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Title: Songs for the Little Ones at Home
Author: Anonymous
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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                       Songs for the Little Ones
                                at Home

[Illustration: Mother with children]

                         Songs for the Little
                             Ones at Home

                           _REVISED EDITION_

                           _350th Thousand_

                        AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY
                      150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK

                     Copyright, 1884 and 1911, by
                        AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY




  HOUR BY HOUR                 47


  THE GREAT OUTDOORS          135


  THE CHRIST CHILD            219


  INDEX                       253


Acknowledgments are made to Charles Scribner’s Sons for the use of _My

To Houghton, Mifflin & Company for _The Leak in the Dike_, from THE

To the American Book Company for _The Reindeer and the Rabbit_, from
the old MCGUFFEY SECOND ECLECTIC READER; and for _Young Soldiers_ and
_The Lord’s Prayer_, from the old MCGUFFEY THIRD ECLECTIC READER.

Thanks are also rendered to Mrs. Margaret E. Sangster for the use of
_Dear Little Heads in the Pew_; and to Professor Irsay de Irsa and
others for advice and encouragement.


    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.”


    Air, with bass accompaniment

    1. How sweet the home of Nazareth Where Mary mother smiled,
    And flow’rs of daily duty bloom’d About the holy Child.
    His Father’s will was all His task Within that earthly home,
    That will for ever done in Heav’n Whence He so late had come.

    2. Obedient, gentle, loving, meek, He worked at Joseph’s side;
    Does nothing from that daily toil Thro’ 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.

    3. But wheresoe’er a Christian child Does on the earth fulfil....
    With humble, rev’rent, tender heart The heav’nly Father’s will,
    The work, tho’ mean and poor to view With heav’nly grace is
    Since age to age it passes on The lesson Jesus taught.



    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.

[Illustration: Jesus, Mary and Joseph in carpenter’s shop]

    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.



    “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;
    Angel spirits round thee fly,
      Guarding thee from harm.

    Hushaby, hushaby,
      Slumber sweet be given;
    On thy downy pillow lie,
      Precious gift from heaven.


        Sleep, baby, sleep,
        No longer weep;
    Near thee sits thy little brother,
    Close beside thee is thy mother:
        Sleep, baby, sleep.

        Sleep, baby, sleep,
        No longer weep;
    Israel’s Shepherd watches o’er thee,
    No rude danger lies before thee:
        Sleep, baby, sleep.

        Sleep, baby, sleep,
        No longer weep;
    Germ of beauty, bud and blossom,
    Rest upon thy Saviour’s bosom:
        Sleep, baby, sleep.


    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.

[Illustration: Three boys]


    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.



    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.”



    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._

[Illustration: Grandpa with two children]


    K. E. C. German

    1. Down in our lowly home All goes so well; All pleasures
    hither come To our sweet dell; Father so brave is here, Mother so
    kind and dear! Oh, in our lowly home All goes so well.

    2. Down by our fireside neat Love rules the hours Thro’ winter’s
    icy sleet And summer’s flow’rs. Children, a happy band, Kind words
    gentle hand: Oh, by our fireside neat Love rules the hours.

    3. Why in our peaceful cot Goes all so well? Why here love
    faileth not Can any tell? Jesus abides within, Guarding from
    strife and sin. O Saviour, evermore Here with us dwell.


    “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.



    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!

[Illustration: “WHERE’S THE TIME?”]



    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.”



    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.”

[Illustration: Young girl]


  Rev. Eben C. Brewer      English

    1. Little drops of water, Little
    grains of sand, Make the mighty
    ocean And the pleasant land.

    2. Thus the little minutes, Humble
    though they be, Make the mighty
    ages Of eternity.

    3. Little deeds of kindness, Little
    words of love, Make our earth an
    Eden Like to Heav’n above.]


    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.

[Illustration: Child praying]


    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.


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

    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.

    [Illustration: Girl with candle]

    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.

[Illustration: Face of young girl]


    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!”


    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!


    K. E. C. (_Chorus, with motion_[1]) K. E. C.

    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!

[1] The rowing of a boat


    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._

[Illustration: Girl sleeping by infant in crib]


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

[Illustration: Woman with two girls and dogs]



    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.

[Illustration: Two kittens]


    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.

[Illustration: Hen with chicks]


    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._

[Illustration: Head of woman]


    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._

[Illustration: “CHICK-A-DE-DEE”]


    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._

[Illustration: Sparrows in the snow]


    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?

[Illustration: Turtle Dove]


    Rev. John Henry Hopkins


    1. High on the top of an old pine tree
    Broods a mother dove with her young ones three;
    Warm over them is her soft downy breast,
    And they sing so sweetly in their nest;
    “Coo,” say the little ones, “Coo,” says she,
    All in their nest in the old pine tree.

    2. When in the nest they are left alone,
    While their mother, seeking food has gone;
    Quiet and tender they all remain,
    Till their mother they see come back again;
    “Coo,” say the little ones, “Coo,” says she,
    All in their nest in the old pine tree.

    3. Fast grow the young ones, day and night,
    Till their wings are plumed for a longer flight,
    Till unto them the day draws nigh,
    The time when they all must say good-by;
    “Coo,” say the little ones, “Coo,” says she,
    And away they fly from the old pine tree.

Copyright, 1884, by Oliver Ditson Company


    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.”


[Illustration: A Lamb]


    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.

[Illustration: OUT OF DOORS]




    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.

[3] FROM ALONG THE WAY. Copyright, 1879, by Mary Mapes Dodge. Published
by Charles Scribner’s Sons.


    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.”

[Illustration: Girls walking with umbrella]


    K. E. C. K. E. C.

    1. Oo-oh! Oo-oh! I am the storm-wind bold;
    Blow! snow! I fill the world with cold.
    I drive the hardy sailors Far o’er the boist’rous seas;
    I clear a path for the south-wind And for the western breeze.

    2. Zoo-zo! Zoo-zo! South-wind soft am I;
    Low! low! List to my sough and sigh.
    I wake the sleepy cloudlets Bringing the summer showers,
    I hum the world’s low dream-song Over the baby flow’rs,

[4] May be sung with zither, jew’s-harp, or horn-comb accompaniment


    “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._

[Illustration: Girl with flowers]


    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.

[Illustration: Scene, mountain and forest]


    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?

[Illustration: “ON SUNNY BANKS”]


    There’s no dew left on the daisies and clover,
      There’s no rain left in heaven;
    I’ve said my “seven times” over and over--
      Seven times one are seven.

    I am old, so old I can write a letter;
      My birthday-lessons are done.
    The lambs play always, they know no better;
      They are only one time’s one.

    O moon in the night, I have seen you sailing
      And shining so round and low;
    You were bright, ah, bright! but your light is failing,
      You are nothing now but a bow.

    You moon! have you done something wrong in heaven,
      That God has hidden your face?
    I hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven
      And shine again in your place.

    O velvet bee! you’re a dusty fellow,
      You’ve powdered your legs with gold!
    O brave marshmary-buds, rich and yellow,
      Give me your money to hold.

    O columbine! open your folded wrapper,
      Where two twin turtle-doves dwell;
    O cuckoo-pint! toll me the purple clapper
      That hangs in your clear, green bell.

    And show me your nest with the young ones in it;
      I will not steal them away;
    I am old; you may trust me, linnet, linnet,
      I am seven times one to-day.

    —_Jean Ingelow._


    Dear John, the sun is setting now,
      Behold him in the west;
    And all the children now must soon
      Lie down and go to rest.

    In other countries far away
      The day begins to break;
    And many a child and many a bird
      Will soon be wide awake.


    The moon is very fair and bright,
      And seems so very high;
    I think it is a pretty sight
      To see it in the sky:
    It shone upon me as I lay
    Until ’twas almost bright as day.

    The stars are very pretty, too,
      And scattered all about;
    At first there seems a very few,
      But soon the rest come out:
    I’m sure I could not count them all,
    They are so very bright and small.

    The sun is brighter still than they,
      He blazes in the skies;
    I dare not turn my face that way,
      Unless I shut my eyes:
    Yet when he shines our hearts revive,
    And all the trees rejoice and thrive.

    God made and keeps them every one
      By his great power and might;
    He is more glorious than the sun
      And all the stars of light:
    Yet, though so great, we, by his grace,
    If pure in heart, shall see his face.


