best,
And lay the twigs across?

Who taught the busy bee to fly
Among the sweetest flowers,
And lay his feast of honey by,
To eat in winter hours?

’Twas God who showed them all the way,
And gave their little skill;
And teaches children, if they pray,
To do his holy will.

LITTLE DOG

I’ll never hurt a little dog,
But stroke and pat his head;
I like to see him wag his tail,
I like to see him fed.

Then I will never whip my dog,
Nor ever give him pain;
Poor fellow, I will give him food,
And he’ll love me again.

MY PUSSY

Oh! here is Miss Pussy;
She’s drinking her milk;
Her coat is as soft
And as glossy as silk.

She sips it all up
With her little lap-lap;
Then wiping her whiskers,
Lies down for a nap.

My kitty is gentle,
She loves me right well,
And how funny at playing
No language can tell.

Now under the sofa,
Now under the table,
She laughs and says, “Catch me!”
As she only is able.

Oh, dearly I love her!
And you never did spy
Two happier playmates
Than kitty and I.

KITTY AND MOUSIE

Once there was a little kitty,
White as the snow;
In the barn she used to frolic,
Long time ago.

In the barn a little mousie
Ran to and fro;
For she heard the little kitty,
Long time ago.

Two black eyes had little kitty,
Black as a crow,
And they spied the little mousie,
Long time ago.

Four soft paws had little kitty,
Paws soft as dough,
And they caught the little mousie,
Long time ago.

Nine pearl teeth had little kitty,
All in a row,
And they bit the little mousie,
Long time ago.

When the teeth bit little mousie,
Mousie cried out, “Oh!”
But she got away from kitty,
Long time ago.

KINDNESS TO ANIMALS

I like little pussy, her coat is so warm,
And if I don’t hurt her, she’ll do me no harm;
So I’ll not pull her tail, nor drive her away,
But pussy and I very gently will play:
She shall sit by my side and I’ll give her some food;
And she’ll love me because I am gentle and good.

I’ll pat little pussy, and then she will purr,
And thus show her thanks for my kindness to her;
I’ll not pinch her ears, nor tread on her paw,
Lest I should provoke her to use her sharp claw;
I never will vex her nor make her displeased,
For pussy don’t like to be worried and teased.

GENTLE BOSSY

Thank you, pretty cow, that made
Pleasant milk to soak my bread,
Every day and every night,
Warm and fresh, and sweet and white.

Do not chew the hemlock rank,
Growing on the weedy bank;
But the yellow cowslip eat,
That will make it very sweet.

Where the purple violet grows,
Where the bubbling water flows,
Where the grass is fresh and fine,
Pretty cow, go there and dine.

WHEN THE COWS COME HOME

With klingle, klangle, klingle,
Way down the dusty dingle,
The cows are coming home;
Now sweet and clear, and faint and low,
The airy twinklings come and go,
Like chimings from some far-off tower,
Or patterings of an April shower
That makes the daisies grow;
Ko-ling ko-lang, kolinglelingle,
Way down the darkening dingle,
The cows come slowly home.
(And old-time friends, and twilight plays,
And starry nights and sunny days,
Come trooping up the misty ways,
When the cows come home.)

With klingle, klangle, klingle,
With loo-oo, and moo-oo and jingle,
The cows are coming home;
And over there on Merlin Hill
Hear the plaintive cry of the whip-poor-will,
And the dew-drops lie on the tangled vines,
And over the poplars Venus shines,
And over the silent mill;
Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle,
With ting-a-ling and jingle,
The cows come slowly home.
(Let down the bars; let in the train
Of long-gone songs, and flowers and rain,
For dear old time’s come back again,
When the cows come home.)

—_Mrs. Agnes E. Mitchell._

THE NAUGHTY CHICK

A little chick who loved to roam,
One day, one awful day,
Got through the fence and left his home,
Alas! alackaday!

He saw a lovely butterfly,
He saw a bumbly-bee;
He chased the lovely butterfly,
And then he chased the bee.

The butterfly went soaring high,
But, oh, he caught the bee!
And when that bee had flown away
A wiser chick was he!

