V THE INGLENOOK

O Fortunate, O happy day, When a new household finds its place Among the myriad homes of earth, Like a new star just sprung to birth, And rolled on its harmonious way Into the boundless realms of space! * * * * Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. From "The Hanging of the Crane."

For there are two heavens, sweet, Both made of love,—one, inconceivable Ev'n by the other, so divine it is; The other, far on this side of the stars, By men called home. Leigh Hunt.

Say, what is the spell, when her fledglings are cheeping, That lures the bird home to her nest? Or wakes the tired mother, whose infant is weeping, To cuddle and croon it to rest? What the magic that charms the glad babe in her arms, Till it cooes with the voice of the dove? 'Tis a secret, and so let us whisper it low— And the name of the secret is Love! For I think it is Love, For I feel it is Love, For I'm sure it is nothing but Love! Say, whence is the voice that when anger is burning, Bids the whirl of the tempest to cease? That stirs the vexed soul with an aching—a yearning For the brotherly hand-grip of peace? Whence the music that fills all our being—that thrills Around us, beneath, and above? 'Tis a secret: none knows how it comes, or it goes— But the name of the secret is Love! For I think it is Love, For I feel it is Love, For I'm sure it is nothing but Love! Say, whose is the skill that paints valley and hill, Like a picture so fair to the sight? That flecks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow, Till the little lambs leap with delight? 'Tis a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold, Though 'tis sung, by the angels above, In notes that ring clear for the ears that can hear— And the name of the secret is Love! For I think it is Love, For I feel it is Love, For I'm sure it is nothing but Love! Lewis Carroll.

My heart is like a fountain true That flows and flows with love to you. As chirps the lark unto the tree So chirps my pretty babe to me. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby. There's not a rose where'er I seek, As comely as my baby's cheek. There's not a comb of honey-bee, So full of sweets as babe to me. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby. There's not a star that shines on high, Is brighter than my baby's eye. There's not a boat upon the sea, Can dance as baby does to me. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby. No silk was ever spun so fine As is the hair of baby mine— My baby smells more sweet to me Than smells in spring the elder tree. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby. A little fish swims in the well, So in my heart does baby dwell. A little flower blows on the tree, My baby is the flower to me. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby. The Queen has sceptre, crown and ball, You are my sceptre, crown and all. For all her robes of royal silk, More fair your skin, as white as milk. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby. Ten thousand parks where deer run, Ten thousand roses in the sun, Ten thousand pearls beneath the sea, My baby more precious is to me. And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby. West of England Lullaby.

The bonniest bairn in a' the warl' Has skin like the drifted snaw, An' rosy wee cheeks sae saft an' sleek— There never was ither sic twa; Its een are just bonnie wee wander'd stars, Its leggies are plump like a farl, An' ilk ane maun see't, an' a' maun declare't The cleverest bairn, The daintiest bairn, The rosiest, cosiest, cantiest bairn, The dearest, queerest, Rarest, fairest, Bonniest bairn in a' the warl'. The bonniest bairn in a' the warl' Ye ken whaur the ferlie lives? It's doon in yon howe, it's owre yon knowe— In the laps o' a thousand wives; It's up an' ayont in yon castle brent, The heir o' the belted earl; It's sookin' its thoomb in yon gipsy tent— The cleverest bairn, The daintiest bairn, The rosiest, cosiest, cantiest bairn, The dearest, queerest, Rarest, fairest, Bonniest bairn in a' the warl'. * * * * Robert Ford.

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, Wi' muckle faucht an' din; Oh, try an' sleep, ye waukrife rogues, Your father's comin' in. They never heed a word I speak; I try to gi'e a froon, But aye I hap them up, an' cry, "O, bairnies, cuddle doon." Wee Jamie wi' the curly heid— He aye sleeps neist the wa', Bangs up an' cries, "I want a piece"; The rascal starts them a'. I rin an' fetch them pieces, drinks, They stop awee the soun'; Then draw the blankets up and cry, "Noo, weanies, cuddle doon." But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab Cries oot frae 'neath the claes, "Mither, mak' Tam gie ower at ance— He's kittlin' wi' his taes." The mischief's in that Tam for tricks, He'd bother half the toon: But aye I hap them up an' cry, "O, bairnies, cuddle doon." At length they hear their father's fit, An', as he steeks the door, They turn their faces to the wa', While Tam pretends to snore. "Hae a' the weans been gude?" he asks, As he pits aff his shoon; "The bairnies, John, are in their beds, An' lang since cuddled doon." An' just afore we bed oorsel's, We look at oor wee lambs; Tam has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck, An' Rab his airm roun' Tam's. I lift wee Jamie up the bed, An', as I straik each croon, I whisper, till my heart fills up, "O, bairnies, cuddle doon." The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, Wi' mirth that's dear to me; But sune the big warl's cark an' care Will quaten doon their glee. Yet come what will to ilka ane, May He who sits aboon Aye whisper, though their pows be bauld, "O, bairnies, cuddle doon." Alexander Anderson.