    “See, the stars are coming
      In the far blue skies:
    Mother, look, they brighten;
      Are they angels’ eyes?”

    “No, my child, the luster
      Of the stars is given,
    Like the hues of flowers,
      By the God of heaven.”

    “Mother, if I study,
      Sure he’ll make me know
    Why the stars he kindled
      O’er our earth to glow.”

    “Child, what God created
      Has a glorious aim;
    Thine it is to worship,
      Thine to love his name.”


    Twinkle, twinkle, little star;
    How I wonder what you are!
    Up above the world so high,
    Like a diamond in the sky.

    When the glorious sun is set,
    When the grass with dew is wet,
    Then you show your little light,
    Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.

    In the dark blue sky you keep,
    And often through my curtains peep;
    For you never shut your eye
    Till the sun is in the sky.

    As your bright and tiny spark
    Lights the traveler in the dark,
    Though I know not what you are,
    Twinkle, twinkle, little star.


    Who am I that shine so bright,
    With my pretty yellow light
    Peeping through your curtains gray?
    Tell me, little girl, I pray.

    When the sun is gone, I rise
    In the clear and silent skies;
    And a cloud or two doth skim
    Round about my silver rim.

    All the little stars do seem
    Hidden by my brighter beam;
    And among them I do ride
    Like a queen in all her pride.

    Then the reaper goes along
    Singing forth a merry song,
    While I light the shaking leaves
    And the yellow harvest sheaves.


    God made the sky that looks so blue;
      He made the grass so green;
    He made the flowers that smell so sweet,
      In pretty colors seen.

    God made the sun that shines so bright
      And gladdens all I see;
    It comes to give us heat and light:
      How thankful should we be!


    Back of the loaf is the snowy flour,
      And back of the flour is the mill;
    And back of the mill is the sheaf,
            And the shower,
            And the sun,
      And the Father’s will.


    In the sun, the moon, and sky,
    On the mountains wild and high,
    In the thunder, in the rain,
    In the grove, the wood, the plain,
    In the little birds which sing:
    God is seen in everything.


    Jingle, jingle, go the bells;
      A right good time have we,
    Over the valleys and over the hills,
      Dear grandmamma to see.

    The day is bright, and away we go
      As swift as swift can be,
    Over the smoothly trodden snow,
      Dear grandmamma to see.

    And look, do look, for there she stands,
      Aunt Mary by her side,
    To welcome us with outstretched hands
      After our pleasant ride.

    And there are George and Carlo, too,
      For they heard the tell-tale bells,
    As over the shining road we flew,
      And down the slippery hills.


    Down, down the hill I swiftly go,
    Over the ice and over the snow;
    A horse or cart I do not fear,
    For past them both my sled I steer.

    Hurrah, my boy, I’m going down,
    While you toil up; but never frown:
    The far hill-top you soon will gain,
    And then, with all your might and main,

    You’ll dash by me; while, full of glee,
    I’ll up again, to dash by thee.
    So on we glide--oh, life of joy;
    What pleasure has the little boy!


    Oh, look at my kite,
    Almost out of sight;
    How swiftly it flies
    Right up to the skies!
    Pretty kite, pretty kite,
    Almost out of sight,
    Pray, what do you spy
    In the bright blue sky?


    John White flew his kite one very windy day,
    But a gale broke the tail, and it soon flew away.

    And while he sat crying and sighing and sad,
    Charlie Gray came that way, a good-natured lad.

    “Don’t cry, wipe your eye, poor little Jack;
    Stay here, never fear; I’ll soon bring it back.”

    Up the tree went he, and took the kite down.
    “Many thanks, many thanks,” said dear little John.


    We have a little pony, and we call him Dapple Gray,
    And in our little carriage we drive out every day;
          How our happy hearts are bounding,
          With his clinking hoofs resounding,
    And his clatter, clatter, clatter, all the way.

    They give our horsie water and they give our horsie hay,
    And they give our horsie oats for his breakfast every day;
          When clinking hoofs are ringing,
          And our happy voices singing,
    Then we clatter, clatter, clatter, all the way.

    The nicest rides we have are in the month of May,
    When we drive out in the country, and always some new way;
          Oh, the turnings and the windings,
          Oh, the seekings and the findings,
    As we clatter, clatter, clatter, all the way.

[Illustration: Boy with pony]


    Hop, hop, hop, nimble as top,
      Over hill and valley bounding,
      With your clinking hoofs resounding:
    Hop, hop, hop, nimble as a top.

    Spare, spare, spare; sure enough, we’re there;
      Very well, my little pony;
      Safe’s our jaunt, though rough and stony:
    Spare, spare, spare; sure enough, we’re there.

    Here, here, here; yes, my pony dear:
      Now with hay and oats I’ll treat you,
      And with smiles will ever greet you,
    Here, here, here; yes, my pony dear.


    Merry it is on a summer’s day
    All through the meadows to wend away,
    To watch the brooks glide fast or slow,
    And the little fish twinkle down below;
    To hear the lark in the blue sky sing;
    Oh, sure enough, ’tis a merry thing,
    But ’tis merrier far to swing, to swing!

    Down with the hoop upon the green,
    Down with the ringing tambourine;
    Little care we for this or for that;
    Off with the bonnet, off with the hat:
    Away we go, like birds on the wing!
    Higher yet! higher yet! Now for the king!
    This is the way we swing, we swing!

    Scarcely the bough bends, Claude is so light;
    Mount up behind him--there, that is right;
    Down bends the branch, now swing him away.
    Higher yet! higher yet! higher, I say!
    Oh, what a joy it is! Now let us sing,
    “A pear for the queen and a peach for the king!”
    And shake the old tree as we swing, we swing.


    There, go to sleep, Dolly, in mother’s own lap;
    I’ve put on your nightgown and neat little cap:
    So sleep, pretty baby, and shut up your eye;
    By-by, little Dolly, lie still and by-by.

    Now I’ll lay my clean handkerchief over your head,
    And then you may think that my lap is your bed;
    So hush, little dear, and be sure you don’t cry;
    By-by, little Dolly, lie still and by-by.

    There, now it is morning, and time to get up;
    I’ll crumb you a mess in my own china cup:
    Awake, little baby, and open your eye,
    For now it is time to be done with by-by.


    I have a little doll,
      I take care of her clothes;
    She has soft flaxen hair,
      And her name is Rose.

    She has pretty blue eyes,
      And a very small nose,
    And a sweet little mouth--
      And her name is Rose.

    I have a little bedstead
      Where Dolly may repose,
    Or sit up like a lady--
      And her name is Rose.


            Now, Dolly, my dear,
            I pray you come here;
            The daylight has gone,
            And work is all done:
    I’ll put you to bed, for to-morrow is Sunday,
    And I shall not see you again until Monday.

            You don’t want to go?
            But you ought to, you know,
            For it is but right;
            So, Dolly, good-night:
    Lie still without fretting or crying till Monday,
    For we ought not to play, Dolly dear, on a Sunday.


    I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
    And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
    He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
    And I see him jump before me when I jump into my bed.

    The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow--
    Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
    For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
    And he sometimes gets so little that there’s none of him at all.

    He hasn’t got a notion how children ought to play,
    And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
    He stays so close beside me he’s a coward, you can see;
    I’d think it shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

    One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
    I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
    But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
    Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed!

    —_Robert Louis Stevenson._


    There, run away, you little things,
      And skip and jump and play;
    You have been quiet long enough,
      So run away, I say.

    The sweet, fresh air so softly blows,
      So brightly shines the sun,
    That active limbs and rosy cheeks
      Will in the race be won.

    For little girls and boys may sing
      And frisk and jump and play,
    When work and lessons both are done;
      So run away, I say.


  1. Lightly row, lightly row, O’er the glassy waves we go,
  Smoothly glide, smoothly glide, On the silent tide.
  Let the winds and waters be Mingled with our melody;
  Sing and float, sing and float, In our little boat.

  2. Far away, far away, Echo mid the rocks at play,
  Calleth not, calleth not To this lonely spot.
  Only with the sea-birds’ note Shall our dying music float;
  Lightly row, lightly row, Echo’s voice is low.


    God’s in his heaven,
    All’s right with the world.




    God is in heaven--can he hear
      A feeble prayer like mine?
    Yes, little child, thou need’st not fear;
      He listeneth to thine.