When to his mother hen at night,
A sad, fat chick, he went,
So swollen up with bumbly stings,
For Dr. Dick she sent,

Who put a poultice on his tongue,
Another on his head,
Another on his sprouting tail,
And sent him off to bed.

—_Margaret Gabbie Hays._

HEN AND CHICKENS

“Cluck! cluck! cluck!”
“Good-morning, pretty hen!
How many chickens have you got?”
“Madam, I’ve got ten:
Three of them are yellow,
And three of them are brown,
And four of them are black and white,
The nicest in the town.”

THE CHICKENS

See, the chickens round the gate
For their morning portion wait;
Fill the basket from the store,
Let us open wide the door:
Throw out crumbs, and scatter seed,
Let the hungry chickens feed.
Call them; now how fast they run,
Gladly, quickly, every one;

Eager, busy hen and chick
Every little morsel pick:
See the hen with callow brood,
To her young how kind and good;

With what care their steps she leads--
Them, and not herself, she feeds:
Picking here and picking there,
Where the nicest morsels are.

As she calls, they flock around,
Bustling all along the ground.
When their daily labors cease,
And at night they rest in peace,
All the little tiny things
Nestle close beneath her wings;
There she keeps them safe and warm,
Free from fear, and free from harm.

Now, my little child, attend:
Your almighty Father, Friend,
Though unseen by mortal eye,
Watches o’er you from on high:
As the hen her chickens leads,
Shelters, cherishes, and feeds,
So by him your feet are led,
Over you his wings are spread.

POOR ROBIN

One winter’s day the wind blew high,
And fast came down the snow;
A robin, far too weak to fly,
Hopped in the yard below.

Jane threw him crumbs, and from that day
Her welcome guest he’s been;
And often when the children play,
Sweet little Bob is seen.

THE ROBIN REDBREASTS

Two robin redbreasts built their nests
Within a hollow tree;
The mother-bird sat still at home,
Her mate sang merrily;
And all the little young ones said:
“Wee, wee, wee, wee, wee, wee.”

One day the sun was warm and bright
And shining in the sky,
Cock-robin said, “My little dears,
’Tis time you learned to fly.”
And all the little young ones said:
“I’ll try, I’ll try, I’ll try.”

ROBIN REDBREAST’S SECRET

I’m little Robin Redbreast, sir,
My nest is in the tree;
If you look up in yonder elm,
My pleasant home you’ll see.
We made it very soft and nice--
My pretty mate and I--
And all the time we worked at it
We sang most merrily.

The green leaves shade our lovely home
From heat of noonday sun;
So many birds live in the tree,
We do not want for fun.
The light breeze gently rocks our nest,
And hushes us to sleep;
We’re up betimes to sing our song,
And daylight first to greet.

I have a secret I would like
The little girls to know;
But I won’t tell a single boy--
They rob the poor birds so.
We have four pretty little nests,
We watch them with great care;
Full fifty eggs are in this tree--
Don’t tell the boys they’re here.

Joe Thomson robbed the nest last year,
And year before, Tom Brown;
I’ll tell it loud as I can sing
To every one in town.
Swallow and sparrow, lark and thrush,
Will tell you just the same:
To make us all so sorrowful
It is a wicked shame.

Oh, did you hear the concert
This morning from our tree?
We give it every morning
Just as the clock strikes three.
We praise our great Creator,
Whose holy love we share:
Dear children, learn to praise him too
For all his tender care.

A TEMPERANCE SONG

I asked a sweet robin, one morning in May,
Who sang in the apple-tree over the way,
What ’twas she was singing so sweetly about,
For I’d tried a long time, but could not find out.
“Why, I’m sure,” she replied, “you cannot guess wrong;
Don’t you know I am singing a temperance song?

“Teetotal--oh, that’s the first word of my lay;
And then don’t you see how I twitter away?
’Tis because I’ve just fluttered my beak in the spring,
And brushed the fair face of the lake with my wing.
Cold water, cold water, yes, that is my song,
And I love to keep singing it all the day long.

