GARDEN SONGS. (continued 2)

Bother! was all John Clatterby said. His breath came quick, and his cheek was red, He flourished his elbows, and looked absurd, While, over and over, his "Bother!" I heard. Harder and harder the fellow worked, Vainly and savagely still he jerked; The boot, half on, would dangle and flap— "Oh bother!" and then he broke the strap. Redder than ever his hot cheek flamed; Harder than ever he fumed and blamed; He wriggled his heel, and tugged at the leather Till knees and chin came bumping together. "My boy!" said I, in a voice like a flute, "Why not—ahem!—try the mate of that boot; Or the other foot?"—"I'm a goose," laughed John, As he stood, in a flash, with his two boots on. In half the affairs Of this busy life (As that same day I said to my wife), Our troubles come From trying to put The left-hand shoe On the right-hand foot, Or vice versa (Meaning, reverse, sir). To try to force, As quite of course, Any wrong foot In the right shoe, Is the silliest thing A man can do.

Old man with the hour-glass, halt! halt! I pray— Don't you see you are taking my children away? My own little babies who came long ago, You stole them, old man with the beard white as snow! My beautiful babies, so bonny and bright! Where have you carried them far out of sight? Oh, dimpled their cheeks were, and sunny their hair! But I cannot find them; I've searched everywhere. My three-year-old toddlers, they shouted in glee; They sported about me; they sat on my knee. Oh, their prattle and laughter were silvery rain! Old man, must I list for their voices in vain? They were here; they were gone while their kisses were warm. I scarce knew the hour when they slipped from my arm— Oh! where was I looking when peerless and sweet, They followed the track of your echoless feet? My brave little school-boys who ran in and out, And lifted the air with their song and their shout; My boys on the coldest days ever aglow, My dear, romping school-boys who bothered me so. There were two of them then; and one of the two— Ah! I never was watchful enough—followed you. My chubby-faced darling, my kite-flying pet— Alack! all his playthings are lying here yet. And the other. O Time! do not take him away! For a few precious years, I implore, let him stay. I love him—I need him—my blessing and joy! You have had all the rest: leave me one little boy! He halts! He will stop! No; the fall of the sand In the hour-glass deceived me. It seemed at a stand. But whom have we here? Jamie! Harry! how? why Just as many as ever—and Time passing by? I can hardly believe it. But surely it's clear My babies, my toddlers, my school-boys are here! And I've two great big fellows (one lithe and one tall) Besides all the rest—and more precious than all, Jamie, my bouncer, my man-boy, my pride! Harry, my sunbeam, whatever betide; Both of them, all of them, dozens in two— Crowds of my children are standing in view! Move on, then, O Time! I have nothing to say, You have left me far more than you've taken away. And yet I would whisper a word ere you go: You've a year of my Harry's—the last one, you know— How does it rank among those that have flown? Was it worthily used when he called it his own? God filled it with happiness, comfort, and health— Did my darling use rightly its Love-given wealth? No answer in words. Yet it really did seem That the sand sparkled lightly—the scythe sent a gleam. Is it answer and promise? God grant it be so, From that silent old man with the beard white as snow.

A pig scrambled up from his slumbers, And grunted with rage at the lark: "Why must you begin your loud carol Before we are out of the dark?" "Good sir," said the lark, as he flitted Right gayly from blossom to bud, "Look up to the sky for your morning— It never begins in the mud!"

'Twas a lonely bog, With a boy and frog On the marsh's brink. "I'll kill him!" cried the boy. In fact He leaned to do the dreadful act,— When lo! a splash! And in a flash Did froggie think: Too true He meant to do Some harm to me, But then, you see To mock him now would not be kind, Lest he should drown. I'll just go down And tickle his ears To calm his fears And let him know that I didn't mind.

Soon, a dripping, sobbing, muddy boy Ran home across that lonesome bog; While placidly smiling on the shore Squatted that thoroughly well-meaning frog.