    God is in heaven--can he see
      When I am doing wrong?
    Yes, that he can; he looks at thee
      All day and all night long.

    God is in heaven--would he know
      If I should tell a lie?
    Yes, if thou saidst it very low,
      He’d hear it in the sky.

    God is in heaven--does he care,
      Or is he good to me?
    Yes, all thou hast to eat or wear,
      ’Tis God that giveth thee.

    God is in heaven--can I go
      To thank him for his care?
    Not yet; but love him here below,
      And he will see it there.

    God is in heaven--may I pray
      To go there when I die?
    Yes, love, be good, and then one day
      He’ll call thee to the sky.


    God only is the maker
      Of all things near and far;
    He paints the wayside flower,
      He lights the evening star;
    The winds and waves obey him;
      By him the birds are fed;
    And to us all, his children,
      He gives our daily bread.


    As on the mother’s breast,
      Safe in her watchful keeping,
    And softly hushed to rest,
      The little babe is sleeping,
    Without a care, without a fear,
      Without a thought of danger near;—

    So on my Saviour’s grace,
      In Jesus’ love confiding,
    And till I see his face,
      Firm in his truth abiding,
    As safe, as happy I may be,
      For Jesus watches over me.


    I think, when I read that sweet story of old,
      When Jesus was here among men,
    How he called little children as lambs to his fold,
      I should like to have been with them then.

    I wish that his hands had been placed on my head,
      That his arms had been thrown around me,
    And that I might have seen his kind look when he said,
      “Let the little ones come unto me.”

    But still to his footstool in prayer I may go,
      And ask for a share in his love;
    And if I thus earnestly seek him below,
      I shall see him and hear him above--

    In that beautiful place he has gone to prepare
      For all who are washed and forgiven;
    And many dear children are gathering there,
      “For of such is the kingdom of heaven.”

    But thousands and thousands who wander and fall
      Never heard of that heavenly home;
    I wish they could know there is room for them all,
      And that Jesus has bid them to come.

    —_Mrs. Luke._


    Mrs. Luke English

    1. I think, when I read that sweet story of old,
    When Jesus was here among men,
    How He called little children as lambs to His fold,
    I should like to have been with them then.

    2. But still to His footstool in pray’r I may go,
    And ask for a share in His love;
    And if I thus earnestly seek Him below,
    I shall see Him and hear Him above.


    “The Master has come over Jordan,”
      Said Hannah the mother one day;
    “He is healing the people who throng him
      With a touch of his finger, they say.

    “And now I shall carry the children,
      Little Rachel and Samuel and John;
    I shall carry the baby Esther
      For the Lord to look upon.”

    The father looked at her kindly,
      But he shook his head and smiled.
    “Now who but a doting mother
      Would think of a thing so wild?”

    “Nay, do not hinder me, Nathan!
      I feel such a burden of care;
    If I carry it to the Master,
      Perhaps I shall leave it there.

    “If he lay his hand on the children,
      My heart will be lighter, I know;
    For a blessing forever and ever
      Will follow them as they go.”

    So over the hills of Judah,
      Along the vine-rows green,
    With Esther asleep on her bosom,
      And Rachel her brothers between--

    ’Mong the people who hung on his teaching
      Or waited his touch or his word,
    Through the row of proud Pharisees listening--
      She passed to the feet of her Lord.

    “Now why shouldst thou hinder the Master,”
      Said Peter, “with children like these?
    Seest not how from morning to evening
      He teacheth, and healeth disease?”

    Then Christ said, “Forbid not the children;
      Permit them to come unto me!”
    And he took in his arms little Esther,
      And Rachel he set on his knee.

    And the heavy heart of the mother
      Was lifted all earth-care above,
    As he laid his hands on the brothers
      And blessed them with tenderest love.


    I want to be like Jesus,
      So lowly and so meek;
    For no one marked an angry word
      That ever heard him speak.

    I want to be like Jesus,
      So frequently in prayer;
    Alone upon the mountain-top,
      He met his Father there.

    I want to be like Jesus:
      I never, never find
    That he, though persecuted, was
      To any one unkind.

    I want to be like Jesus,
      Engaged in doing good;
    So that of me it may be said,
      “She hath done what she could.”

    Alas, I’m not like Jesus,
      As any one may see!
    O gentle Saviour, send thy grace
      And make me like to thee!


    Jesus says that we must love him--
      Helpless as the lambs are we;
    But he very kindly tells us
      That our Shepherd he will be.

    Heavenly Shepherd, please to watch us,
      Guard us both by night and day;
    Pity show to little children,
      Who like lambs too often stray.

    We are always prone to wander,
      Please to keep us from each snare;
    Teach our infant hearts to praise thee
      For thy kindness and thy care.


    Little child, when you’re at play
      Do you know that Jesus sees you?
    He it is who made the day,
      Sunshine, birds, and flowers, to please you.
    Oh, then thank him much, and pray
    To be grateful every day.

    Little child, when you’re afraid
      Do you know that Christ is by you?
    Seek his care then--he has said,
      “Ask, and I will not deny you.”
    And he never fails to hear:
    He will keep you, do not fear.

    Little child, when you are bad
      Do you think that Jesus knows it?
    Yes; and oh, it makes him glad
      When you’re sorry, and disclose it.
    Oh, then tell him quick, and pray
    To grow better every day.


    Never, my child, forget to pray,
    Whate’er the business of the day:
    If happy dreams have blessed thy sleep,
    If startling fears have made thee weep,
    With holy thoughts begin the day,
    And ne’er, my child, forget to pray.

    Pray him by whom the birds are fed
    To give to thee thy daily bread:
    If wealth his bounty should bestow,
    Praise him from whom all blessings flow:
    If he who gave should take away,
    Oh, ne’er, my child, forget to pray!


        The morning bright
        With rosy light
    Has waked me from my sleep;
        Father, I own
        Thy love alone
    Thy little one doth keep.

        All through the day,
        I humbly pray,
    Be thou my guard and guide;
        My sins forgive,
        And let me live,
    Blest Jesus, near thy side.

        Oh, make thy rest
        Within my breast,
    Great Spirit of all grace;
        Make me like thee,
        Then I shall be
    Prepared to see thy face.


    Jesus, high in glory,
      Lend a listening ear;
    When we bow before thee,
      Infant praises hear.

    Though thou art so holy,
      Heaven’s almighty King,
    Thou wilt stoop to listen
      When thy praise we sing.

    We are little children,
      Weak and apt to stray;
    Saviour, guide and keep us
      In the heavenly way.

    Save us, Lord, from sinning,
      Watch us day by day;
    Help us now to love thee,
      Take our sins away.

    Then, when Jesus calls us
      To our heavenly home,
    We would gladly answer,
      “Saviour, Lord, we come.”


    Jesus, Saviour, Son of God,
    Who for me life’s pathway trod,
    Who for me became a child,
    Make me humble, meek, and mild.

    I thy little lamb would be;
    Jesus, I would follow thee:
    Samuel was thy child of old,
    Take me, too, within thy fold.


    I thank thee, Lord, for quiet rest
      And for thy care of me;
    Oh, let me through this day be blest
      And kept from harm by thee.

    Oh, take my naughty heart away,
      And make me clean and good;
    Lord Jesus, save my soul, I pray,
      And wash me in thy blood.

    Oh, let me love thee; kind thou art
      To children such as I:
    Give me a gentle, holy heart;
      Be thou my Friend on high.

    Help me to please my parents dear
      And do whate’er they tell;
    Bless all my friends, both far and near
      And keep them safe and well.


    Gracious Lord, we look to thee,
    Meek and humble may we be;
    Pride and anger put away,
    Make us better every day.

    Teach us for our friends to pray,
    And our parents to obey:
    Richest blessings from above
    Give them for their tender love.

    May we find the sweets of prayer
    Sweeter than our playtimes are,
    Love the Sabbath and the place
    Where we learn to seek thy face.

[Illustration: Girl praying]


    Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me;
      Bless thy little lamb to-night:
    Through the darkness be thou near me,
      Watch my sleep till morning light.

    All this day thy hand has led me,
      And I thank thee for thy care;
    Thou hast clothed me, warmed and fed me,
      Listen to my evening prayer.

    Let my sins be all forgiven,
      Bless the friends I love so well;
    Take me when I die to heaven,
      Happy there with thee to dwell.