“And now, my sweet Miss, won’t you give me a crumb;
For the dear little nestlings are waiting at home?
And one thing besides; since my story you’ve heard,
I hope you’ll remember the lay of the bird;
And never forget, while you list to my song,
All the birds to the cold-water army belong.”

THE CAPTIVE BLUEBIRD

Sweet little mistress, let me go,
And I’ll sing you a song so sweet and low,
I’ll sing a song so gay and clear,
That you will be glad to stop and hear.

Indeed you know not what to do;
I’ll tell you all, and tell you true:
I’ve left some young ones in the tree,
In a soft nest; they are one, two, three.

’Tis two hours now since Dick was fed,
And little Billy hangs his head,
Sweet Katy wonders where I’m gone,
And the poor things are all alone.

Ah me! no more at early morn
Shall I rest my foot on the stooping thorn,
And pour the song from my soft breast,
While my dear young ones are at rest.

But yes! my plaint has touched your heart,
Your open hand bids me depart;
Blessings on thee, my mistress dear,
My darlings have no more to fear.

CRUEL SPORT

There came to my window,
One morning in spring,
A sweet little robin,
She came there to sing;
And the tune that she sang
Was prettier far
Than ever I heard
On the flute or guitar.

She raised her light wings
To soar far away,
Then resting a moment,
Seemed sweetly to say,
“Oh, happy, how happy
This world seems to be;
Awake, little girl,
And be happy with me.”

But just as she finished
Her beautiful song,
A thoughtless young man
With a gun came along.
He killed and he carried
My sweet bird away,
And she no more will sing
At the dawn of the day.

THE BIRD’S NEST

A little bird built a warm nest in a tree,
And laid some blue eggs in it, one, two, three;
And then very glad and delighted was she.

And after a while, but how long I can’t tell,
The little ones crept, one by one, from the shell,
And their mother was pleased, for she loved them all well.

She spread her soft wings o’er them all the day long
To warm them and guard them, her love was so strong;
Her mate sat beside her and sang her a song.

One day the wee birds were all crying for food,
So off flew their mother away from her brood;
And up came some boys who were wicked and rude.

They pulled the warm nest down away from the tree;
The little ones cried, but they could not get free;
But they died all alone, little one, two, three.

When back to the nest the poor mother did fly,
Oh, then she set up a most piteous cry;
With her mother-heart broken, she lay down to die.

THE BOY AND THE LARK

Who taught you to sing,
My sweet pretty birds?
Who tuned your beautiful throats?
You make all the woods
And the valleys to ring,
You bring the first news
Of the earliest spring,
With your loud and silvery notes.

It was God, said a lark,
As he rose from the earth;
_He_ gives us the good we enjoy:
He painted our wings,
He gave us our voice,
He finds us our food,
He bids us rejoice--
Good-morning, my beautiful boy!

—_Mrs. Sigourney._

DON’T KILL THE BIRDS

Don’t kill the birds, the little birds
That sing about your door,
Soon as the joyous spring has come
And chilling storms are o’er.

The little birds so sweetly sing,
Oh, let them joyous live,
And do not seek to take their life,
Which you can never give.

Don’t kill the birds, the pretty birds
That play among the trees;
’Twould make the earth a cheerless place
To see no more of these.

The little birds so fondly play,
Do not disturb their sport;
But let them warble forth their songs
Till winter cuts them short.

Don’t kill the birds, the happy birds
That cheer the field and grove;
Such harmless things to look upon,
They claim our warmest love.

ANSWER TO A CHILD’S QUESTION

Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove,
The linnet and thrush say, “I love and I love!”
In the winter they’re silent, the wind is so strong;
What it says I don’t know, but it sings a loud song.
But green leaves and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,
And singing and loving all come back together;
Then the lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
The green fields below him, the blue sky above,
That he sings and he sings, and forever sings he,
“I love my Love, and my Love loves me.”

—_Samuel Taylor Coleridge._

THE SNOW-BIRD’S SONG

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

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

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

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

—_F. C. Woodworth._

THE SPARROW IN THE SNOW

He hopped down cheerily into the snow--
Brave little barefoot Brownie--
As if snow were the warmest thing below,
And as cosey as it is downy!

