Plain Text

Some precious words are born of earth, Some others by the angels given; But sweetest of celestial birth Are these: “My Mother,” “Home,” and “Heaven.”

How sweet the home of Nazareth, Where Mary mother smiled, And flowers of duty daily bloomed About the holy Child. His Father’s will was all his task Within that earthly home, The will forever done in heaven, Whence he so late had come. Obedient, gentle, loving, meek, He worked at Joseph’s side: Does nothing from that daily toil Through all the years abide? We scan the wide world o’er, nor find, In any clime or land, One single, sacred, treasured thing Wrought out by Jesus’ hand; But wheresoe’er a Christian child Does on the earth fulfil With humble, reverent, tender heart, The heavenly Father’s will, The work, though mean and poor to view, With heavenly grace is fraught, Since age to age it passes on The lesson Jesus taught.

When my father comes home in the evening from work, Then I will get up on his knee, And tell him how many nice lessons I’ve learned, And show him how good I can be. He’ll ask me what number I know how to count, I’ll tell him what words I can spell; And if I can learn something new every day, I hope soon to read very well. I’ll repeat to him all the good verses I know, And tell him how kind we must be, That we never must hurt little creatures at all; And he will be glad, and love me. I’ll tell him we always must try to please God, And never be cruel nor rude, For God is the Father of all living things, He cares for and blesses the good.

My own mamma; my dear mamma! How happy shall I be To-morrow night at candlelight, When she comes home to me! 'Tis just one week since on my cheek She pressed the parting kiss: It seems like two; I never knew So long a week as this. My tangled hair she smoothed with care, With water bathed my brow; And all with such a gentle touch— I wish she’d do it now. But she will come; she’ll be at home To-morrow night; and then I hope that she will never be So long away again.

My mother, my kind mother, I hear thy gentle voice; It always makes my little heart Beat gladly and rejoice. When I am ill it comes to me, And kindly soothes my pain; And when I sleep, then in my dreams It sweetly comes again. It always makes me happy, Whene’er I hear its tone; I know it is the voice of love, From a heart that is my own. My mother, my dear mother, O may I never be Unkind or disobedient, In any way, to thee.

I give my mother lots of kisses, There’s really never one she misses: A “wake-up kiss” right in the morning, A “good-night kiss” when I am yawning, A “sorry kiss” when I’ve been bad, A “happy kiss” when I am glad. Once she was sick; I went to stay At auntie’s house, oh, miles away! Then I sent kisses in a letter; She said they truly made her better. There’s never really one she misses, Oh, I give mother lots of kisses.

I know he’s coming by this sign,— The baby’s almost wild! See how he laughs and crows and starts— Heaven bless the merry child! He’s father’s self in face and limb, And father’s heart is strong in him. Shout, baby, shout! and clap thy hands, For father on the threshold stands.

My father raised his trembling hand And laid it on my head; “God bless thee, O my son, my son!” Most tenderly he said. He died, and left no gems or gold: But still I was his heir, For that rich blessing which he gave Became a fortune rare.

Welcome, welcome, little stranger, To this busy world of care; Nothing can thy peace endanger, Nothing now thy steps ensnare. Mother’s heart is filled with pleasure, All her feelings are awake; Gladly would she, little treasure, All thy pains and sufferings take. Mayest thou, if designed by heaven Future days and years to see, Soothe her, make her passage even; Let her heart rejoice in thee. May her anxious cares and labors Be repaid by filial love; And thy soul be crowned with favors From the boundless source above. —Taylor.

“What is this pretty little thing, That nurse so carefully doth bring, And round its head a blanket fling? A baby! “Oh, dear, how very soft its cheek; Why, nurse, I cannot make it speak, And it can’t walk, it is so weak. A baby! “Oh, I’m afraid that it will die; Why can’t it eat as well as I, And jump, and talk? Do let it try. Poor baby!” “Why, you were once a baby too, And could not jump as now you do, But good mamma took care of you, Like baby. “And then she taught your little feet To pat along the carpet neat, And called papa to come and meet His baby. “O dear mamma, to take such care, And no kind pains and trouble spare To feed and nurse you when you were A baby.”