    —_Mary Lundie Duncan._


    Now I lay me down to sleep,
    I pray thee, Lord, my soul to keep;
    If I should die before I wake,
    I pray thee, Lord, my soul to take:
    And this I beg for Jesus’ sake. Amen.


    The sun has gone to rest,
      The bee forsakes the flower,
    The young bird slumbers in its nest,
      Within the leafy bower.

    Where have I been this day?
      Into what folly run?
    Forgive me, Father, when I pray,
      Through Jesus Christ thy Son.


    Father, an orphan’s prayer receive,
      And listen to my plaintive cry;
    Thou only canst my wants relieve,
      Who art my Father in the sky.

    Thy Word has promised all I need,
      More than a father’s, mother’s care;
    Thou wilt the hungry orphan feed,
      And always listen to his prayer.

[Illustration: EVENING PRAYER]


    K. E. C.

    1. Our Father in Heaven, We hallow Thy name,
       May Thy kingdom holy On earth be the same;
       Oh, give to us daily Our portion of bread,
       For ’tis from Thy bounty That all must be fed.

    2. Forgive our transgressions, And teach us to know
       That humble compassion Which pardons each foe;
       Keep us from temptation, From weakness and sin;
       And Thine be the glory Forever, Amen.


    Hosannas were by children sung
      When Jesus was on earth;
    Then surely we are not too young
      To sound his praises forth.

    The Lord is great, the Lord is good;
      He feeds us from his store
    With earthly and with heavenly food;
      We’ll praise him evermore.

    We thank him for his gracious word,
      We thank him for his love;
    We’ll sing the praises of our Lord
      Who reigns in heaven above.


    Oh, what can little hands do
      To please the King of heaven?
    The little hands some work may try
    To help the poor in misery:
      Such grace to mine be given!

    Oh, what can little lips do
      To please the King of heaven?
    The little lips can praise and pray,
    And gentle words of kindness say:
      Such grace to mine be given!

    Oh, what can little eyes do
      To please the King of heaven?
    The little eyes can upward look,
    Can learn to read God’s holy Book:
      Such grace to mine be given!

    Oh, what can little hearts do
      To please the King of heaven?
    The hearts, if God his Spirit send,
    Can love and trust their Saviour Friend:
      Such grace to mine be given!

    Though small is all that we can do
      To please the King of heaven,
    When hearts and hands and lips unite
    To serve the Saviour with delight,
    They are most precious in his sight:
      Such grace to mine be given!


    Holy Bible, book divine,
    Precious treasure, thou art mine;
    Mine, to tell me whence I came;
    Mine, to teach me what I am;

    Mine, to chide me when I rove;
    Mine, to show a Saviour’s love:
    Mine art thou, to guide my youth
    In the paths of love and truth;

    Mine, to comfort in distress,
    If the Holy Spirit bless;
    Mine, to show by living faith
    Man can triumph over death;

    Mine, to tell of joys to come,
    And the sinner’s dreadful doom.
    O thou precious book divine,
    Precious treasure, thou art mine!


    One God I must worship supreme,
      And ne’er before images bow;
    I must not speak lightly his name,
      But pay to my God every vow.

    I’m bound to remember with care
      The Sabbath so hallowed and pure;
    To honor my parents so dear,
      That my life may the longer endure.

    I never must steal, or consent
      To what is impure or untrue;
    I must not indulge discontent,
      Or covet my neighbor his due.

    Now help me, O Father in heaven,
      To keep these commandments with zeal,
    In the strength that through Jesus is given
      To those who are doing thy will.


    I must not use God’s name in vain,
    Or ever speak a word profane;
    For those who learn to curse and swear
    The children of the devil are.
    My little lips, oh, may they be
    Attuned, O Lord, to honor thee.



    1. Thou shalt have no gods but me;
    2. Before no idol bow thy knee.
    3. Take not the name of God in vain,
    4. Nor dare the Sabbath-day profane.
    5. Give both thy parents honor due:
    6. Take heed that thou no murder do.
    7. Abstain from words and deeds unclean,
    8. Nor steal though thou art poor and mean,
    9. Nor make a wilful lie, nor love it.
    10. What is thy neighbor’s, dare not covet.


    With all thy soul love God above,
    And as thyself thy neighbor love.


    The week is passing fast away,
      The hours are almost done;
    Before I rise, the Sabbath-day
      Will surely be begun.

    Through all this week what have I done?
      Have I been kind to all?
    Have I sought anything but fun,
      And run at every call?

    Have I been still when I was bid,
      And ceased to make a noise?
    Have I been good in all I did,
      At lessons or at toys?

    I’m naughty every day I live,
      Say many a foolish word,
    But God can pardon all my sins,
      Through Jesus Christ my Lord.

    A child’s low prayer he will not scorn;
      I’ll pray before I sleep,
    And ask his love, then rest till morn,
      For he my soul will keep.


    Haste! put your playthings all away,
    To-morrow is the Sabbath-day:
    Come, bring to me your Noah’s ark,
    Your pretty tinkling music cart;
    Because, my love, you must not play,
    But holy keep the Sabbath-day.

    Bring here your German village, please,
    With all its houses, gates, and trees;
    Your waxen doll with eyes of blue,
    And all her tea-things bright and new;
    Because, you know, you must not play,
    But love to keep the Sabbath-day.

    Now, take your Sabbath pictures down--
    King David with his harp and crown,
    Good little Samuel on his knees,
    And many pleasant sights like these;
    Because, you know, you must not play,
    But learn of God upon his day.

    There is your hymn-book: you shall learn
    A verse, and some sweet kisses earn;
    Your book of Bible stories too,
    Which dear mamma will read to you:
    I think, although you must not play,
    We’ll have a happy Sabbath-day.


    Awake! awake! your bed forsake;
      To God your praises pay;
    The morning sun is clear and bright,
    With joy we hail his cheerful light:
        In songs of love
        Praise God above--
    It is the Sabbath-day.


    How sweet is the Sabbath, the morning of rest,
    The day of the week which I surely love best;
    The morning my Saviour arose from the tomb,
    And took from the grave all its terror and gloom.

    Instruct me, my Saviour, a child though I be,
    I am not too young to be noticed by thee:
    Renew all my heart, keep me firm in thy ways;
    I would love thee, and serve thee, and give thee the praise.

[Illustration: young girl with book]


    1. I’ll awake at dawn on the Sabbath day,
       For ’tis wrong to doze holy time away.
       With my lessons learned, this shall be my rule,
       Never to be late at the Sabbath School.

    2. Round our teacher dear, like a posy ring.
       We will gather near as we pray and sing;
       With the holy word for our guide and rule,
       Oh, how happy we in our Sabbath School.


    Will you come to our Sabbath School?
      I really wish you would;
    Oh, come and join our infant class,
      And learn how to be good.

    We learn to sing, we learn to pray,
      In our sweet Sabbath School;
    And here we learn of Jesus, too,
      Who gave the golden rule.

    I know I should not steal or use
      The smallest thing I see,
    Or what I should not like to lose,
      If it belonged to me.

    And this plain rule forbids me quite
      To strike an angry blow,
    Because I should not think it right
      If others served me so;

    But any kindness others need,
      I’ll do it cheerfully,
    As I am very glad indeed
      When they are kind to me.


    In the morn of the holy Sabbath
      I like in the church to see
    The dear little children clustered
      And worshiping there with me.
    I am sure that the gentle pastor,
      Whose words are like summer dew,
    Is cheered as he gazes over
      The dear little heads in the pew.

    Faces earnest and thoughtful,
      Innocent, grave, and sweet--
    They look in the congregation
      Like lilies among the wheat.
    And I think that the tender Master,
      Whose mercies are ever new,
    Has a special benediction
      For those dear little heads in the pew.

    When they hear, “The Lord is my Shepherd,”
      Or, “Suffer the babes to come,”
    They are glad that the loving Father
      Has given the lambs a home--
    A place of their own, with his people;
      He cares for me and for you.
    But close to his breast he gathers
      Those dear little heads in the pew.

    So I love, in the great assembly,
      On the Sabbath morns to see
    The dear little children clustered
      And worshiping there with me.
    For I know that our Heavenly Father,
      Whose mercies are ever new,
    Has a special benediction
      For those dear little heads in the pew.

    —_Margaret E. Sangster._


    The Careless Penny went loudly in;
    It rattled and rang like a piece of tin;
    No prayer went with it, and nobody
    Was helped or gladdened, and sad was he--
        The poor little careless giver!