And his brown little knowing, saucy head,
In a way that was cutely funny,
He jerked to one side, as though he said,
“I don’t care if it isn’t sunny.”

“I don’t care! I don’t care! I don’t!” he said,
And he winked with his eye so cheery,
“For somebody’s left some crumbs of bread,
So my prospects are not all dreary.

“And what’s a cold toe, when I’ve a whole suit
Of the cunningest warm brown feathers?
I don’t care if I haven’t a shoe to my foot,
I’m the bird, sir, for all sorts of weathers.

“I don’t fly away at the first touch of frost,
Like some of your fine-tongued birdies;
I don’t think everything’s ruined and lost
When the wind mutters threatening wordies.

“I don’t care!” he chirped; “I don’t care! I don’t care!
It might be a great deal colder:
But I’m a fellow that knows no fear--
Old winter but makes me bolder!”
Ah, plain little hardy brown-coat bird!
Through life I’ll try to remember
To meet its winters with cheerful word,
Like thee, to my brave December.

—_Youth’s Companion._

THE WANDERINGS OF THE BIRDS

Autumn has come, so bare and gray,
The woods are brown and red,
The flowers all have passed away,
The forest leaves are dead.

The little birds at morning dawn,
Clothed in warm coats of feather,
Conclude that they away will roam,
To seek for milder weather.

The robin gives his last sweet strain,
His mate, responding, follows;
And then away they lead the train
Of bluebirds, wrens, and swallows.

The cuckoo, thrush, and yellow-bird,
The wild goose, teal, and sparrow,
Martin and chippee, all are heard
To sing their parting carol.

The oriole hastens in his flight,
The swallow skims the water;
The whip-poor-will and bobby white
Join in the blackbirds’ chatter.

Tribe after tribe with leaders fair
All spread their wings for flight,
Away, away, high in the air,
Nor care for day nor night.

The fig-tree and the orange bowers
They soon will find so sweet;
The sunny clime of fruits and flowers
They with warm hearts will greet.

But when the voice of spring they hear,
They’ll sing their “chick-a-dee,”
And back they’ll come, our hearts to cheer,
“Tu-whit, tu-whit, tu-whee.”

THE TURTLE-DOVES

Very high in the pine-tree,
The little turtle-dove
Made a pretty little nursery
To please her little love.

She was gentle, she was soft,
And her large, dark eye
Often turned to her mate,
Who was sitting close by.

“Coo,” said the turtle-dove;
“Coo,” said she.
“Oh, I love thee,” said the turtle-dove,
“And I love thee!”

In the long, shady branches
Of the dark pine-tree,
How happy were the doves
In their little nursery.

The young turtle-doves
Never quarreled in the nest,
For they dearly loved each other,
Though they loved their mother best.

“Coo,” said the little doves,
“Coo,” said she.
And they played together kindly
In the dark pine-tree.

Is this nursery of yours,
Little sister, little brother,
Like the turtle-doves’ nest?
Do you love one another?

THE LITTLE DOVES[2]

Rev. John Henry Hopkins

[Music:

1. High on the top of an old pine tree
Broods a mother dove with her young ones three;
Warm over them is her soft downy breast,
And they sing so sweetly in their nest;
“Coo,” say the little ones, “Coo,” says she,
All in their nest in the old pine tree.

2. When in the nest they are left alone,
While their mother, seeking food has gone;
Quiet and tender they all remain,
Till their mother they see come back again;
“Coo,” say the little ones, “Coo,” says she,
All in their nest in the old pine tree.

3. Fast grow the young ones, day and night,
Till their wings are plumed for a longer flight,
Till unto them the day draws nigh,
The time when they all must say good-by;
“Coo,” say the little ones, “Coo,” says she,
And away they fly from the old pine tree.
]

[2] From _CHILDREN’S SONGS AND HOW TO SING THEM_, by W. L. Tomlins Copyright, 1884, by Oliver Ditson Company

THE PEACOCK

Come, come, Mister Peacock, you must not be proud,
Although you can boast such a train;
For many a bird far more highly endowed
Is not half so conceited and vain.

