POEMS BY TWO LITTLE AMERICAN GIRLS.
Reading edition
[ELAINE AND DORA READ GOODALE, the two sisters some of whose poems are here given for the benefit of the readers of ST. NICHOLAS, are children of thirteen and ten years of age.
Their home, where their infancy and childhood have been passed, is on a large and isolated farm, lying upon the broad slopes of the beautiful Berkshire hills of western Massachusetts, and is quaintly called "Sky Farm."
Here, in a simple country life, divided between books and nature, they began, almost as soon as they began to talk, to express in verse what they saw and felt, rhyme and rhythm seeming to come by instinct. Living largely out-of-doors, vigorous and healthful in body as in mind, they draw pleasure and instruction from all about them.
One of their chief delights is to wander over the lovely hills and meadows adjoining Sky Farm. Peeping into mossy dells, where wild flowers love to hide, hunting the early arbutus, the queen harebell, or the blue gentian, they learn the secrets of nature, and these they pour forth in song as simply and as naturally as the birds sing.]
SOME VERSES, WRITTEN BY DORA, ON A HUMMING-BIRD'S NEST, WHICH SHE FOUND OVER HER STOCKING ON CHRISTMAS MORNING.
When June was bright with roses fair, And leafy trees about her stood, When summer sunshine filled the air And flickered through the quiet wood, There, in its shade and silent rest, A tiny pair had built their nest. And when July, with scorching heat, Had dried the meadow grass to hay, And piled in stacks about the field Or fragrant in the barn it lay, Within the nest so softly made Two tiny, snowy eggs were laid. But when October's ripened fruit Had bent the very tree-tops down, And dainty flowers faded, drooped, And stately forests lost their crown, Their brood was hatched and reared and flown— The mossy nest was left alone. And now the hills are cold and white, 'T is sever'd from its native bough; We gaze upon it with delight; Where are its cunning builders now? Far in the sunny south they roam, And leave to us their northern home.
THE GRUMBLER.
His Youth. His coat was too thick and his cap was too thin, He couldn't be quiet, he hated a din; He hated to write, and he hated to read, He was certainly very much injured indeed; He must study and work over books he detested, His parents were strict, and he never was rested; He knew he was wretched as wretched could be, There was no one so wretchedly wretched as he. His Maturity. His farm was too small and his taxes too big, He was selfish and lazy, and cross as a pig; His wife was too silly, his children too rude; And just because he was uncommonly good, He never had money enough or to spare, He had nothing at all fit to eat or to wear; He knew he was wretched as wretched could be, There was no one so wretchedly wretched as he. His Old Age. He finds he has sorrows more deep than his fears, He grumbles to think he has grumbled for years; He grumbles to think he has grumbled away His home and his fortune, his life's little day. But, alas! 't is too late,—it is no use to say That his eyes are too dim, and his hair is too gray. He knows he is wretched as wretched can be, There is no one more wretchedly wretched than he. DORA.
JUNE.
For stately trees in rich array, For sunlight all the happy day, For blossoms radiant and rare, For skies when daylight closes, For joyous, clear, outpouring song From birds that all the green wood throng, For all things young, and bright, and fair, We praise thee, Month of Roses! For blue, blue skies of summer calm, For fragrant odors breathing balm, For quiet, cooling shades where oft The weary head reposes, For brooklets babbling thro' the fields Where Earth her choicest treasures yields, For all things tender, sweet and soft, We love thee, Month of Roses! ELAINE.
SPRING SONG.
Oh, the little streams are running, Running, running!— Oh, the little streams are running O'er the lea; And the green soft grass is springing, Springing, springing!— And the green soft grass is springing, Fair to see. In the woods the breezes whisper, Whisper, whisper!— In the woods the breezes whisper To the flowers; And the robins sing their welcome, Welcome, welcome!— And the robins sing their welcome,— Happy hours! Over all the sun is shining, Shining, shining!— Over all the sun is shining, Clear and bright,— Flooding bare and waiting meadows, Meadows, meadows!— Flooding bare and waiting meadows With his light. Sky Farm, March, '76. ELAINE.
[Grown people often write in sympathy with children, but here is a little poem by a child written in sympathy with grown folks:]
ASHES OF ROSES.
Soft on the sunset sky Bright daylight closes, Leaving, when light doth die, Pale hues that mingling lie— Ashes of roses. When love's warm sun is set, Love's brightness closes; Eyes with hot tears are wet, In hearts there linger yet Ashes of roses. ELAINE.
SUMMER IS COMING.
"Summer is coming!" the soft breezes whisper; "Summer is coming!" the glad birdies sing. Summer is coming—I hear her quick footsteps; Take your last look at the beautiful Spring. Lightly she steps from her throne in the woodlands: "Summer is coming, and I cannot stay; Two of my children have crept from my bosom: April has left me but lingering May. "What tho' bright Summer is crownèd with roses. Deep in the forest Arbutus doth hide; I am the herald of all the rejoicing; Why must June always disown me?" she cried. Down in the meadow she stoops to the daisies, Plucks the first bloom from the apple-tree's bough: "Autumn will rob me of all the sweet apples; I will take one from her store of them now." Summer is coming! I hear the glad echo; Clearly it rings o'er the mountain and plain. Sorrowful Spring leaves the beautiful woodlands, Bright, happy Summer begins her sweet reign. DORA.