    The Selfish Penny sank heavily,
    Like a lump of lead, as it well might be;
    No love went with it. “I might have bought
    So much for myself!” was his only thought--
        The mean little selfish giver!

    The Loving Penny dropped softly down,
    Like red, red gold from a royal crown;
    Pity and love made his eyes grow dim
    As he gave his all, and the Lord loved him--
        The dear little cheerful giver!

    —_Anna Burnham Bryant._


    Little hearts, O Lord, may love thee,
      Little minds may learn thy ways;
    Little hands and feet may serve thee,
      Little voices sing thy praise;
    Growing wiser, stronger, happier,
      Loving Jesus all their days.

[Illustration: Head of girl]

    Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;
    Do noble deeds, not dream them all day long;
    And so make life, death, and that vast forever,
      One grand, sweet song.

    _Charles Kingsley._


    K. E. C.

    1. Jesus bids us shine With a pure, clear light,
       Like a little candle Shining in the night.
       In this world is darkness, So we must shine,
       You in your small corner, And I in mine.

    2. Jesus bids us shine First of all for Him;
       Well He sees and knows it If our light is dim.
       He looks down from heaven To see us shine,
       You in your small corner, And I in mine.

    3. Jesus bids us shine Then for all around;
       Many kinds of darkness In the world are found,
       Sin and want and sorrow; So we must shine,
       You in your small corner, And I in mine.


    When little Samuel woke
      And heard his Maker’s voice,
    At every word he spoke
      How much did he rejoice.
    O blessed, happy child, to find
    The God of heaven so near and kind.

    If God would speak to me,
      And say he was my friend,
    How happy I should be,
      Oh, how I should attend!
    The smallest sin I then should fear,
    If God Almighty were so near.

    And does he never speak?
      Oh, yes; for in his Word
    He bids me come and seek
      The God that Samuel heard.
    In almost every page I see
    The God of Samuel calls to me.


    I see the ships upon the sea
      That silently go by,
    As white upon the waters blue
      As doves in yonder sky.

    And men are glad the ships to watch
      That bring them many things,
    Silver and gold and raiment soft,
      Upon their broad white wings.

    But I would rather look upon
      The ship that goes afar,
    And takes our Saviour’s messengers
      Where heathen children are;

    And carries books, that they may read
      How kind our Lord has been;
    For such a ship, I know, must be
      The fairest ever seen.


    B patient, B prayerful, B humble, B mild,
    B wise as a Solon, B meek as a child;
    B studious, B thoughtful, B loving, B kind,
    B cautious, B prudent, B truthful, refined.
    B cheerful, B grateful, B hopeful, B firm,
    B peaceful, Benevolent, willing to learn;
    B temp’rate in everything, touching no wine,
    B careful of conduct, of money, of time.
    B courteous, B gentle, B liberal, B just,
    B bold and B humble, because thou art dust;
    B penitent, circumspect, sound in the faith,
    Be active, devoted, and faithful till death.


    Whatsoe’er you find to do,
      Do it, boys, with all your might!
      Never be a little true,
    Or a little in the right.
          Trifles even
          Lead to heaven,
    Trifles make the life of man;
          So in all things,
          Great or small things,
    Be as thorough as you can.

    Let no speck their surface dim--
      Spotless truth and honor bright!
    I’d not give a fig for him
      Who says any lie is white!
          He who falters,
          Twists or alters
    Little atoms when we speak,
        May deceive me,
        But believe me,
    To himself he is a sneak!

    Help the weak if you are strong,
      Love the old if you are young,
    Own a fault if you are wrong,
      If you’re angry, hold your tongue.
          In each duty
          Lies a beauty,
    If your eyelids do not shut,
          Just as surely
          And securely
    As a kernel in a nut!

    Love with all your heart and soul,
      Love with eye and ear and touch;
    That’s the moral of the whole:
      You can never love too much!
          ’Tis the glory
          Of the story
    In our babyhood begun;
          Hearts without it
          (Never doubt it)
    Are the worlds without a sun!

    Whatsoe’er you find to do,
      Do it, then, with all your might;
    Let your prayers be strong and true--
      Prayer, my lads, will keep you right.
          Pray in all things,
          Great and small things,
    Like a Christian gentleman;
          And for ever,
          Failing never,
    Be as thorough as you can.

[Illustration: Head of boy]


    “How still the baby’s lying,
      I cannot hear his breath:
    They told me he was dying;
      They tell me this is death.
    My little song-book bringing,
      I sat down by his bed
    To soothe his pains by singing-—
      They hushed me; he was dead.

    “They say that he will, rising,
      More beautiful appear:
    The story is surprising;
      Explain it, mother dear.”
    “Dear daughter, you remember
      The cold, dark thing you brought
    One morning in September--
      A withered worm, you thought.

    “I told you God had power
      That withered shell to break,
    And from it in an hour
      A lovely form to take.
    And now you see before you
      The empty casement lies,
    And, robed in splendor, o’er you
      The new-born being flies.”

    “Oh, yes, mamma; how brightly
      It spreads its golden wings,
    And flies away so lightly,
      The gayest of gay things.
    And God can give my brother
      An equal power to rise
    From this life to another
      And dwell above the skies.”


    There is a happy land,
      Far, far away,
    Where saints in glory stand,
      Bright, bright as day.
    Oh, how they sweetly sing,
    “Worthy is our Saviour King;
    Loud let his praises ring,
      Praise, praise for aye.”

    Come to that happy land,
      Come, come away;
    Why will ye doubting stand,
      Why still delay?
    Oh, we shall happy be,
    When, from sin and sorrow free,
    Lord, we shall live with thee,
      Blest, blest for aye.

    Bright, in that happy land,
      Beams every eye;
    Kept by a Father’s hand,
      Love cannot die.
    Oh, then to glory run,
    Be a crown and kingdom won;
    And bright, above the sun,
      We reign for aye.


    “Oh, what do you think the angels say?”
      Said the children up in heaven.
    “There’s a dear little girl coming home to-day:
    She’s almost ready to fly away
      From the earth we used to live in.
    Let’s go and open the gates of pearl,
    Open them wide for the new little girl,”
      Said the children up in heaven.

    “God wanted her here where his little ones meet,”
      Said the children up in heaven;
    “She shall play with us in the golden street.
    She had grown too fair, she had grown too sweet,
      For the earth we used to live in.
    She needed the sunshine, this dear little girl,
    That gilds this side of the gates of pearl,”
      Said the children up in heaven.

    “So the King called down from the angels’ dome,”
      Said the children up in heaven:
    “‘My little darling, arise and come
    To the place prepared in thy Father’s home,
      The home that my children live in.’
    Let’s go and watch at the gates of pearl,
    Ready to welcome the new little girl,”
      Said the children up in heaven.

    “Far down on the earth do you hear them weep?”
      Said the children up in heaven,
    “For the dear little girl has gone to sleep!
    The shadows fall and the night-clouds sweep
      O’er the earth that we used to live in:
    But we’ll go and open the gates of pearl--
    Oh, why do they weep for their dear little girl?”
      Said the children up in heaven.

    “Fly with her quickly, O angels dear,”
      Said the children up in heaven.
    “See, she is coming! Look there--look there!
    At the jasper light on her sunny hair,
      Where the veiling clouds are riven!
    Ah, hush, hush, hush!” All the swift wings furl,
    For the King himself at the gates of pearl
    Is taking her hand, dear, tired little girl,
      And leading her into heaven!


    Around the throne of God in heaven
      Thousands of children stand--
    Children whose sins are all forgiven,
      A holy, happy band,
    Singing, Glory, glory,
      Glory be to God on high.

    What brought them to that world above,
      That heaven so bright and fair,
    Where all is peace and joy and love,
      How came those children there?

    Because the Saviour shed his blood
      To wash away their sin:
    Bathed in that pure and precious blood,
      Behold them white and clean,
    Singing, Glory, glory,
      Glory be to God on high.


    Come, let us all adore him;
      Our hearts’ pure love we bring
    To him, the Babe who came from heaven,
      The little children’s King.

[Illustration: Nativity scene]



    O little town of Bethlehem,
      How still we see thee lie;
    Above thy deep and dreamless sleep
      The silent stars go by;
    Yet in thy dark streets shineth
      The everlasting light,
    The hopes and fears of all the years
      Are met in thee to-night.