Let me tell you, gay bird, that a suit of fine clothes
Is a sorry distinction at most,
And seldom much valued, excepting by those
Who only such graces can boast.

The nightingale certainly wears a plain coat,
But she cheers and delights with her song;
While you, though so vain, cannot utter a note
Though you scream all the summer day long.

The hawk cannot boast of a plumage so gay,
But piercing and clear is her eye;
And while you are strutting about all the day,
She gallantly soars in the sky.

The dove may be clad in a plainer attire,
But she is not so selfish and cold;
And her love and affection more pleasure inspire
Than all your fine purple and gold.

So you see, Mister Peacock, you must not be proud,
Although you can boast such a train;
For many a bird is more highly endowed,
And not half so conceited and vain.

BUSY BEE

How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower.

How skilfully she builds her cell,
How neat she spreads the wax,
And labors hard to store it well
With the sweet food she makes.

In works of labor or of skill
I would be busy, too;
For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.

THE BEES

“Oh, mother dear, pray tell me where
The bees in winter stay?
The flowers are gone they feed upon
So sweet in summer’s day.”

“My child, they live within the hive,
And have enough to eat;
Amid the storm they’re clean and warm,
Their food is honey sweet.”

“Say, mother dear, how came it there?
Did father feed them so?
I see no way in winter’s day
That honey has to grow.”

“No, no, my child; in summer mild
The bees laid up their store
Of honey-drops in little cups,
Till they should want no more.”

THE FLY

’Twas God who made the little fly;
But if you pinch it, it will die.

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY

“Will you walk into my parlor?”
Said a spider to a fly;
“’Tis the prettiest little parlor
That ever you did spy.
The way into my parlor
Is up a winding stair,
And I have many pretty things
To show when you are there.”
“Oh, no, no,” said the little fly,
“To ask me is in vain;
For who goes up your winding stair,
Can ne’er come down again.”

“I’m sure you must be weary
With soaring up so high;
Will you rest upon my little bed?”
Said the spider to the fly.
“There are pretty curtains drawn around,
The sheets are fine and thin;
And if you like to rest a while,
I’ll snugly tuck you in.”
“Oh, no, no,” said the little fly,
“For I’ve often heard it said,
They never, never wake again
Who sleep upon your bed.”

Said the cunning spider to the fly,
“Dear friend, what shall I do
To prove the warm affection
I’ve always felt for you?
I have, within my pantry,
Good store of all that’s nice;
I’m sure you’re very welcome--
Will you please to take a slice?”
“Oh, no, no,” said the little fly,
“Kind sir, that cannot be;
I’ve heard what’s in your pantry,
And I do not wish to see.”

“Sweet creature,” said the spider,
“You’re witty and you’re wise;
How handsome are your gauzy wings,
How brilliant are your eyes!
I have a little looking-glass
Upon my parlor shelf;
If you’ll step in one moment, dear,
You shall behold yourself.”
“I thank you, gentle sir,” she said,
“For what you’re pleased to say,
And bidding you good-morning now,
I’ll call another day.”

The spider turned him round about
And went into his den,
For well he knew the silly fly
Would soon be back again;
So he wove a subtle web
In a little corner sly,
And set his table ready
To dine upon the fly.
He went out to his door again,
And merrily did sing,
“Come hither, hither, pretty fly,
With pearl and silver wing;
Your robes are green and purple,
There’s a crest upon your head;
Your eyes are like the diamond bright,
But mine are dull as lead.”

Alas, alas! how very soon
This silly little fly,
Hearing his wily, flattering words,
Came slowly flitting by.
With buzzing wings she hung aloft,
Then near and nearer drew--
Thought only of her brilliant eyes
And green and purple hue;
Thought only of her crested head--
Poor foolish thing! At last
Up jumped the cunning spider
And fiercely held her fast.

He dragged her up his winding stair,
Into his dismal den
Within his little parlor--but
She ne’er came out again!
And now, dear little children
Who may this story read,
To idle, silly, flattering words,
I pray you, ne’er give heed:
Unto an evil counselor
Close heart and ear and eye,
And take a lesson from this tale
Of the spider and the fly.