Where did you come from, baby dear? Out of the everywhere into here. Where did you get your eyes so blue? Out of the sky as I came through. Where did you get that little tear? I found it waiting when I got here. What makes your forehead so smooth and high? A soft hand stroked it as I went by. What makes your cheek like a warm, white rose? I saw something better than any one knows. Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss? Three angels at once gave me a kiss. Where did you get this pearly ear? God spoke, and it came out to hear. How did they all just come to you? God thought about me, and so I grew. But how did you come to us, you dear? God thought about you, and so I am here. —George Macdonald.

Hushaby, hushaby, Baby, do not weep; On thy downy pillow lie, Softly, softly sleep. Hushaby, hushaby, Now thine eyelids close; While thy mother sitting by Watches thy repose. Hushaby, hushaby, Think of no alarm;

Sleep, my baby—sleep, my boy, Rest your little weary head; ’Tis your mother rocks her boy In his little cradle bed. All the little birds are sleeping— Every one has gone to rest; And my precious one is resting In his pretty cradle nest.

Sleep, baby! sleep! Thy father watches his sheep, Thy mother is shaking the dreamland tree, And down falls a little dream on thee. Sleep, baby! sleep! Sleep, baby! sleep! The large stars are the sheep; The little stars are the lambs, I guess, And the bright moon is the shepherdess Sleep, baby! sleep! Sleep, baby! sleep! Thy Saviour loves his sheep; He is the Lamb of God on high, Who for our sakes came down to die. Sleep, baby! sleep!

Baby, baby, lay your head On your pretty little bed; Shut your eye-peeps, now the day And the light are gone away; All the clothes are tucked in tight, Little baby dear, good-night, Sleep, my sweet, till morning light.

Baby, baby, ope your eye, For the sun is in the sky, And he’s peeping once again Through the clear, bright window-pane; Little baby, do not keep Any longer fast asleep, Through your cradle curtains peep.

Now, little Georgie, jump up high; Never mind, Georgie, mother is by: Crow and caper, caper and crow, There, little baby, there you go, Up to the ceiling, down to the ground, Upwards and downwards, round and round; Then jump, little Georgie, and mother shall sing, While the gay, merry bells go ting-a-ling-ling.

Come, my darling, come away, Take a pretty walk to-day; Run along, and never fear, I’ll take care of baby dear; Up and down with little feet, That’s the way to walk, my sweet. Now you are so very near, Soon you’ll get to mother dear; There, she comes along at last: Here’s my finger, hold it fast. Now, one pretty little kiss, After such a walk as this.

Who often with me kindly played, And all my little playthings made, Through lonely hours who with me stayed? My brother. Who made a sled when winter came, With little ropes to draw the same, And on its sides carved out my name? My brother. And who was it that taught to me The way to read my A, B, C, And marked them on the slate for me? My brother. Then may I ever grateful be For all thy kindness shown to me, And ne’er withdraw my love from thee, My brother.

I had a little friend; And every day he crept In sadness to his brother’s tomb, And laid him down and wept. And when I asked him why He mourned so long and sore, He answered through his tears, “Because I did not love him more. “Sometimes I was not kind, Or cross, or coldly spake;” And then he turned away, and sobbed As though his heart would break. Brothers and sisters are a gift Of mercy from the skies; And may I always think of this Whene’er they meet my eyes; Be tender, good, and kind, And love them in my heart, Lest I should sigh with bitter grief, When we are called to part. —Mrs. Sigourney.

’Twas here my sister dear was drowned One long, bright summer-day; Here was the little darling found By good and faithful Tray. ’Tis many years since Ellen died; But I have not forgot The moment we her bonnet spied Beside this very spot. How very wet her golden hair, And how it made me weep To see her lie so still and fair, And know it was not sleep. Poor Tray sits watching in my face With such an earnest look; He knows full well how sad a place Is this sweet babbling brook. Had I a sister now to love, How very kind I’d be; Ellen, the little gentle dove, Was always kind to me.