    O holy child of Bethlehem,
      Descend to us, we pray;
    Cast out our sin, and enter in,
      Be born in us to-day.
    We hear the Christmas angels
      The great glad tidings tell;
    Oh, come to us, abide with us,
      Our Lord Emmanuel.

    —_Phillips Brooks._


    Martin Luther J. E. Spilman

    1. Away in a manger, no crib for a bed,
       The little Lord Jesus laid down His sweet head.
       The stars in the bright sky looked down where He lay--
       The little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay.

    2. The cattle are lowing, the baby awakes,
       But little Lord Jesus, no crying He makes.
       I love Thee, Lord Jesus! look down from the sky,
       And stay by my cradle till morning is nigh.

    3. Be near me, Lord Jesus; I ask Thee to stay
       Close by me forever, and love me, I pray.
       Bless all the dear children in Thy tender care,
       And fit us for heaven to live with Thee there.


    Once in royal David’s city
      Stood a lowly cattle-shed,
    Where a mother laid her Baby
      In a manger for his bed.
    Mary was that mother mild,
    Jesus Christ her little Child.

    He came down to earth from heaven,
      Who is God and Lord of all,
    And his shelter was a stable,
      And his cradle was a stall.
    With the poor and mean and lowly
    Lived on earth our Saviour holy.

    For he is our childhood’s pattern,
      Day by day like us he grew;
    He was little, weak and helpless,
      Tears and smiles like us he knew.
    And he feeleth for our sadness,
    And he shareth in our gladness.

    And our eyes at last shall see him,
      Through his own redeeming love,
    For that Child so dear and gentle
      Is our Lord in heaven above.
    And he leads his children on
    To the place where he has gone.

    Not in that poor lowly stable,
      With the oxen standing by,
    We shall see him, but in heaven,
      Set at God’s right hand on high,
    When like stars his children, crowned
    All in white shall wait around.


    Brightest and best of the sons of the morning
      Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid;
    Star of the East, the horizon adorning,
      Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid

    Cold on his cradle the dewdrops are shining
      Low lies his head with the beasts of the stall;
    Angels adore him, in slumber reclining,
      Maker, and Monarch, and Saviour of all!


    Ring out the bells for Christmas,
      The happy, happy day,
    In winter wild the holy Child
      Within the cradle lay.
    Oh, wonderful! the Saviour
      Is in a manger lone;
    His palace is a stable,
      And Mary’s arm his throne.

    On Bethlehem’s quiet hillside,
      In ages long gone by,
    In angel notes the glory floats,
      “Glory to God on high.”
    Yet wakes the sun as joyous
      As when the Lord was born,
    And still he comes to greet you
      On every Christmas morn.

    Where’er his sweet lambs gather
      Within his gentle fold,
    The Saviour dear is waiting near,
      As in the days of old.
    In each young heart you meet him,
      In every guileless face
    You see the holy Jesus
      Who grew in truth and grace.

    Then sing your gladsome carols,
      And hail the new-born Son;
    For Christmas light is passing bright,
      It smiles on every one.
    And feast Christ’s little children,
      His poor, his orphan call;
    For he who chose the manger
      He loveth one and all.


    While shepherds watched their flocks by night,
      All seated on the ground,
    The angel of the Lord came down,
      And glory shone around.
    “Fear not,” said he--for mighty dread
      Had seized their troubled mind--
    “Glad tidings of great joy I bring
      To you and all mankind.”

    “To you, in David’s town this day,
      Is born of David’s line
    A Saviour, who is Christ the Lord,
      And this shall be the sign:
    The heavenly Babe you there shall find
      To human view displayed,
    All meanly wrapt in swathing bands,
      And in a manger laid.”

    Thus spake the seraph, and forthwith
      Appeared a shining throng
    Of angels praising God, and thus
      Addressed their joyful song:
    “All glory be to God on high,
      And to the earth be peace:
    Good-will henceforth, from heaven to men,
      Begin and never cease.”

[Illustration: 5 Cherubs]

[Illustration: Holly]

Christmas Carol

    Joyously the angels sang
      Long ago at Christmas.

    Every note of praise which rang
      Told the birth of Jesus.

    Shepherds wondering looked around,
      Tidings heard of Jesus.

    Upon a manger soon they found
      Christ, the baby Jesus.

    So may we to-day behold
      In our hearts this Jesus.

    —_Marie Belle Coles._

[Illustration: Holly]


    Marie Belle Coles K. E. C.

    Joyously the angels sang Long ago.. at Christ-mas;
    Ev’ry note of praise which rang Told the birth of Jesus.

    Repeat for last stanza


    Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber;
      Holy angels guard thy bed;
    Heavenly blessings without number
      Gently falling on thy head.

    Soft and easy is thy cradle;
      Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay
    When his birthplace was a stable,
      And his softest bed was hay.

    See the kindly shepherds round him,
      Telling wonders from the sky;
    Where they sought him, there they found him,
      With his virgin mother by.

    Lo, he slumbers in the manger
      Where the hornèd oxen fed!
    Peace, my darling, here’s no danger,
      Oxen stand not near thy bed.

    Mayst thou live to know and fear him,
      Trust and love him all thy days;
    Then go dwell forever near him,
      See his face and sing his praise!



    God wants the boys with all their joys,
    That he as gold may make them pure,
    And teach them hardness to endure;
    His HEROES brave he’ll have them be,
    Fighting for truth and purity.

[Illustration: Children playing soldiers]



    Oh, were you ne’er a schoolboy?
      And did you never train,
    And feel the swelling of the heart
      You ne’er will feel again?
    Did you never meet, far down the street,
      With plumes and banners gay,
    While the kettle, for the kettledrum,
      Played your march, march away?

    It seems to me but yesterday,
      Nor scarce so long ago,
    Since all our school their muskets took
      To charge the fearful foe.
    Our muskets were of cedar-wood,
      With ramrod bright and new;
    With bayonet forever set,
      And painted barrel, too.

    We charged upon a flock of geese
      And put them all to flight,

    Except one sturdy gander
      That thought to show us fight.
    But ah! we knew a thing or two--
      Our captain wheeled the van;
    We routed him, we scouted him,
      Nor lost a single man!

    Our captain was as brave a lad
      As e’er commission bore;
    And brightly shone his new tin sword;
      A paper cap he wore.
    He led us up the steep hillside,
      Against the western wind,
    While the cockerel plume which decked his head
      Streamed bravely out behind.

    We shouldered arms, we carried arms,
      We charged the bayonet,
    And woe unto the mullein-stalk
      That in our course we met.
    At two o’clock the roll we called,
      And till the close of day,
    With fearless hearts though tired limbs,
      We fought the mimic fray
    Till the supper-bell, from out the dell,
      Bade us march, march away.


    “How big was Alexander, pa,
      That people call him great?
    Was he like old Goliath tall,
      His spear a hundred weight?

    “Was he so large that he could stand
      Like some tall steeple high,
    And while his feet were on the ground
      His hands could touch the sky?”

    “Oh! no, my child; about as large
      As I or Uncle James.
    ’Twas not his stature made him great,
      But greatness of his name.”

    “His name so great? I know ’tis long,
      But easy quite to spell;
    And more than half a year ago
      I knew it very well.”

    “I mean, my child, his actions were
      So great he got a name
    That everybody speaks with praise
      Who tells about his fame.”

    “Well, what great actions did he do?
      I want to know it all.”
    “Why, he it was that conquered Tyre
      And leveled down her wall,

    “And thousands of her people slew,
      And then to Persia went,
    And fire and sword on every side
      Through many a region sent.

    “A hundred conquered cities shone
      With midnight burnings red;
    And, strewed o’er many a battle-ground,
      A thousand soldiers bled.”

    “Did _killing people_ make him great?
      Then why was Abdel Young,
    Who killed his neighbor training-day,
      Put into jail and hung?

    “I never heard them call _him_ great.”
      “Why, no--’twas not in war,
    And him that kills a single man
      His neighbors all abhor.”

    “Well, then, if I should kill a man,
      I’d kill a hundred more;
    I should be great, and not get hung
      Like Abdel Young before.”

    “Not so, my child, ’twill never do;
      The Gospel bids be kind.”
    “Then they that kill, and they that praise,
      The Gospel do not mind.”

    “You know, my child, the Bible says
      That you must always do
    To other people as you wish
      To have them do to you.”