PRETTY BEE

“Pretty bee, pray tell me why
Thus from flower to flower you fly,
Culling sweets the livelong day,
Never leaving off to play.”

“Little child, I’ll tell thee why
Thus from flower to flower I fly:
Let the truth thy thoughts engage
From thy youth to riper age.

“Summer flowers will soon be o’er;
Winter comes, they bloom no more:
Fairest days will soon be past;
Brightest suns will set at last.

“Little child, now learn of me:
Let thy youth thy seed-time be;
Then, when wintry age has come,
Richly bear thy harvest home.”

THE MERRY FLY

My merry little fly, play here,
And let me look at you;
I will not touch you, though you’re near,
As naughty children do.

I see you spread your pretty wings,
That sparkle in the sun:
I see your legs--what tiny things;
And yet how fast they run!

You walk along the ceiling now,
And down the upright wall:
I’ll ask mamma to tell me how
You walk and do not fall.

’Twas God who taught you, little fly,
To walk along the ground,
And mount above my head so high,
And frolic round and round.

I’ll near you stand, to see you play;
But do not be afraid:
I would not lift my little hand
To hurt what God has made.

THE BUTTERFLY

Where hides the downy butterfly
That in the sunshine flew so high,
Or sucked the flowers?
When night has fallen on all around,
Has he a place of shelter found
For darkling hours?

Upon a bank that faces west,
His velvet couch a daisy’s breast,
He is at home;
There sleeps until the sun with power
Unfolds him like a living flower,
No more to roam.

MY TAME SQUIRREL

I have a little squirry,
His step is quick and light,
His tail is long and furry,
And his eyes are large and bright.

He burrows ’neath my pillow,
And curls himself to sleep;
Or in my basket willow
He slyly loves to creep.

It’s of no use to scold him,
He always has his way,
Though oft and oft I’ve told him
To be quiet in his play.

But bolder still and bolder
He grows with every week;
He springs upon my shoulder,
And frisks across my cheek.

He builds his nest aloft there
Behind a barricade;
And none can tell how soft there
The little crib he’s made--

What piles of snowy cotton,
What balls of worsted bright,
What skeins of silk forgotten,
Or left within his sight.

And none can tell what bunches
Of hazelnuts are stored,
What dinners and what lunches
Are in that secret hoard.

O Squirry, nimble Squirry!
I love thy merry ways,
And never yet grew weary
To watch thee in thy plays.

THE SQUIRREL’S ARITHMETIC

High on the branch of a walnut-tree
A bright-eyed squirrel sat;
What was he thinking so earnestly?
And what was he looking at?

He was doing a problem o’er and o’er;
Busily thinking was he
How many nuts for his Winter’s store
Could he hide in the hollow tree?

He sat so still on the swaying bough
You might have thought him asleep;
Oh, no; he was trying to reckon now
The nuts the babies could eat.

Then suddenly he frisked about,
And down the tree he ran;
“The best way to do, without a doubt,
Is to gather all I can.”

—_Modern Instructor._

THE LAMB’S LULLABY

The pretty little lambs that lie
And sleep upon the grass
Have none to sing them lullaby
But the night winds as they pass--

While I, a happy little maid,
Bid dear papa good-night,
And in my crib so warm am laid,
And tucked up snug and tight.

Haste, kind mamma, and call them here,
Where they’ll be warm as I;
For in the chilly fields, I fear,
Before the morn they’ll die.

MOTHER

The lambs sleep in the fields, ’tis true,
Without a lullaby;
And yet they are as warm as you
Beneath a summer sky.

They choose some dry and grassy spot
Beneath the shady trees;
To other songs they listen not
While softly hums the breeze.

And when the night is bitter cold,
The shepherd comes with care,
And leads them to his peaceful fold;
They’re safe and sheltered there.

How happy are the lambs, my love,
How safe and calm they rest;
But you a Shepherd have above,
Of all kind shepherds best.

His lambs he gathers in his arms,
And in his bosom bears:
How blest, how safe from all alarms,
Each child his love who shares!