A little girl with a happy look Sat slowly reading a ponderous book All bound with velvet and edged with gold, And its weight was more than the child could hold; Yet dearly she loved to ponder it o’er, And every day she prized it more; For it said—and she looked at her smiling mother— It said, “Little children, love one another.” She thought it was beautiful in the book, And the lesson home to her heart she took; She walked on her way with a trusting grace, And a dovelike look in her meek young face, Which said, just as plain as words could say, The holy Bible I must obey; So, mamma, I’ll be kind to my darling brother, For “little children must love each other.” I am sorry he’s naughty, and will not play. But I’ll love him still, for I think the way To make him gentle and kind to me, Will be better shown, if I let him see I strive to do what I think is right: And thus, when we kneel in prayer to-night, I will clasp my arms about my brother, And say, “Little children, love one another.” The little girl did as her Bible taught, And pleasant indeed was the change it wrought; For the boy looked up in glad surprise, To meet the light of her loving eyes: His heart was full—he could not speak, But he pressed a kiss on his sister’s cheek, And God looked down on the happy mother, Whose “little children loved one another.”

Does your head ache, little brother? Are you sick, and are you weak? Are you sad, and tired of playing? Does it hurt you when you speak? I can’t cure you, darling brother, Cannot ease a single pain; I’ll go ask our heavenly Father, He can make you well again.

Whatever brawls disturb the street, There should be peace at home; Where sisters dwell and brothers meet, Quarrels should never come. Birds in their little nests agree; And ’tis a shameful sight, When children of one family Fall out and chide and fight. Pardon, O Lord, our childish rage, Our little brawls remove; That, as we grow to riper age, Our hearts may all be love. —Watts.

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. “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 you 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 you are only five.” “Their graves are green, they may be seen,” The little maid replied, “Twelve steps or more from 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— I sit and sing 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 little Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her from 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 those two are in heaven?” The little maiden did reply, “Oh, 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.” —Wordsworth.

My grandpa says that he was once A little boy like me. I s’pose he was, and yet it does Seem queer to think that he Could ever get my jacket on, Or shoes, or like to play With games and toys and race with Duke, As I do every day. He’s come to visit us, you see; Nurse says I must be good And mind my manners, as a child With such a grandpa should. For grandpa’s very straight and tall, And very dignified; He knows ’most all there is to know, And other things beside. So, though my grandpa knows so much, I thought that maybe boys Were things he hadn’t studied, They make such awful noise. But when at dinner I asked for Another piece of pie, I thought I saw a twinkle In the corner of his eye. So yesterday, when they went out, And left us two alone, I was not quite so much surprised To find how nice he’d grown. You should have seen us romp and run! My! now I almost see That p’r'aps he was, long, long ago, A little boy like me. —The Round Table.

“Dear Mary,” said the poor blind boy, “That little bird sings very long; Say, do you see him in his joy, And is he pretty as his song?” “Yes, Edward, yes,” replied the maid, “I see the bird on yonder tree”; The poor boy sighed, and gently said, “Sister, I wish that I could see. “The flowers, you say, are very fair, And bright green leaves are on the trees, And pretty birds are singing there— How beautiful for one who sees. “Yet I the fragrant flowers can smell, And I can feel the green leaf’s shade, And I can hear the notes that swell From those dear birds that God has made. “So, sister, God to me is kind, Though sight to me he has not given; But tell me, are there any blind Among the children up in heaven?”