Oho! have you seen the Frost-King, A-marching up the hill? His hoary face is stern and pale, His touch is icy chill. He sends the birdlings to the South, He bids the brooks be still; Yet not in wrath or cruelty He marches up the hill. He will often rest at noontime, To see the sunbeams play; And flash his spears of icicles, Or let them melt away. He'll toss the snow-flakes in the air, Nor let them go nor stay; Then hold his breath while swift they fall, That coasting boys may play. He'll touch the brooks and rivers wide, That skating crowds may shout; He'll make the people far and near Remember he's about. He'll send his nimble, frosty Jack— Without a shade of doubt— To do all kinds of merry pranks, And call the children out; He'll sit upon the whitened fields, And reach his icy hand O'er houses where the sudden cold Folks cannot understand. The very moon, that ventures forth From clouds so soft and grand, Will stare to see the stiffened look That settles o'er the land.

And so the Frost-King o'er the hills, And o'er the startled plain, Will come and go from year to year Till Earth grows young again— Till Time himself shall cease to be, Till gone are hill and plain: Whenever Winter comes to stay, The hoary King shall reign.

The summer is coming—hurrah! Old winter has gone for good. The summer is coming—hurrah! hurrah! The birdies are in the wood. The chickens are coming—hurrah! Hear how the old hen clucks: The chickens are coming—hurrah! hurrah! And the queer little turkeys and ducks. The tad-poles are coming—hurrah! With their comical, wriggling tails: The tad-poles are coming—hurrah! hurrah! Like little mites of whales. The crickets are coming—hurrah! And katydids always so funny: And fire-flies too—hurrah! hurrah! And bumble-bees laden with honey. The ant-hills are coming—hurrah! What fun to see them rise: The ant-hills are coming—hurrah! hurrah! They're growing before our eyes.

The daisies are coming—hurrah! We'll weave them in many a chain: The daisies are coming—hurrah! hurrah! The daisies are coming again! The cherries are coming—hurrah! And apples and peaches and plums: The fruit is a-coming—hurrah! hurrah! We'll feast on it when it comes. The swallows are coming—hurrah! There'll be lots of birds in the sky; The swallows are coming—hurrah! hurrah! We'll whoop at them as they fly. The corn-fields are coming—hurrah! So green and waving and high: The corn-fields are coming—hurrah! hurrah! We'll hide in them by-and-by. The summer is coming—hurrah! We can bathe and swim and dive: The summer is coming—hurrah! hurrah! Oh! it's jolly to be alive! It's jolly to live—hurrah! Let us all be good and glad: It's the grandest world—hurrah! hurrah! That ever we children have had.

Baby Nell had ten little toes, Baby Nell had two little hose, She always stared when the hose went on, And thought her ten little toes were gone.

Mamma, what's zis on my ap'on? Nassy ap'on make me ky; Naughty ap'on awfu' 'ticky— Puttin' 'lasses in my eye. Go 'way, B'idget! P'ease don't wass me (Don't want on no pooty d'esses), Dim me nudder piece of tandy, Den I be oor 'ittle pres-sus. Mamma, see, zis naughty soo-string Make poor Damie tumble down, It's all b'oke—I want my Pop-pa Buy me nudder, 'way down town. Mamma, see zis funny tup! Damie hit it wiz his hammer. Dess it's b'oke. Don't yip me, Mamma, If oo do, I tell my Damma. Mamma, dess I dettin s'eepy; Don't make Damie tate a nap; Tell me pooty 'tory, Mamma— Tate poor Damie on oor lap. Pooty Mamma, b'essed Mamma— (Want a d'ink out Damie's mug?) O dat button hurt me dreffel! Dat's yight, Mamma—dim me hug!

How did they learn that their ways were small? Jean and Kitty— How did they know they were scorned by all? Jean and Kitty. Why, they listened one day, at a neighbor's blinds, And heard the family speak their minds— What a pity!

Not long ago, I wandered near A play-ground in the wood, And there heard a thing from youthful lips That I've never understood: "Now let the old cat die!" he laughed; I saw him give a push, Then gayly scamper away as he spied My face peep over the bush. But what he pushed, or where it went, I could not well make out, On account of the thicket of bending boughs That bordered the place about. "The little villain has stoned a cat, Or hung it upon a limb, And left it to die all alone," I said; "But I'll play the mischief with him." I forced my way between the boughs, The poor old cat to seek, And what did I find but a swinging child, With her bright hair brushing her cheek. Her bright hair floated to and fro, Her red little dress flashed by,

But the liveliest thing of all, I thought, Was the gleam of her laughing eye. Swinging and swaying back and forth, With the rose-light in her face, She seemed like a bird and a flower in one, And the wood her native place. "Steady! I'll send you up, my child," But she stopped me with a cry: "Go 'way! go 'way! Don't touch me, please— I'm letting the old cat die!" "You, letting him die?" I cried, aghast; "Why, where is the cat, my dear?" And lo! the laughter that filled the woods Was a thing for the birds to hear. "Why, don't you know," said the little maid, The flitting, beautiful elf, "That we call it 'letting the old cat die' When the swing stops all itself?" Then floating and swinging, and looking back With merriment in her eye, She bade me "good-day," and I left her alone, A-letting the old cat die.