The world is great: the birds all fly from me, The stars are golden fruit upon a tree All out of reach: my little sister went, And I am lonely. The world is great: I tried to mount the hill Above the pines, where the light lies so still, But it rose higher: little Lisa went And I am lonely. The world is great: the wind comes rushing by, I wonder where it comes from; sea birds cry And hurt my heart: my little sister went, And I am lonely. The world is great: the people laugh and talk, And make loud holiday: how fast they walk! I'm lame, they push me: little Lisa went, And I am lonely. George Eliot. From "The Spanish Gypsy."

But were another childhood-world my share, I would be born a little sister there.

I I cannot choose but think upon the time When our two lives grew like two buds that kiss At lightest thrill from the bee's swinging chime, Because the one so near the other is. He was the elder and a little man Of forty inches, bound to show no dread, And I the girl that puppy-like now ran, Now lagged behind my brother's larger tread. I held him wise, and when he talked to me Of snakes and birds, and which God loved the best, I thought his knowledge marked the boundary Where men grew blind, though angels knew the rest. If he said "Hush!" I tried to hold my breath; Wherever he said "Come!" I stepped in faith. II Long years have left their writing on my brow, But yet the freshness and the dew-fed beam Of those young mornings are about me now, When we two wandered toward the far-off stream With rod and line. Our basket held a store Baked for us only, and I thought with joy That I should have my share, though he had more, Because he was the elder and a boy. The firmaments of daisies since to me Have had those mornings in their opening eyes, The bunchéd cowslip's pale transparency Carries that sunshine of sweet memories, And wild-rose branches take their finest scent From those blest hours of infantine content. III Our mother bade us keep the trodden ways, Stroked down my tippet, set my brother's frill, Then with the benediction of her gaze Clung to us lessening, and pursued us still Across the homestead to the rookery elms, Whose tall old trunks had each a grassy mound, So rich for us, we counted them as realms With varied products: here were earth-nuts found, And here the Lady-fingers in deep shade; Here sloping toward the Moat the rushes grew, The large to split for pith, the small to braid; While over all the dark rooks cawing flew, And made a happy strange solemnity, A deep-toned chant from life unknown to me. * * * * IX We had the selfsame world enlarged for each By loving difference of girl and boy: The fruit that hung on high beyond my reach He plucked for me, and oft he must employ A measuring glance to guide my tiny shoe Where lay firm stepping-stones, or call to mind "This thing I like my sister may not do, For she is little, and I must be kind." Thus boyish Will the nobler mastery learned Where inward vision over impulse reigns, Widening its life with separate life discerned, A Like unlike, a Self that self restrains. His years with others must the sweeter be For those brief days he spent in loving me. * * * * George Eliot.

O Falmouth is a fine town with ships in the bay, And I wish from my heart it's there I was to-day; I wish from my heart I was far away from here, Sitting in my parlour and talking to my dear. For it's home, dearie, home—it's home I want to be. Our topsails are hoisted, and we'll away to sea. O the oak and the ash and the bonnie birken tree They're all growing green in the old countree. In Baltimore a-walking a lady I did meet With her babe on her arm as she came down the street; And I thought how I sailed, and the cradle standing ready For the pretty little babe that has never seen its daddie. And it's home, dearie, home,— O, if it be a lass, she shall wear a golden ring; And if it be a lad, he shall fight for his king; With his dirk and his hat and his little jacket blue He shall walk the quarter-deck as his daddie used to do. And it's home, dearie, home,— O, there's a wind a-blowing, a-blowing from the west, And that of all the winds is the one I like the best, For it blows at our backs, and it shakes our pennon free, And it soon will blow us home to the old countree. For it's home, dearie, home—it's home I want to be. Our topsails are hoisted, and we'll away to sea. O the oak and the ash and the bonnie birken tree They're all growing green in the old countree. William Ernest Henley.

Over the mountains And over the waves, Under the fountains And under the graves; Under floods that are deepest, Which Neptune obey, Over rocks that are steepest, Love will find out the way. Where there is no place For the glow-worm to lie, Where there is no space For receipt of a fly; Where the midge dares not venture Lest herself fast she lay, If Love come, he will enter And will find out the way. * * * * Old English.