Two children are at the door, mamma, Two children are at the door, A little boy and a little girl, And the wind is biting, at every whirl, Their feet all naked and sore. Oh, hasten and bring them in, mamma, Oh, hasten and bring them in, And let them sit by the fire so warm, For they have been out in the cold, cold storm, And their clothes are tattered and thin. And tell them this is their home, mamma, Oh, tell them this is their home; And give them something to eat that’s nice, Of bread and butter a good large slice, And bid them no more to roam. For isn’t it all too bad, mamma, Oh, isn’t it all too bad, That they must starve, or beg in the street, No cloak to their backs, or shoes to their feet, While I am so finely clad? It may be God sent them here, mamma, It may be God sent them here, And now looks down from his home in the sky, To watch them and see whether you and I Are kind to his children dear. And will he not angry be, mamma, And will he not angry be, If we let them go on in the storm so rough, To perish with want, while more than enough For them and for us have we?

I knew a widow very poor, Who four small children had; The eldest was but six years old, A gentle, modest lad. And very hard this widow toiled To feed her children four; A noble heart the mother had, Though she was very poor. To labor, she would leave her home, For children must be fed; And glad was she when she could buy A shilling’s worth of bread. And this was all the children had On any day to eat: They drank their water, ate their bread, But never tasted meat. One day when snow was falling fast, And piercing was the air, I thought that I would go and see How these poor ones might fare. Ere long I reached their cheerless home— ’Twas searched by every breeze— When, going in, the eldest child I saw upon his knees. I paused to hear poor Willie’s prayer; He never raised his head, But still went on, and said, “Give us This day our daily bread.” I waited till the child was done, Still listening as he prayed; And when he rose, I asked him why That prayer he then had said. “Why, sir,” said he, “this morning, when My mother went away, She wept, because she said she had No bread for us to-day. “She said we children now must starve, Our father being dead; And then I told her not to cry, For I could get some bread. “‘Our Father,’ sir, the prayer begins, Which made me think that he, As we have no kind father here, Would our kind Father be. “And then you know, sir, that the prayer Asks God for bread each day; So in the corner, sir, I went, And that’s what made me pray.” I quickly left that wretched room, And went with fleeting feet, And very soon was back again With food enough to eat. “I thought God heard me,” said the boy. I answered with a nod; I could not speak, but much I thought Of Willie’s faith in God.

“My flowers—who’ll buy?” cried a sweet little child, An orphan left friendless and poor; “I’ve roses and pinks, and sweet-brier wild, And heaven will bless you thrice o’er. Then pray buy my roses, indeed they’re not dear; Each bud shall be moistened with gratitude’s tear. “Oh, pray buy my roses—for hard is my fate, My poor little sisters want bread; Bestow but a mite, before ’tis too late; Our parents to heaven are fled. Then pray buy my roses, indeed they’re not dear; Each bud shall be moistened with gratitude’s tear.”

“Why, Phebe, are you come so soon? Where are your berries, child? You cannot, sure, have sold them all, You had a basket piled.” “No, mother, as I climbed the fence, The nearest way to town, My apron caught upon the stake, And so I tumbled down. “I scratched my arm, and tore my hair, But still did not complain; And had my blackberries been safe, Should not have cared a grain. “But when I saw them on the ground, All scattered by my side, I picked my empty basket up, And down I sat and cried. “Just then a pretty little maid Chanced to be walking by; She stopped, and looking pitiful, She begged me not to cry. “‘Poor little girl, you fell,’ said she, ‘And must be sadly hurt;’ ’O no,‘ I cried; ’but see my fruit, All mixed with sand and dirt.’ “‘Well, do not grieve for that,’ she said, ‘Go home, and get some more.’ ’Ah, no, for I have stripped the vines, These were the last they bore. “'My father, Miss, is very poor, And works in yonder stall; He has so many little ones, He cannot clothe us all. “'I always longed to go to church, But never could I go; For when I asked him for a gown, He always answered, “No; “There’s not a father in the world That loves his children more; I’d get you one with all my heart, But, Phebe, I am poor.” “'But when the blackberries were ripe, He said to me one day, “Phebe, if you will take the time That’s given you for play, “And gather blackberries enough, And carry them to town, To buy your bonnet and your shoes, I’ll try to get a gown.” “'Oh, Miss, I fairly jumped for joy, My spirits were so light; And so, when I had leave to play, I picked with all my might. “'I sold enough to get my shoes, About a week ago; And these, if they had not been spilt, Would buy a bonnet, too. “‘But now they’re gone, they all are gone, And I can get no more, And Sundays I must stay at home Just as I did before.’ “And, mother, then I cried again As hard as I could cry; And looking up, I saw a tear Was standing in her eye. “She caught her bonnet from her head, ‘Here, here,’ she cried, ‘take this!’ ‘O no, indeed, for your mamma Would be offended, Miss.’ “'My mother? never; she delights All sorrow to beguile; And ’tis the sweetest joy she feels, To make the wretched smile. “'She taught me when I had enough, To share it with the poor; And never let a needy child Go empty from the door. “‘So take it, for you need not fear Offending her, you see; I have another, too, at home, And one’s enough for me.’ “So then I took it—here it is— For pray what could I do? And, mother, I shall love that girl As long as I love you.”