Boys and girls, come riddle and ravel, Tell us how you would like to travel. Crispy, crackly, snow and tingle, "Give me sleighs!" said Jenny Jingle. Stony, bumpty, bang and bolter, "Give me carts!" said Johnny Jolter. Slidy, glidy, jerky whiff-ter, "Give me cars!" cried Sally Swifter. Flipetty, cricketty, elegant go, "Give me a buggy!" said Benjamin Beau. "A fig for them all!" cried Trotty Malone, "Give me a stout pair of legs of my own!"

Don't trust Chatter, who whispers low, And tells you stories of Prue and Joe. Be sure when he whispers to Joe and Prue, He'll tell them many a tale of you.

Once on a still December night, In the freezing, wintry weather, Two little stockings, red and white, Were softly talking together. Firelight flashed in the darkened room, Shadows were sliding and creeping Over the beds where, half in the gloom, Two little children were sleeping. "Hark ye!" said White in a whisper low, "I fancy, Red, by your bulging so, You come from some plump little baby-leg— If I'm mistaken, your pardon I beg." "That's so," said Red, "for she kicked me off This very day (and she'll have a cough, As sure as I'm knit, for her careless ways— A cough that may trouble her all her days). "But you? Ah! you look so fair and trim, You came from some little royal limb, With your dainty heading of daisy pink— At least so an humble sock would think." "Hoho!" said White. "Don't you know me, Red? Why, there's my owner in yonder bed— Yours in the cradle and mine in the crib; And mine is the bigger, or else I fib. "But bless me, Red, I care not a fig, Though yours be little and mine be big; Soon shall we hang in equal pride From yonder mantel side by side. "Down the chimney a figure will bound— Old Saint Nicholas, funny and round; And, stuffing as though he never would stop, He'll fill us with good things up to the top." "Hurrah!" cried Red, "and well for me That I bulge in the ankle and foot, you see." "And well for me," said White, "that I, Though narrow and slim, am long and high. "But, Red, after all, we needn't care, Though in shape and room we're not a pair; For the cradle and crib hold sisters, you see, And the crib will give to the cradle from me. "If I hold more and you hold less, The babies'll make it even, I guess." "That's so," said Red, "but I quite despair When you hang so grand on the back of a chair." "Pooh, pooh!" said White, "don't think of that— Think of the hours that I'm folded flat; And how often, when shoe-pegs pierce me through, I long to be woolen and thick like you." "That's so," said Red—'twas his pet reply— "But then I take so long to dry! It's very unpleasant to be so thick— Besides, I'm just as red as a brick." "My friend," said White, with an anxious sigh, "How quickly your troubles multiply! I really think" (here he gave a cough) "It affects your spirits—to be kicked off."

"That's so," said Red again—"I feel Just good for nothing from toe to heel. She kicks me off, till I'm almost dead, I'd die of the blues if I wasn't so red." "Come, neighbor, cheer up!" said White in distress; "We're only stockings, I must confess; Yet we suit the feet that are wearing us out, So there really is nothing to worry about. "The worst that stockings or children can do Is to hold the dark side always in view. This fretting and fussing, dear Red, is shocking. I know it is; though I'm only a stocking. "And think how grand it will be, dear Red— Or how glad we shall feel, I should have said— When on Christmas morning, after their sleep, Our dear little owners into us peep." "That's so!" cried the other. "Away with folly, For the rest of my days I mean to be jolly. She may kick me off—the dear little tot— Whenever she pleases; I'll mind it not. "Christmas is coming! that's so! that's so! And then I'll be somebody—won't I, though? By the way, old White, I wish it were day, So she'd put me on, and frolic and play." White laughed with joy, and said, "All right. You've come to your senses now. Good-night." And so all quiet and peaceful they lay Till the children awoke at break of day.