And are ye sure the news is true? And are ye sure he's weel? Is this a time to think o' wark? Ye jades, lay by your wheel; Is this the time to spin a thread. When Colin's at the door? Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay, And see him come ashore. For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck at a'; There's little pleasure in the house When our gudeman's awa. And gie to me my bigonet, My bishop's satin gown; For I maun tell the baillie's wife That Colin's in the town. My Turkey slippers maun gae on, My stockins pearly blue; It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, For he's baith leal and true. Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, Put on the muckle pot; Gie little Kate her button gown And Jock his Sunday coat; And mak their shoon as black as slaes, Their hose as white as snaw; It's a' to please my ain gudeman, For he's been long awa. There's twa fat hens upo' the coop Been fed this month and mair; Mak haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare; And spread the table neat and clean, Gar ilka thing look braw, For wha can tell how Colin fared When he was far awa? Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller air; His very foot has music in't As he comes up the stair. And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, In troth I'm like to greet! If Colin's weel, and weel content, I hae nae mair to crave; And gin I live to keep him sae, I'm blest aboon the lave: And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, In troth I'm like to greet. For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck at a'; There's little pleasure in the house When our gudeman's awa. William J. Mickle.

Over the hill the farm-boy goes. His shadow lengthens along the land, A giant staff in a giant hand; In the poplar-tree, above the spring, The katydid begins to sing; The early dews are falling;— Into the stone-heap darts the mink; The swallows skim the river's brink; And home to the woodland fly the crows, When over the hill the farm-boy goes, Cheerily calling, "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" Farther, farther, over the hill, Faintly calling, calling still, "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!" Into the yard the farmer goes, With grateful heart, at the close of day: Harness and chain are hung away; In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plough, The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow, The cooling dews are falling;— The friendly sheep his welcome bleat, The pigs come grunting to his feet, And the whinnying mare her master knows, When into the yard the farmer goes, His cattle calling,— "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" While still the cow-boy, far away, Goes seeking those that have gone astray,— "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!" Now to her task the milkmaid goes. The cattle come crowding through the gate, Lowing, pushing, little and great; About the trough, by the farm-yard pump, The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump, While the pleasant dews are falling;— The new milch heifer is quick and shy, But the old cow waits with tranquil eye, And the white stream into the bright pail flows, When to her task the milkmaid goes, Soothingly calling, "So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!" The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, And sits and milks in the twilight cool. Saying "So! so, boss! so! so!" To supper at last the farmer goes. The apples are pared, the paper read, The stories are told, then all to bed. Without, the crickets' ceaseless song Makes shrill the silence all night long; The heavy dews are falling. The housewife's hand has turned the lock; Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock; The household sinks to deep repose, But still in sleep the farm-boy goes Singing, calling,— "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams, Drums in the pail with the flashing streams, Murmuring "So, boss! so!" John Townsend Trowbridge.

Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest; Home-keeping hearts are happiest, For those that wander they know not where Are full of trouble and full of care, To stay at home is best. Weary and homesick and distressed, They wander east, they wander west, And are baffled, and beaten and blown about By the winds of the wilderness of doubt; To stay at home is best. Then stay at home, my heart, and rest; The bird is safest in its nest: O'er all that flutter their wings and fly A hawk is hovering in the sky; To stay at home is best. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

I A baby's feet, like seashells pink, Might tempt, should heaven see meet, An angel's lips to kiss, we think,— A baby's feet. Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heat They stretch and spread and wink Their ten soft buds that part and meet. No flower-bells that expand and shrink Gleam half so heavenly sweet, As shine on life's untrodden brink,— A baby's feet. II A baby's hands, like rosebuds furled, Where yet no leaf expands, Ope if you touch, though close upcurled,— A baby's hands. Then, even as warriors grip their brands When battle's bolt is hurled, They close, clenched hard like tightening bands. No rose-buds yet by dawn impearled Match, even in loveliest lands, The sweetest flowers in all the world,— A baby's hands. III A baby's eyes, ere speech begin, Ere lips learn words or sighs, Bless all things bright enough to win A baby's eyes. Love while the sweet thing laughs and lies, And sleep flows out and in, Sees perfect in them Paradise! Their glance might cast out pain and sin, Their speech make dumb the wise, By mute glad godhead felt within A baby's eyes. Algernon Charles Swinburne.

———A simple child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death? I met a little cottage girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad: Her eyes were fair, and very fair;— Her beauty made me glad. "Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be?" "How many? Seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me. "And where are they? I pray you tell." She answered, "Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea. "Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the churchyard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother." "You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell, Sweet Maid, how this may be." Then did the little maid reply, "Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the churchyard lie, Beneath the churchyard tree." "You run about, my little Maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the churchyard laid Then ye are only five." "Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little Maid replied, "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. "My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit And sing a song to them. "And often after sunset, Sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer And eat my supper there. "The first that died was sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away. "So in the churchyard she was laid; And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I. "And when the ground was white with snow And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." "How many are you, then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?" Quick was the little Maid's reply, "O Master! we are seven." "But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!" 'Twas throwing words away: for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!" William Wordsworth.