I’ve a home and kind friends, and abundance to eat, And clothing sufficient, both decent and neat, And books, that my mind may to knowledge aspire, And all that a child can in reason desire; But to care for my comfort, and only for this, And forget my poor neighbors, how selfish it is! I have got a plum-cake, and the whole is my own, And no one will know, if I eat it alone; But what if the cake be so sweet and so nice, I dare say poor John would be glad of a slice: My treat he shall share, a large slice shall be his, For to eat all one’s self, oh, how selfish it is! My aunt kindly gave me a quarter last night, For she knew that I wanted to buy a new kite; But a poor aged widow lives over the way, And she says she has not had a morsel to-day: “Here, dry up your tears, and buy something with this, For to spend all on playthings, how selfish it is!” As Christ has commanded, I’ll constantly try My neighbor to love and myself to deny; From my own little pleasures a trifle I’ll spare, To gladden his heart and to lighten his care; That whate’er my friends find in my conduct amiss, They never may say, oh, how selfish he is!

Whene’er I take my walks abroad, How many poor I see; How shall I render to my God For all his gifts to me? Not more than others I deserve, Yet God has given me more; For I have food, while others starve, Or beg from door to door. While some poor creatures scarce can tell Where they may lay their head, I have a home wherein to dwell, And rest upon my bed. While others early learn to swear, And curse, and lie, and steal, Lord, I am taught thy name to fear, And do thy holy will. Are these thy favors, day by day, To me above the rest? Then let me love thee more than they, And try to serve thee best. —Watts.

The seconds fly—a minute’s gone; The minutes fly—an hour is run; The day is fled—the night is here: Thus flies a week—a month—a year!

Come, arise from thy sleep, Through the window now peep; Birds sweetly are straying, Their bright plumes displaying, At dawn of day. Let us breathe the fresh air, For the morning is fair, And the forest is ringing With merry birds singing, At dawn of day. Come along for a talk, Or a sweet morning walk, While the garden discloses Its bright blushing roses, At dawn of day.

Awake! awake! my love; The Saviour from above, Would lend his gracious ear To listen to your prayer: Rise and unbosom every care. Awake! awake! my love; The Saviour from above, In accents kind and mild, Would own you as his child, Though you’re by nature all defiled. Awake! awake! my love; The Saviour from above Can pardon all your sin, And bid your soul be clean; His blood can cleanse from every stain.

Now I wake and ope my eyes, For the sun is in the skies; He has left his kingly bed, Clouds of gold and rosy red, And the earth is full of light Beaming from his eyes so bright. Little eyes must open too, Little folks have work to do: I must dress me quick and neat, Nice and clean from head to feet; Good cold water must not spare, Brush my teeth and comb my hair; Then kneel down and slowly say— Thinking not of work or play, But with fixed and earnest thought— That dear prayer our Saviour taught; Then think softly how to-day I the Saviour can obey; How God’s name can hallowed be, And his will be done by me. I must be a Christian child, Gentle, patient, meek, and mild; Must be honest, simple, true, In my words and actions too. I must cheerfully obey, Giving up my will and way; Must not always thinking be What is pleasantest to me; But must try kind things to do And make others happy too. If a playmate treats me ill, I must be forgiving still; I must learn my lessons well, Not my schoolmates to excel, But because my heart’s delight Is in doing what is right. And in all I do and say, In my lessons and my play, Must remember God can view All I think and all I do; Glad that he can know I try, Glad that children such as I, In our feeble ways, and small, Can serve him who loves us all.