COUNTRY MUSIC

The cock is crowing,
The cows are lowing;
The sheep are baa-ing,
The boys ha-ha-ing;
The birds are singing,
The bells are ringing;
The brook is babbling,
The geese are gabbling;
The pigs are squeaking,
The barn-door creaking;
Sally is churning,
The grindstone turning;
John is sawing,
Willie hurrahing;
The peacock screeching,
And Carrie teaching
Amid all the noise.

MARY AND HER LAMB

Mary had a little lamb,
Its fleece was white as snow;
And everywhere that Mary went,
The lamb was sure to go.

He followed her to school one day--
That was against the rule;
It made the children laugh and play
To see a lamb at school.

So the teacher turned him out,
But still he lingered near,
And waited patiently about
Till Mary did appear.

Then he ran to her, and laid
His head upon her arm,
As if he said: I’m not afraid;
You’ll keep me from all harm.

“What makes the lamb love Mary so?”
The eager children cry.
“Oh, Mary loves the lamb, you know,”
The teacher did reply.

And you each gentle animal
In confidence may bind,
And make them follow at your will,
If you are only kind.

OF WHAT ARE YOUR CLOTHES MADE?

Come here to mamma, and I’ll tell you, dear boy--
For I think you never have guessed--
How many poor animals we must employ
Before little George can be dressed.

The pretty sheep gives you the wool from his sides,
To make you a jacket to use;
The goat or the calf must be stripped of their hides,
To give you these nice little shoes.

And then the shy beaver contributes his share,
With the rabbit, to give you a hat,
For this must be made of their delicate hair;
And so you may thank them for that.

Then as the poor creatures thus suffer to give
So much for the comfort of man,
I think ’tis but right, that as long as they live
We should treat them as well as we can.

THE LITTLE FISH

“Dear mother,” said a little fish,
“Pray is not that a fly?
I’m very hungry, and I wish
You’d let me go and try.”

“Sweet innocent,” the mother cried,
And started from her nook,
“That horrid fly is put to hide
The sharpness of the hook.”

Now, as I’ve heard, this little trout
Was young and foolish too,
And so he thought he’d venture out
To see if it were true.

And round about the hook he played,
With many a longing look,
And, “Dear me,” to himself he said,
“I’m sure that’s not a _hook_.

“I can but give one little pluck:
Let’s see, and so I will.”
So on he went, and lo, it stuck
Quite through his little gill.

And as he faint and fainter grew,
With hollow voice he cried,
“Dear mother, had I minded you,
I need not now have died.”

THE REINDEER AND THE RABBIT

_Mary._--I wish I were a reindeer,
To gallop o’er the snow;
Over frosty Lapland drear
So merrily I’d go.

_Beth._--A little rabbit I would be,
With fur so soft and sleek,
And timid ears raised prettily,
And looks so very meek.

_Mary._--But then some sly and cruel rat
Would find your burrow out;
Or else the furious old gray cat
Might scratch your peepers out.

_Beth._—’Tis true they might, but don’t you know
The reindeer’s wretched lot?
His dinner and his bed are snow,
And supper he has not.

_Mary._--But then he is so useful, Beth,
His masters love him so!
Dear creatures, they do all they can,
And are content with snow.

THE PET LAMB

The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;
I heard a voice; it said, “Drink, pretty creature, drink!”
And looking o’er the hedge, before me I espied
A snow-white mountain lamb with a maiden by its side.

Nor sheep nor kine were near; the lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone;
With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel,
While to that mountain lamb she gave its evening meal.

The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took,
Seemed to feast with head and ears; his tail with pleasure shook.
“Drink, pretty creature, drink,” she said in such a tone
That I almost received her heart into my own.

’Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare!
I watched them with delight; they were a lovely pair.
Now with her empty can the maiden turned away,
But ere ten yards were gone, her footsteps did she stay.

Right toward the lamb she looked; and from a shady place
I, unobserved, could see the workings of her face.
If nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring,
Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid might sing:—

“What ails thee, young one, what? Why pull so at thy cord?
Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and board?
Thy plot of grass is soft, as green as grass can be;
Rest, little young one, rest; what is’t that aileth thee?