Ha, ha! little toddlekins—cash did you say? You shall have it, my boys. For racket and noise, Crackers and powder, Louder and louder, Shall bang and resound on the glorious day! Here's a dollar for Johnny, a dollar for Paul. And you, little Dick, Come to father my chick! Now that's for a pack, And that's for a pack, And that's for torpedoes and snappers and all! Now Robbie and Willie,—you boys with "real" pockets; Ha, ha! I declare. Shall I put it in there? Hear it dropping, co-chunk! What! you want more for punk? Here it is. And I'll see to the pin-wheels and rockets. Of course, you all know of the great Declaration That made us as free As a country could be. On that glorious Fourth, East, West, South, and North Were proclaimed a United American Nation! How our forefathers bled,—they, the mighty and wroth! To make us all free,— Yes, you, boys, and me. Though you can't understand How they wrestled and planned, You can honor them, boys, and remember the Fourth. Be off with your money! To-morrow's the word! Hold, Johnny, here's more To divide 'twixt you four. And Dick, here's a dime,— Hurrah! What a time! We'll have such a racket as never was heard!

When I am big, I mean to buy A dozen platters of pumpkin-pie, A barrel of nuts, to have 'em handy, And fifty pounds of sugar-candy. When I am big, I mean to wear A long-tailed coat, and crop my hair; I'll buy a paper, and read the news, And sit up late whenever I choose.

Wind for the tree-top, sun for the spear; Johnny will be a big boy in a year. When he is big he can battle the storm; While he is little, we'll wrap him up warm.

"Here's plenty of shells and clay and water, Make me some nice mud-pies, my daughter." "Oh! yes, mamma—and the sun is hot, I can heat my oven as well as not. If you will take, why, I will make— Pit 'em and pat 'em and set 'em to bake."

O mamma! look, cried little Bell Dreer; There's a girl in the cover like me; And whenever I move she looks so queer; It's so funny—I never did see! Why, she makes a face if I turn my cheek; She makes a face if I wink. Oh! her hair runs off, and she tries to speak; Why, she's frightened at me, I think! Come out little girl, and see my doll; Come out of the shine and play. I haven't a bit of a sister at all, And my dolly is sick to-day. My dolly is sick, and my book is torn, And my hair has got to be curled; And mother is reading. It's real forlorn To be all alone in the world. Come out, little girl. Oh! I wish you would. [You mustn't make faces that way.] I'd lift you out of the shine if I could, And play with you all the whole day.

As soon as I take my degree As a classical scholar perfected, No sharp politician I'll be, Asking favors of all the elected. No learned profession my plan, Nor trade, till my courage is blunter; For surely, deny it who can? The greatest of men is the hunter!

There's Cummings the bold lion-tamer, And fearless, undaunted Gérard, And Baldwin, by tigers made lamer, And Speke with his cámelopard. And one of those days 't will be Tremble,— Most famous of all, I'll be bound,— The great lion-crusher, young Tremble, None equal to him the world round. Already, I've tested my mettle: No cat but will flee at my tread; And let a mosquito but settle And nip me—that instant he's dead! Know also that only this morning A terrible peril I met, While taking a ramble—no warning— (That hour shall I ever forget?) I was longing at heart for a rifle, And a chance for some wonderful shot (A lion seemed then a mere trifle, I would rather encounter than not), When, presto! a horrible creature Came buzzing and diving at me, Aiming straight at my favorite feature— A horrible, black bumble-bee! A horrible black humble bumble, Bound straight for my beautiful nose; For an instant (I'll own) I did tumble, But quickly in majesty rose. Each childish emotion I swallowed, Moving onward as fast as I could; The great buzzing monster, he followed Till we came to a shadowy wood. Ha! what was that sharp thrill of anguish, And what the great swelling that came? And why was I rushing and shouting— The whole of my face in a flame? I knew that the buzzing was louder, That my nose was as big as my head; I wanted to grind him to powder; I wished him a thousand times dead! Blind battle! my ev'ry-day jacket Was tighter than steel coat of mail, And the monster kept up such a racket, I scarce knew his head from his tail. He, plunging and wheeling and darting And pitching and screeching at me; I, maddened with burning and smarting— What wonder I dodged by a tree! What wonder that soon, in his frenzy, My murderous foe bumped his head! The tree never tumbled nor tottered, But he fell co-chunk in its stead. Then I turned, in a terrible passion, And stamped with my full might and main: I stamped in the sledge-hammer fashion,— My bee never bumbled again! Then why should I not be a hunter, So gallant and fearless and spry? What other vocation would answer For such a brave fellow as I? Ah! woe to the beasts of the forest! And woe to all monsters with wings! As soon as my studies are over, I mean to do terrible things.