Hurrah, for a splash! Come, give me a dash With the water all clear and cold; It makes me so bright, So active and light, ’Tis better than silver and gold. Oh, what should I do, Dear mother, if you Never washed me so sweet and so clean? Come, give me a splashing; It is so refreshing, All the day I would like to stay in. I never would cry, Nor halloo—not I— Unless ’twere for joy and for glee; I love the good splashing, And plunging and dashing: Hurrah for cold water for me!

I hate to see a little girl That does not love to rise, And dash the water, fresh and sweet, Upon her face and eyes. I hate to see her pretty dress So careless look and tossed, Her toys all scattered here and there, Her thread and needle lost. I hate to see her, at her play, When little girls have met To frolic, laugh, and run about, Grow peevish, cry, and fret. I hate to hear her tell a lie— What’s not her own to take; Mamma’s commands to disobey, And father’s rules to break. And now I’ve told you what I hate I’ll only stop to say, Perhaps I’ll tell you what I love Upon some other day.

I love to see a little girl Rise with the lark so bright; Bathe, comb, and dress with cheerful face, Then thank the God of light. And when she comes to meet mamma, So fresh and neat and clean, And asks a kiss from dear papa With such a modest mien, That all who see her gentle look And pretty actions too, Will feel that she’s a darling child— Kind, honest, loving, true.

What does little birdie say, In her nest at peep of day? “Let me fly,” says little birdie; “Mother, let me fly away.” “Birdie, rest a little longer, Till thy little wings are stronger.” So she rests a little longer, Then she flies away. What does little baby say, In her bed at peep of day? Baby says, like little birdie, “Let me rise and fly away.” “Baby, sleep a little longer, Till thy little limbs are stronger. If she sleeps a little longer, Baby, too, shall fly away.” —Tennyson.

Little birds are wide awake Early in the morning; Just think how funny it would be To see the robins yawning!

“Sixty seconds make a minute, Sixty minutes make an hour;” If I were a little linnet, Hopping in her leafy bower, Then I should not have to sing it: “Sixty seconds make a minute.” Twenty-four hours make a day, Seven days will make a week; And while we all at marbles play, Or run at cunning “hide and seek,” Or in the garden gather flowers, We’ll tell the time that makes the hours. In every month the weeks are four, And twelve whole months will make a year; Now I must say it o’er and o’er, Or else it never will be clear; So once again I will begin it: “Sixty seconds make a minute.”

How I love my tender mother, How I love my father dear; How I love my little brother, And my gentle sister here: They are all both kind and true, And they dearly love me, too. Be my neighbor proud or lowly, He shall my affection share; Be he sinful, be he holy, He may claim my earnest prayer: Let me not unfeeling prove, Nor myself too dearly love. But of all affection given, God on high demands the most; God the Father in the heaven, God the Son, and Holy Ghost: Three in one, and One in three, Be thou all in all to me.

She said, “I should like to be happy to-day, If I could but tell which was the easiest way; But then I don’t know any pretty new play: “And as to the old ones, why, which is the best? There’s old blind man’s buff, hide-and-seek, and the rest— Or pretending it’s tea-time, when dollies are dressed. “But no; let me see—now I’ve thought of a way Which would really, I think, be still better than play: I’ll try to be good, if I can, the whole day, “Without any fretting or crying: Oh, no, For that makes me wretched wherever I go; And it would be a pity to spoil the day so. “I don’t choose to be such a baby, not I, To be peevish and cross, and just ready to cry; And mamma will be pleased that at least I should try.”

