POEMS BY FRANK D. SHERMAN

The sky is full of clouds to-day, And idly, to and fro, Like sheep across the pasture, they Across the heavens go. I hear the wind with merry noise Around the housetops sweep, And dream it is the shepherd boys— They're driving home their sheep. The clouds move faster now, and see! The west is red and gold; Each sheep seems hastening to be The first within the fold. I watch them hurry on until The blue is clear and deep, And dream that far beyond the hill The shepherds fold their sheep. Then in the sky the trembling stars Like little flowers shine out, While Night puts up the shadow bars, And darkness falls about. I hear the shepherd wind's good night, "Good night, and happy sleep!" And dream that in the east, all white, Slumber the clouds, the sheep.

When the open fire is lit, In the evening after tea, Then I like to come and sit Where the fire can talk to me. Fairy stories it can tell, Tales of a forgotten race— Of the fairy ghosts that dwell In the ancient chimney place. They are quite the strangest folk Anybody ever knew, Shapes of shadow and of smoke Living in the chimney flue. "Once," the fire said, "long ago, With the wind they used to rove, Gypsy fairies, to and fro, Camping in the field and grove. "Hither with the trees they came Hidden in the logs; and here, Hovering above the flame, Often some of them appear." So I watch, and sure enough, I can see the fairies! Then Suddenly there comes a puff— Whish!—and they are gone again!

At evening when I go to bed I see the stars shine overhead; They are the little daisies white That dot the meadow of the night. And often while I'm dreaming so, Across the sky the moon will go; It is a lady, sweet and fair, Who comes to gather daisies there. For when at morning I arise, There's not a star left in the skies; She's picked them all and dropped them down Into the meadows of the town.