Hark! hark! O my children, hark! When the sky has lost its blue What do the stars sing in the dark? "We must sparkle, sparkle, through." What do leaves say in the storm, Tossed in whispering heaps, together? "We can keep the violets warm 'Till they wake in fairer weather." What do happy birdies say, Flitting through the gloomy wood? "We must sing the gloom away— Sun or shadow, God is good."

Two little sisters, one little brother, Five little kittens, and one cat mother. One little kit is tossed up overhead, One little kit is put upon the bed; One very little cat, solemn as a fish, One great big cat is feeding from a dish. Two little kitty-kits seated on the floor, Each little kitty-kit washing his own paw. One little pig-tail. Now, where is that? One little crown-piece; cap, is it, or hat? Four little blue eyes, and three little chicks; Five little kittens full of pretty tricks. Kitty-kits, pig-tail, blue eyes, and bed; Chicks, cat, and crown-piece top of baby's head; Dish, tricks, and downy paws being licked so clean, All, in the picture, are plainly to be seen.

Some are starving, some are filling, Some are lazy, and some are willing, Some are frowzy, and others are curled, It takes all kinds, sir, to make a world.

Give me your ear, good children all, I'm going to set up a terrible ball— A terrible ball that began to grow From only the least little speckle of snow. And, to make the lesson pointed and plain, I'll just remark that life, in the main, Is, etcet'ra—you know; and I hope you'll be good In future to show that you've understood.

Three lovely, little artless boys, All of them being mothers' joys, One day decided, in innocent mirth, To make a snow-ball as big as the earth. What makes the story more touching still, The big-eyed school-house on the hill Was in session, under the cross Miss Stookey, And these little boys were "playing hookey."

Hookey from Stookey, they worked with a will, And, from making a ball like a tiny pill, They rolled and rolled, till, no longer small, 'Twas big as Miss Stookey's waterfall. Then, like a pumpkin fair and round, They kept it rolling on the ground— Bigger, bigger, bigger, bigger, Bigger, bigger, bigger, bigger! The boys could hardly push it along, It grew so mighty stout and strong. Now, this mammoth ball that began as a pill, Was made, you must know, on top of a hill; This hill was so wonderful steep and high, That even the coasters would pass it by; And, saving a road by the cattle made, It sloped right down, at a fearful grade, To the meadow where stood a cottage red Where these little children were born and bred. "Halloo!" they cried, "let's have some fun, There's Stookey's pig as sure as a gun!" "Hooray! hooray!" cried the children three, Thus giving vent to their youthful glee. When—what do you think?—this ungrateful pill, That they'd made so big on top of the hill, With an air that said, "Now, I think I've got 'em!" Resolved to roll all the way to the bottom. The ball was swift, the ball was big, Alas for Stookey's innocent pig! Alas for lovers who walked that way, They ne'er in their lives forgot the day!

Alas for the learn'd Professor Gath Who happened to stroll in the snow-ball's path! And alas, alas for those children three, Who shouted and cheered in their pretty glee!

Rolling, growing, demolishing all, On and on went the terrible ball; It left the cattle down on their knees, It crushed the fences and bent the trees; Even the hay-stacks went ker-flop. It wouldn't turn, nor it wouldn't stop, But still rolled on in steady motion, Making a bee-line for the ocean! With laugh and shout and merry hoot, Those children followed in glad pursuit. "Hooray! hooray!" they cried again, And gave the chase with might and main; They gave the chase with main and might, But the terrible ball rolled out of sight. And now comes the saddest part of all. (Oh! that cruel, wicked, terrible ball!) When at last the three little artless boys, Tired of running and making a noise, Resolved to go home to their little bed, Where, oh! where was that cottage red? Where, oh! where? Ask the terrible ball— Never a home had those children small. Gone, clean gone! with picket and paling— And all their joy was turned to wailing!