    “But, pa, did Alexander wish
      That some strong man would come
    And burn his house and kill him, too,
      And do as he had done?

    “And everybody called him great
      For killing people so--
    Well, now, what right he had to kill
      I should be glad to know.

    “If one should burn the buildings here,
      And kill the folks within,
    Would anybody call him great
      For such a wicked thing?”


    The boy stood on the burning deck,
      Whence all but him had fled;
    The flames that lit the battled wreck
      Shone round him o’er the dead.

    Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
      As born to rule the storm;
    A creature of heroic blood,
      A brave though childlike form.

    The flames rolled on--he would not go
      Without his father’s word;
    That father, faint in death below,
      His voice no longer heard.

    He called aloud--“Say, father, say
      If yet my task is done!”
    He knew not that the chieftain lay
      Unconscious of his son.

    “Speak, father!” once again he cried,
      “If I may yet be gone;”
    And but the booming shots replied,
      And fast the flames rolled on.

    Upon his brow he felt their breath,
      And in his waving hair,
    And looked from that lone post of death
      In still yet brave despair;

    And shouted but once more aloud,
      “My father, must I stay?”
    While o’er him fast, through sail and shroud,
      The wreathing fires made way.

    They wrapped the ship in splendor wild,
      They caught the flag on high,
    And streamed above the gallant child
      Like banners in the sky.

    There came a burst of thunder-sound--
      The boy--oh, where was he?
    Ask of the winds that far around
      With fragments strewed the sea,

    With mast and helm and pennon fair
      That well had borne their part--
    But the noblest thing that perished there
      Was that young faithful heart.

    —_Mrs. Hemans._


             A STORY OF HOLLAND

    The good dame looked from her cottage
      At the close of the pleasant day,
    And cheerily called to her little son
     Outside the door at play:

    “Come, Peter, come! I want you to go,
      While there is light to see,
    To the hut of the blind old man who lives
      Across the dike, for me.
    And take these cakes I made for him--
      They are hot and smoking yet;
    You have time enough to go and come
      Before the sun is set.”

    Then the good wife turned to her labor,
      Humming a simple song,
    And thought of her husband, working hard
      At the sluices all day long,
    And set the turf ablazing
      And brought the coarse black bread,
    That he might find a fire at night,
      And find the table spread.

    And Peter left the brother
      With whom all day he had played,
    And the sister who had watched their sports
      In the willow’s tender shade;
    And told them they’d see him back before
      They saw a star in sight,
    Though he wouldn’t be afraid to go
      In the very darkest night!
    For he was a brave, bright fellow,
      With eye and conscience clear,
    He could do whatever a boy might do,
      And he had not learned to fear.
    Why, he wouldn’t have robbed a bird’s
      Nor brought a stork to harm,
    Though never a law in Holland
      Had stood to stay his arm.

    And now with his face all glowing,
      And eyes as bright as the day
    With the thoughts of his pleasant errand,
      He trudged along the way;
    And soon his joyous prattle
      Made glad a lonesome place;
    Alas! if only the old blind man
      Could have seen that happy face!
    Yet he somehow caught the brightness
      Which his voice and presence lent,
    And he felt the sunshine come and go
      As Peter came and went.

    And now, as the day was sinking
      And the winds began to rise,
    The mother looked from her door again,
      Shading her anxious eyes.
    She saw the shadows deepen
      And birds to their homes come back,
    But never a sign of Peter
      Along the level track.
    But she said: “He will come at morning,
      So I need not fret or grieve;
    Though it isn’t like my boy at all
      To stay without my leave.”

    But where was the child delaying?
      On the homeward way was he
    And across the dike while the sun was up
      An hour above the sea.
    He was stopping now to gather flowers,
      Now listening to the sound
    As the angry waters dashed themselves
      Against their narrow bound.

    “Oh, well for us,” said Peter,
      “That the gates are good and strong
    And my father tends them carefully,
      Or they would not hold you long.
    You’re a wicked sea,” said Peter;
      “I know why you fret and chafe;
    You would like to spoil our lands and homes,
      But our sluices keep you safe.”

    But hark! through the noise of waters
      Comes a low, clear, trickling sound;
    And the child’s face pales with terror
      And his blossoms drop to the ground.
    He is up the bank in a moment
      And, stealing through the sand,
    He sees a stream not yet so large
      As his slender childish hand.

    ‘_Tis a leak in the dike!_ He is but a boy,
      Unused to fearful scenes;
    But young as he is he has learned to know
      The dreadful thing that means.
    A leak in the dike! The stoutest heart
      Grows faint that cry to hear,
    And the bravest man in all the land
      Turns white with mortal fear;
    For he knows that the smallest leak may grow
      To a flood in a single night;
    And he knows the strength of the cruel sea
      When loosed in its angry might.

    And the boy! He has seen the danger,
      And shouting a wild alarm,
    He forces back the weight of the sea
      With the strength of his single arm
    He listens for the joyful sound
      Of a footstep passing nigh;
    He lays his ear to the ground, to catch
      The answer to his cry.
    And he hears the rough winds blowing
      And the waters rise and fall,
    But never an answer comes to him
      Save the echo of his call.

    He sees no hope, no succor,
      His feeble voice is lost;
    Yet what shall he do but watch and wait
      Though he perish at his post?
    So, faintly calling and crying
      Till the sun is under the sea,
    Crying and moaning till the stars
      Come out for company,

    He thinks of his brother and sister
      Asleep in their safe warm bed;
    He thinks of his father and mother;
      Of himself as dying--and dead;
    And of how, when the night is over,
      They must come and find him at last;
    But he never thinks he can leave the place
      Where duty holds him fast.

    The good dame in the cottage
      Is up and astir with the light,
    For the thought of her little Peter
      Has been with her all the night.
    And now she watches the pathway
      As yester eve she had done;
    But what does she see so strange and black
      Against the rising sun?
    Her neighbors are bearing between them
      Something straight to her door;
    Her child is coming home, but not
      As he ever came before.

    “He is dead,” she cries, “my darling!”
      And the startled father hears,
    And comes and looks the way she looks
      And fears the thing she fears:
    Till a glad shout from the hearers
      Thrills the stricken man and wife--
    “Give thanks, for your son has saved our land
      And God has saved his life!”
    So there in the morning sunshine
      They knelt about the boy;
    And every head was bared and bent
      In tearful, reverent joy.

    ’Tis many a year since then; but still,
      When the sea roars like a flood,
    Their boys are taught what a boy can do
      Who is brave and true and good.
    And every man in that country
      Takes his small son by the hand
    And tells him of little Peter
      Whose courage saved the land.
    They have many a valiant hero
      Remembered through the years,
    But never one whose name so oft
      Is named with loving tears.
    And his deed shall be sung at the cradle,
      And told to the child on the knee,
    So long as the dikes of Holland
      Divide the land from the sea.


      No need of blazoned shield
        To mark our country’s story;
      No need of battle’s gory field
        To tell of fame and glory;
    These are but baubles in the dust;
    Here rests our fame--“In God we trust!”

      He whose unerring hand
        Guides nations in their blindness
      Doth wield at once, in every land,
        The scepter of his kindness.
    He is the Good, the Great, the Just:
    This is our strength--“In God we trust!”

      But speed the day when we,
        A great and glorious nation,
      In right and might, on land and sea,
        Are Christ’s in imitation,
    Striving for this--and strive we must--
    Our motto is, “In God we trust!”

[Illustration: A bell]


    My country, ’tis of thee,
    Sweet land of liberty,
      Of thee I sing;
    Land where my fathers died,
    Land of the Pilgrims’ pride,
    From ev’ry mountain-side
      Let freedom ring.

    Let music swell the breeze,
    And ring from all the trees,
      Sweet freedom’s song;
    Let mortal tongues awake,
    Let all who breathe partake,
    Let rocks their silence break,
      The sound prolong.

    Our fathers’ God, to thee,
    Author of liberty,
      To thee we sing:
    Long may our land be bright
    With freedom’s holy light;
    Protect us by thy might,
      Great God, our King.


    The breaking waves clashed high
      On a stern and rock-bound coast,
    And the woods against a stormy sky
      Their giant branches tossed,
    And the heavy night hung dark
      The hills and waters o’er,
    When a band of exiles moored their bark
      On the wild New England shore.