“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.”

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.”

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.

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. 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.

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.

Bad temper, go, You never shall stay with me; Bad temper, go, You and I shall ne’er agree. 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.

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.

“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.

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!

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

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.

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!

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 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.”

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.

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, 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.

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?

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!

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, 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.

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!

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.”

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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, 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.

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 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.

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.

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.”

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?

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.

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.

“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.”

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

“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, 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.”

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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!

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 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.

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.

“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.”

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 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 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.

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.

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.

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’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.

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.

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.

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! But he did one thing that was hardly fair— He peeped in the cupboard; and finding there That all had forgotten for him to prepare— “Now just to set them a-thinking, I’ll bite this basket of fruit,” said he, “This costly pitcher I’ll burst in three! And the glass of water they’ve left for me, Shall ‘tchick’ to tell them I’m drinking.” —Hannah F. Gould.

The north wind doth blow, And we shall have snow; And what will the robin do then, poor thing? He’ll sit by the barn And keep himself warm, And hide his head under his wing, poor thing! The north wind doth blow, And we shall have snow; And what will the swallow do then, poor thing? Oh, do you not know? He is gone long ago To a country much warmer than ours, poor thing! The north wind doth blow, And we shall have snow; And what will the honey-bee do, poor thing? In his hive he will stay Till the cold pass away, And then he’ll come out in the spring, poor thing! The north wind doth blow, And we shall have snow; What will the children do then, poor things? When lessons are done, They’ll jump, skip, and run, And play till they make themselves warm, poor things!

“See, mamma, the crumbs are flying Fast and thickly through the air; On the branches they are lying, On the walks and everywhere. Oh, how glad the birds will be, When so many crumbs they see!” “No, my little girl, ‘tis snowing, Nothing for the birds is here; Very cold the air is growing, ’Tis the winter of the year: Frost will nip the robins’ food, ’Twill no more be sweet and good. “See the clouds the skies that cover; ’Tis from them the snowflakes fall, Whitening hills and fields all over, Hanging from the fir-trees tall. Were it warm, ’twould rain; but lo, Frost has changed the rain to snow.”

“Which is the wind that brings the cold?” “The north wind, Freddy, and all the snow; And the sheep will scamper into the fold When the north begins to blow.” “Which is the wind that brings the heat?” “The south wind, Katy; and corn will grow And peaches redden for you to eat, When the south begins to blow.” “Which is the wind that brings the rain?” “The east wind, Arty; and farmers know That cows come shivering up the lane When the east begins to blow.” “Which is the wind that brings the flowers?” “The west wind, Bessie; and soft and low The birdies sing in the summer hours, When the west begins to blow.”

“Spring, where are you waiting now? Why are you so long unfelt? Winter went a month ago, When the snows began to melt.” “I am coming, little maiden, With the pleasant sunshine laden, With the honey for the bee, With the blossom for the tree, With the flower and with the leaf, And the stalk to make the sheaf. “Turn thine eyes to earth and heaven; God for thee the spring has given, Taught the birds their melodies, Clothed the earth and cleared the skies For thy pleasure or thy food. Pour thy soul in gratitude.” —Mary Howitt.

I’m very glad the spring is come: the sun shines out so bright, The little birds upon the trees are singing for delight; The young grass looks so fresh and green, the lambs do sport and play, And I can skip and run about as merrily as they. I like to see the daisy and the buttercups once more, The primrose and the cowslip, too, and every pretty flower: I like to see the butterfly extend her painted wing, And all things seem, just like myself, so pleased to see the spring. The fishes in the little brook are jumping up so high, The lark is singing sweetly as she mounts into the sky; The rooks are building up their nests upon the great oak-tree, And everything’s as busy and as happy as can be. There’s not a cloud upon the sky, there’s nothing dark or sad; I jump, and scarce know what to do, I feel so very glad. God must be very good indeed, who made each pretty thing; I’m sure we ought to love him much for bringing back the spring.