Tell me, O youth so straight and tall, So glad with eager thought! Have you seen of late a bouncing boy Brimful of merry sport? Brimful of merry sport is he, A lad of fifteen summers, With velvet lip still smooth and fair, But a fist that awes all comers. He used to laugh with unconcern Whene'er a school-girl met him, Unconscious quite what wondrous power She'd have in time to fret him. He only cared for "fellows" then, And ball, and "tag," and "shinny," And thought a chap who brushed his hair Was just a fop or ninny. Somehow, I loved this bouncing boy, Because he was my own; I had him here a year ago, And don't know where he's flown. I don't know where he's flown, and yet Whenever you are near— It's very odd!—I'm reconciled, Because you grow so dear. You bear great likeness to my boy I think, and—strange the whim!— There's that in you which I have prayed Might come in time to him. Then if you'll stay, my dashing youth, And love me, like the other, I'll let him go, and, clasping you, Be still a happy mother. So hold me close, my bigger boy, My larger-hearted Harry, With broader shoulders, older head, And more of life to carry; Hold close, and whisper, heart to heart, Our Lord has blessed us truly, Since every year we love so well, And find it out so newly. With deepened joy and prayerful love All in the autumn's splendor, I hail you, boy of mine, and give A welcome proud and tender. 'Tis grand to take the birthdays in, If, while the years we're counting, In heart and soul, in hope and aim, We steadily keep mounting.

Three-year-old Willie, bare-footed Willie, Willie, with hair in a golden-thread tangle; Tottering Willie, self-helping Willie, Child in whom sweetness and poverty wrangle; Willie, whose mother toils in my kitchen; Willie, whose father carried a hod; Willie, whose childish disdain is bolder Than the pride of the emperor, favored of God— Why dost thou knock at my heart, little pauper, Bidding me love thee, entering there, Sitting beside little cherubs who blessed me, Thy manner half saucy, half debonair? With garments all tattered and soiled, little Willie, And face all begrimed? 'Tis not fitting, you know— Velvets and laces are mine, naughty Willie, And poor little boys should not come to me so. The chubby intruder, still wickedly smiling, And, ah! what a shout! (is he laughing at me? He surely can't take in a word I am saying) Now rushes upon me, and climbs to my knee. And though he is silent, I hear him quite plainly— To listening hearts a baby can speak— He tells me (while velvet and rags are blending And his unkempt hair is brushing my cheek): "I'm a poor little fellow, with no one to teach me; But my soul is a new one—fresh from God; And he gave it something so brave and holy It never can turn to an earthly clod. What though the gifts of the purse are denied me, Poverty need not look out of my eyes; Though it surround me, the bright world beyond it Neither its warmth nor its beauty denies. "The birds never sing, 'Little Willie is ragged!' Nor the flowers, 'He will soil us! Take him away!' But they're glad when I happen to look and to listen, And the sky is above me night and day. Did God make you richer because you were better? And what if my mother does cook for you, Isn't she cheerful? With half of her trials Would you be as patient, and willing, and true? "And what if my father, with hod and trowel, Carried and toiled the whole day long, Didn't he comfort my mother and love her? Didn't he cheer her with joke and song? I never saw him. One bright autumn morning, Just three years ago, he went to the war— Went out to battle for you and your country: And then he never came home any more. "Nevermore labored with hod and with trowel, Never came back with his joke and his song. Mother would know only working and weeping If I were not sunny and careless, and strong. She chides me and kisses me, beats me and blesses, And prays to the saints that her boy may be good; But for work, she would keep me as fresh as a daisy, Not ragged and soiled, in my babyhood."— Say no more, Willie! Mock me and love me! Into my heart enter blithesomely still. Bright little soldier's boy, poor little worker's boy, Shame to the coward who uses thee ill!

Bumble, bramble, which came first, sir, Eggs or chickens? Who can tell? I'll never believe that the first egg burst, sir, Before its mother was out of her shell.

One day, when the sun was going down, He said to a star hard by: "Sparkle your best; for you see, my friend, I'm going out of the sky." Now, the little star was old as the sun, Though rather small of his age, So he kept quite still in the yellow light, And looked as wise as a sage. "I'm going, you see!" cried the sun again, "Going right out of the sky!" And he slid away, but not out of sight Of that little star hard by. The little star, peeping, saw him go On his gorgeous western way; And twinkled with fun, as he said, "O Sun! You're in for another day! "And as for going out of the sky, Your majesty knows you can't; You are shining somewhere, full and strong, In spite of your rays aslant." No answer. Then the star grew bright, And sparkled as neighbors came; He told the joke to the twinkling crowd, And they laughed the sun to shame. One gay little star was so amused, That he shot across the sky; And all the others bobbed and blinked To see him go speeding by. But after awhile, a rosy light Appeared on the eastern side; And, one by one, the stars grew shy, And tried in the sky to hide. "Ho! ho!" the sun broke forth. "Ho! ho! Just stay where you are, my dears, And shine away, for you can't be seen When all of my light appears. "The people below will say you are gone, Though you're shining. Think of that! Well, they thought all night I had left the sky, So it's only tit for tat."