    Not as the conqueror comes,
      They the true-hearted came;
    Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
      And the trumpet that sings of fame:
    Not as the flying come,
      In silence and in fear:
    They shook the depths of the desert gloom
      With their hymns of lofty cheer.

    Amidst the storm they sang,
      And the stars heard, and the sea;
    And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang
      To the anthem of the free.
    The ocean eagle soared
      From his nest by the white wave’s foam,
    And the rocking pines of the forest roared--
      This was their welcome home.

[Illustration: People being helped ashore from boat]

    What sought they thus afar?
      Bright jewels from the mine?
    The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?
      They sought a faith’s pure shrine.
    Ay, call it holy ground,
      The soil where first they trod--
    They have left unstained what there they found,

    —_Mrs. Hemans._



    The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast,
    And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed;
    And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o’er,
    When a band of exiles moor’d their bark On the wild New England


    Breathes there a man with soul so dead
    Who never to himself hath said,
      “This is my own, my native land!”
    Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned,
    As home his footsteps he hath turned
      From wandering on a foreign strand!

    If such there breathe, go, mark him well:
    For him no minstrel raptures swell:
    High though his titles, proud his name,
    Boundless his wealth as wish can claim,
    Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
    The wretch, concentered all in self,
    Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
    And, doubly dying, shall go down
    To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
    Unwept, unhonored and unsung.

    —_Sir Walter Scott._


  Answer to a Child’s Question, 102

  Ark and the Dove, The, 148

  Asleep, 80

  At Close of Day, 77

  Baby-jumper, The, 22

  Baby, Sleep, 19

  Bees, The, 113

  Before the Sabbath, 199

  Best Day, The, 202

  Bird’s Nest, The, 99

  Bit of a Sermon, A, 211

  Blackberry-girl, The, 40

  Blind Boy, The, 35

  Boy and the Lark, The, 100

  Boy’s Faith, A, 37

  Brook, The, 25

  Bud, The, 151

  Busy Bee, 112

  Busy Little Farmer, 67

  Butterfly, The, 119

  Captive Bluebird, The, 97

  Chickens, The, 91

  Children Praising the Saviour, 195

  Children’s Praises, 218

  Children’s Prayer, 190

  Child’s Self-examination, 72

  Christmas Carol, 228

  Cold Water Boy, The, 52

  Commandments, The, 197

  Country Music, 124

  Cradle Hymn, 230

  Cruel Sport, 98

  Daisy’s Prayer, 69

  Dapple Gray, 167

  Dawn of Day, 49

  Dear Little Heads in the Pew, 205

  Dear Mamma, 12

  Death and the Resurrection, 213

  Dolly Going to Sleep, 170

  Don’t Kill the Birds, 101

  Evening Prayer, 192

  Eye-peep Hour, 50

  Father of the Fatherless, The, 192

  Father’s Will, The, 9

  First Prayer, The, 191

  Fly, The, 113

  Folded Wings, 55

  For Mother, 14

  Generous Heart, The, 67

  Gentle Bossy, 88

  Givers, The, 206

  Go and Tell Jesus, 185

  God is in Heaven, 177

  God, the Creator, 178

  God’s Name, 198

  Going to Rest, 77

  Golden Rule, The, 62

  Good Name, A, 65

  Good-night, 21, 73

  Good Shepherd, The, 185

  Grandpa and Me, 31

  Happy Childhood, 156

  Happy Helen, 59

  Happy Land, The, 215

  “He Giveth Us All Things,” 164

  Hen and Chickens, 91

  Heroic Boy, The, 238

  Ho for Slumberland, 78

  Honest Boy, The, 60

  How Big was Alexander, Pa? 235

  How I Love, 58

  How Selfish It Is! 44

  Hushaby, 18

  “In God We Trust,” 247

  Is It You? 68

  I will be Good To-day, 60

  I Would Follow Thee, 189

  Jack Frost, 139

  Jesus, Tender Shepherd, 191

  John White and His Kite, 166

  Kindness to Animals, 87

  Kitty and Mousie, 86

  Lamb’s Lullaby, The, 122

  Landing of the Pilgrims, The, 249

  Leak in the Dike, The, 240

  Learning to Walk, 22

  Lie, The, 61

  Like Jesus, 184

  Little, but Wise, 83

  Little Dog, 84

  Little Fish, The, 127

  Little Neighbors, 36

  Little Star, 73, 162

  Love at Home, 28

  Love One Another, 26

  Love Your Little Brother, 24

  Mary and Her Little Lamb, 125

  Master Has Come Over Jordan, The, 182

  Meddlesome Mattie, 63

  Merry Fly, The, 118

  Merry Raindrops, 149

  Missionary Ship, The, 209

  Moon, The, 162

  Morning, 21, 50

  Morning Hymn, 187

  Morning Prayer, 189

  My Brother, 23

  My Country, ’Tis of Thee, 248

  My Doll, 170

  My Father Blessed Me, 15

  My Kite, 166

  My Little Pony, 168

  My Mother, 13

  My Pussy, 84

  My Shadow, 172

  My Tame Squirrel, 120

  Naughty Chick, The, 90

  Never Forget to Pray, 186

  Newcomer in Heaven, The, 216

  North Wind, The, 141

  Of What are Your Clothes Made? 126

  Oh, What Can Little Hands Do? 195

  O Little Town of Bethlehem, 221

  Once in Royal David’s City, 223

  Orphan Flower-girl, The, 40

  Papa is Coming, 14

  Peacock, The, 111

  Persevere, 66

  Pet Lamb, The, 129

  Poor Robin, 93

  Praise, 188

  Precious Treasure, A, 197

  Preparing for the Sabbath, 200

  Pretty Bee, 117

  Prince Comes! The, 16

  Reindeer and the Rabbit, The, 128

  Ring Out the Bells for Christmas, 225

  Robin Redbreast’s Secret, 94

  Robin Redbreasts, The, 93

  Run and Play, 173

  Sabbath Morning, 201

  Sabbath School, The, 204

  Samuel, 209

  Saturday Night, 171

  Setting Sun, The, 159

  Seven Times One, 158

  Shadows, The, 70

  Sled-ride, The, 165

  Sleep, Baby! Sleep! 20

  Sleigh-ride, The, 164

  Snow, The, 138

  Snow-bird’s Song, The, 103

  Snowdrop, The, 150

  Snowflakes, 139

  Snow-shower, The, 142

  Song to Bring Sleep, A, 74

  So Safe! 179

  Sparrow in the Snow, The, 104

  Spider and the Fly, The, 114

  Squirrel’s Arithmetic, The, 121

  Star of the East, 224

  Stars are Coming, The, 161

  Sum of the Commandments, 199

  Summer-time, 155

  Sun, Moon and Stars, 160

  Swarm of Bees, A, 210

  Sweetly Sleep, 20

  Swing, The, 169

  Sympathy, 27

  Temperance Song, A, 95

  Ten Commandments, The, 199

  That Sweet Story of Old, 179

  Thinking of Mercies, 46

  Through the Year, 137

  Thunderstorm, The, 154

  Time, 56

  Trust and Try, 65

  Turtle-doves, The, 108

  Two Little Tempers, 62

  Up Early, 55

  Violet, The, 152

  Voice of Spring, The, 146

  Walk in Spring, A, 147

  Wanderings of the Birds, The, 107

  We are Seven, 28

  Welcome, 15

  What I Hate, 53

  What I Love, 54

  What Little Children May Do, 207

  What the Winds Bring, 143

  When Father Comes Home, 10

  When the Cows Come Home, 88

  Where do you Come from, Baby Dear? 17

  Where is God? 164

  While Shepherds Watched their Flocks by Night, 226

  Why should I Fear? 74

  Works of God, The, 163

  Young Soldiers, 233


  An April Shower, 153

  At Sabbath School, 203

  Christmas Carol, 229

  Cradle Hymn, 222

  Father’s Will, The, 8

  Jesus Bids Us Shine, 208

  Jesus Dwells Within, 34

  Landing of the Pilgrims, The, 251

  Lightly Row, 174

  Little Doves, The, 110

  Little Drops of Water, 57

  Lord’s Prayer, The, 194

  Slumber Islands, 79

  Sweet Story of Old, That, 181

  Wind Song, 145

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

In the original all verses, apart from the musical items, were set
within full page illustrations these, together with minor decorations,
have not been indicated.

Italics are represented thus _italic_.

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