THE SONG OF THE KETTLE.

My house is old, the rooms are low, The windows high and small; And a great fireplace, deep and wide, Is built into the wall. There, on a hanging chimney-hook, My little kettle swings; And, in the dreary winter-time, How cheerily it sings! My kettle will not sing to-day— What could it sing about? For it is empty, it is cold: The fire is all gone out. Go, bring to me, to fill it up, Fresh water from the spring; And I will build a rousing fire, And that will make it sing! Bring white bark from the silver birch, And pitch-knots from the pine; And here are shavings, long and white, That look as ribbons fine. The little match burns faint and blue, But serves the fire to light; And all around my kettle, soon, The flames are rising bright. Crack, crack! begins the hemlock-branch, Snap, snap! the chestnut stick; And up the wide old chimney now The sparks are flying thick. Like fire-flies on a summer night, They go on shining wings; And, hark! above the roaring blaze My little kettle sings! The robin carols in the spring; In summer hums the bee: But, in the dreary winter, give The kettle's song to me.