Kneeling, fair, in the twilight gray, A beautiful child was trying to pray; His cheek on his mother's knee, His bare little feet half hidden, His smile still coming unbidden, And his heart brimful of glee. "I want to laugh. Is it naughty? Say, O mamma! I've had such fun to-day, I hardly can say my prayers— I don't feel just like praying; I want to be out-doors playing, And run, all undressed, down stairs. "I can see the flowers in the garden bed, Shining so pretty and sweet and red; And Sammy is swinging, I guess. Oh! everything is so fine out there, I want to put it all in my prayer, (Do you mean I can do it by 'Yes'?) "When I say, 'Now I lay me,' word for word, It seems to me as if nobody heard. Would 'Thank you, dear God,' be right? He gave me my mother, And papa, and brother— O mamma! you nodded I might."— Clasping his hands and hiding his face, Unconsciously yearning for help and grace, The little one now began. His mother's nod and sanction sweet Had led him close to the dear Lord's feet, And his words like music ran. "Thank you for making this home so nice, The flowers, and folks, and my two white mice (I wish I could keep right on). I thank you too for every day— Only I'm 'most too glad to pray Dear God, I think I am done. "Now, mamma, rock me—just a minute— And sing the hymn with 'darling' in it. I wish I could say my prayers! When I get big, I know I can, Oh! won't it be nice to be a man, And stay all night down stairs!" The mother, singing, clasped him tight, Kissing and cooing her fond "Good night," And treasured his every word; For well she knew that the artless joy And love of her precious, innocent boy Were a prayer that her Lord had heard.

Not only the little toddlers, Perched high on papa's toe, Bound for a ride to London town, On childish journeys go— For we all go up, up, up, And all go down, down, down-y, And all go backward and forward, And all go round, round, round-y. Still do we reach for sunbeams, And learn the rattle's trick. The great big watch of Father Time— How we love to hear it tick! To pat a cake for our Tommy, And pat a cake for ourself— For that alone we labor and strive, And hoard up our golden pelf. This little pig goes to market; This little pig stays at home; And we all cry "Wee!" for our mammy Wherever we chance to roam. We seek our bed with Sleepyhead, We stay a while with Slow; And fill the pot with Greedy, glad To sup before we go. When Jack and Jill go up the hill To fetch their pail o' water, As sure as Jack comes tumbling down Poor Jill comes tumbling arter. Mistress Marys are still contrary, Marjorie Daws still sell; Mother Hubbards ransack their cupboards For bones for their ne'er-do-well. Jack Horners in their corners still Do ply their busy thumb, And, "What a big boy!" we always cry Whenever we see the plum. "What do you want?" "A pot o' beer." Alack the bitter wrong! That grenadier an army hath How many million strong! Our wise men into brambles still Do jump with might and main; And those who go to sea in bowls Rarely come back again. And don't some hearts, deploring The things that gnaw and harrow, Let fall the wheelbarrow, wife and all, When lanes are rough and narrow? Ah yes! the old rhymes suit us As well as ever they did; For the gist of our lives, from first to last, Is under their jingle hid— As we all go up, up, up, And all go down, down, down-y, And all go backward and forward, And all go round, round, round-y.

See the air filling near by and afar— A shadowy host—how brilliant they are! Silently flitting, spark upon spark, Gemming the willows out in the dark; Waking the night in a twinkling surprise, Making the starlight pale where they rise; Snowing soft fire-flakes into the grass, Lighting the face of each daisy they pass; Dancing like jewels high up in the pines; Drowsily poised on the low-swinging vines; Startling the darkness, over and over, Where the sly pimpernel kisses the clover; Suddenly setting their tapers around, Now on the fences, now on the ground, Now on the bushes and tree-tops, and then Pitching them far into darkness again; There like a shooting-star, slowly on wing, Here like the flash of a dowagers ring; Playing their pranks of living and dying All in an instant, merrily flying; Setting the dark, croaking hollows a-gleam, Spangling the gloom of the ghoul-haunted stream; Sweet in their gentleness, daring, and cheer, No depth too dark for them, no place too drear; They pulse and they sparkle, they glimmer and glow, Teaching a lesson wherever they go: Ever in gentle souls shineth a light— Trusting it ever, no gloom can affright.