“What is it thou wouldst seek? What is wanting to thy heart?
Thy limbs, are they not strong? and beautiful thou art.
This grass is tender grass, these flowers they have no peers,
And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears.

“If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woolen chain--
This beech is standing by--its covert thou canst gain.
For rain and mountain storms, the like thou needst not fear;
The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here.

“Rest, little young one, rest; thou hast forgot the day
When my father found thee first in places far away;
Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none,
And thy mother from thy side forevermore was gone.

He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home--
A blessèd day for thee!--then whither wouldst thou roam?
A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee yean
Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could have been.

“Thou knowst that twice a day I have brought thee in this can
Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran;
And twice within the day, when the ground is wet with dew,
I bring thee draughts of milk--warm milk it is and new.

“Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now;
Then I’ll yoke thee to my cart, like a pony to the plow;
My playmate thou shalt be, and when the wind is cold,
Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.

“It will not, cannot rest!--Poor creature, can it be
That ’tis thy mother’s heart which is working so in thee?
Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,
And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear.

“Alas! the mountain-tops that look so green and fair!
I’ve heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there.
The little brooks, that seem all pastime and all play,
When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.

“Here thou needst not dread the raven in the sky;
Both night and day thou’rt safe--our cottage is hard by.
Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain?
Sleep--and at break of day I will come to thee again.”

—_Wordsworth._

THE GREAT OUTDOORS

The purple-headed mountain,
The river, running by,
The morning and the sunset
That lighteth up the sky--

He gave us eyes to see them,
And lips that we might tell
How great is God Almighty,
Who hath made all things well.

THE GREAT OUTDOORS

THROUGH THE YEAR

SPRING

With March comes in the pleasant spring,
When little birds begin to sing;
To build their nests, to hatch their brood,
With tender care provide them food.

SUMMER

And summer comes with verdant June;
The flowers then are in full bloom,
All nature smiles, the fields look gay;
The weather’s fine to make the hay.

AUTUMN

September comes: the golden corn
By many busy hands is shorn;
Autumn’s ripe fruits, an ample store,
Are gathered in for rich and poor.

WINTER

Winter’s cold frost and northern blast--
This is the season that comes last:
The snow has come, the sleigh-bells ring,
And merry boys rejoice and sing.

THE SNOW

Oh, see! the snow is falling now,
It powders all the trees;
Its flakes abound, and all around
They float upon the breeze.

’Tis snowing fast, and cold the blast,
But yet I hope ’twill stay:
Oh, see it blow the falling snow
In meadows far away.

Jack Frost is near, we feel him here,
He’s on his icy sled;
And covered deep, the flowers sleep
Beneath their snowy bed.

Come out and play, this winter day,
Amid the falling snow;
Come, young and old, nor fear the cold,
Nor howling winds that blow.

SNOWFLAKES[3]

Whene’er a snowflake leaves the sky,
It turns and turns to say “Good-by!
Good-by, dear clouds, so cool and gray!”
Then lightly travels on its way.

And when a snowflake finds a tree,
“Good-day!” it says--“Good-day to thee!
Thou art so bare and lonely, dear,
I’ll rest and call my comrades here.”

But when a snowflake, brave and meek,
Lights on a rosy maiden’s cheek,
It starts--“How warm and soft the day!
’Tis summer!”--and it melts away.

[3] FROM ALONG THE WAY. Copyright, 1879, by Mary Mapes Dodge. Published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.

JACK FROST

The Frost looked forth on a still, clear night,
And whispered, “Now, I shall be out of sight;
So through the valley and over the height
In silence I’ll take my way.
I will not go on like that blustering train,
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
That make such a bustle and noise in vain;
But I’ll be as busy as they!”

So he flew to the mountain and powdered its crest;
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed
With diamonds and pearls; and over the breast
Of the quivering lake he spread
A coat of mail, that it need not fear
The glittering point of many a spear
Which he hung on its margin, far and near,
Where a rock could rear its head.

He went to the window of those who slept,
And over each pane like a fairy crept:
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped,
By the light of the morn were seen
Most beautiful things--there were flowers and trees,
There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees;
There were cities and temples and towers; and these
All pictured in silvery sheen!