There was a noble ark Sailing o’er waters dark And wide around; Not one tall tree was seen, Nor flower, nor leaf of green— All, all was drowned. Then a soft wing was spread, And o’er the billows dread A meek dove flew; But on that shoreless tide No living thing she spied To cheer her view. So to the ark she fled, With weary, drooping head, To seek for rest: Christ is thy ark, my love, Thou art the tender dove; Fly to his breast. —Mrs. Sigourney.

“Oh, where do you come from, You little drops of rain? Pitter patter, pitter patter, Down the window-pane. “They won’t let me walk, And they won’t let me play, And they won’t let me go Outdoors at all to-day. “They put away my playthings Because I broke them all, And they locked up all my bricks And took away my ball. “Tell me, little raindrops, Is that the way you play, Pitter patter, pitter patter, All the rainy day? “They say I’m very naughty; But I’ve nothing else to do But sit here at the window; I should like to play with you.” The little raindrops cannot speak, But “pitter patter pat” Means, “We can play on this side: Why can’t you play on THAT?”

Now the spring is coming on, Now the snow and ice are gone, Come, my little snowdrop-root, Will you not begin to shoot? Ah, I see your little head Peeping from the flower-bed, Looking out so green and gay On this fine and pleasant day. For the mild south wind doth blow And hath melted all the snow; And the sun shines out so warm, You need not fear another storm. So your pretty flowers show And your petals white undo; Then you’ll hang your modest head Down upon my flower-bed.

Pretty bud, I love to see Much in you resembling me; And from your instructive look Learn as from a little book. I am young, and so are you, Life with us is fresh and new; Yet fair buds oft withered lie, And the youngest children die. Riper flowers may wide expand, Win the eye and court the hand; But, like you, oh, may I be Graced with humble modesty. When ’tis evening, dark and chill, Close you wrap yourself from ill; So may God my heart secure Safe from everything impure. And as, when the sun is up, You expand your little cup, So thy beams may I possess, Christ the Sun of righteousness.

Timid, blue-eyed flower In thy native bower ’Mid the moss so green, Say, what art thou doing? Why so lowly bowing Ever art thou seen? Joy within me springeth When so sweetly singeth Lone the nightingale; To her song attending I am lowly bending In my peaceful vale. —Jane Taylor.

K. E. C.

Pitter, patter, patter, let it pour, Pitter, patter, patter, let it roar! Down the steep roof let it rush, Down the hillside let it gush! ’Tis the welcome April shower Which will wake the sweet May flower.

Look! the black cloud rises high; Now it spreads along the sky: See! the quivering lightnings fly; Hark! the thunders roar. Yet will I not shrink with fear When the thunderclap I hear; Soon the rainbow will appear, Soon the storm be o’er. When the black cloud rises high, When it spreads along the sky, When the forkèd lightnings fly, And the thunders roar, Never will I feel alarm; God can shield me from all harm In the sunshine or the storm: Him will I adore.

I love the cheerful summer-time, With all its birds and flowers, Its shining garments green and smooth, Its cool, refreshing showers. I love to hear the little birds That carol on the trees; I love the gentle murmuring stream, I love the evening breeze. I love the bright and glorious sun That gives us light and heat; I love the pearly drops of dew That sparkle ’neath my feet. I love to hear the busy hum Of honey-making bee, And learn a lesson, hard to learn, Of patient industry. I love to see the playful lambs, So innocent and gay; I love the faithful, watchful dog Who guards them night and day. I love to think of Him who made These pleasant things for me; Who gave me life and health and strength, And eyes that I might see. I love the holy Sabbath-day, So peaceful, calm, and still; And oh, I love to go to church And learn my Maker’s will!

Over field and meadow, Where the daisies grow, Up and down I wander, Singing as I go. They who see me roving Think me all alone, But the birds are with me; Hark! their joyful tone. How can I be lonely On the sunny banks, While the murmuring waters Raise a song of thanks?