Waking in May, the peach-tree thought: "Idle and bare, and weaving naught! Here have I slept the winter through— I, with my Master's work to do!" Started the buds. The blossoms came, Till all the branches were a-flame. She rocked the birds and wove the green, A busy tree as ever was seen. Busy and blithe, she drank the dew, She caught the sunbeams gliding through, She drew her wealth from sky and soil, And rustled gayly in her toil.

Now, see the peach-tree's drooping head, With all her fruit a-blushing red; Knowing her Master's work is done, She meekly resteth in the sun.

If you've any task to do, Let me whisper, friend, to you, Do it. If you've any thing to say, True and needed, yea or nay, Say it. If you've any thing to love, As a blessing from above, Love it. If you've any thing to give, That another's joy may live, Give it. If some hollow creed you doubt, Though the whole world hoot and shout, Doubt it. If you know what torch to light, Guiding others through the night, Light it. If you've any debt to pay, Rest you neither night nor day— Pay it. If you've any joy to hold, Next your heart, lest it grow cold, Hold it. If you've any grief to meet, At the loving Father's feet, Meet it. If you're given light to see What a child of God should be, See it. Whether life be bright or drear, There's a message, sweet and clear, Whispered down to every ear— Hear it!

The sun was sinking out of sight. "Bessie," said Herbert, "have you heard? It's really true, upon my word. This year is going away to-night. Its time is up, they say, and so At midnight it will have to go. And, right away, another year Will come along, a real new year, As soft as any mouse— So soft, we'll hardly hear it creep— Yes, come right to this very house, While every one's asleep!" Now, Bessie's eyes grew wide, to hear. "Let's keep awake," she cried, "and so We'll see one come and see one go— Two years at once! Won't that be queer? Let's tell the New Year it is bad, We want the one we've always had, With birds and flowers and things, you know, And funny ice and pretty snow. It had my birthday, too, in May, And yours—when was it? and you know How it had Fourth o' July one day, And Christmas. Oh! it mustn't go!" "Ha! ha!" laughed Herbert, "what a Bess This year was new when first it came. The next one will be just the same As this that's going now, I guess. That's nothing. But what bothers me Is how the change is going to be. I can't see how one year can go And one can come at midnight, so All in a minute—that's the bother! I've heard them say 'the rolling year': You'd think they'd roll on one another, Unless they knew just how to steer." The speck of time 'twixt night and day Was close at hand. Herbert and Bess Had won their parents' smiling "yes" To watch the old year go away. Nurse on the lounge found easy rest, Till Bess should come to be undrest; All but the children were asleep, And years might roll, or years might creep, For all they cared; while Bess and Bert, Who never stirred and scarcely spoke, Watched the great clock, awake, alert, All breathless for the coming stroke. Soon Bessie whispered, "Moll don't care." Moll was her doll. And Herbert said, "The clock's so far up overhead It makes me wink to watch it there, The great tall thing! Let's look inside!" And so its door they opened wide:

Tick-a-tick! How loud it sounded! Bessie's heart with wonder bounded. How the great round thing that hung Down the middle, swung and swung! Tick, a-tick, a-tick, a-tick— Dear, how loud it was, and quick! Tick-a, tick-a, tick-a, tick-a! Surely it was growing quicker! While the swinging thing kept on, Back and forth, and never done. There! It's coming! Loud and clear, Each ringing stroke the night alarms. Bess, screaming, hid in Herbert's arms. "The year!" he cried, "the year! the year!" "Where?" faltered Bessie, "which? where'bouts?" But still "The year!" glad Herbert shouts; And still the steady strokes rang on Until the banished year was gone. "We've seen the Old Year out—hurrah!" "Oh! oh!" sobbed Bessie, "call mamma. I don't like years to racket so; It frightens me to hear 'em go!" But Herbert kissed away her tears, And, gently soothing all her fears, He heard the New Year coming quick, Tick, a-tick, a-tick, a-tick!