Oh, yes, but they do! In the breezy wild rose, Whose heart with the sun's yellow gold overflows, Instead of one flower I will vote for three; You see I'm impartial, I've no way but this. For the Mayflower, the wild rose, and goldenrod is, -Lucy Larcom. WE TWO WISE OWLS. E are two dusky owls, and we live in a tree; Look at her, she's my mate, and the mother of three Pretty owlets, and we Have a warm cosy nest, just as snug as can be. We are both very wise; for our heads, as you see, (Look at her, look at me!) Are as large as the heads of four birds ought to be, Make us look wiser still, sitting here on the tree. Far away in the valley, a mile it may be, Is a churchyard, and we Often sit there at midnight, and hoot in high glee. For the bird in the air is my mate, as you see. And we care not how gloomy the night-time may be; We can see, Through the forest to roam, And we're free, we can see it suits her, it suits me; we are free To bring back what we find, to our nest in the tree. YES, VES, Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew, When the old mill took fire, and the flooring fell through, What do you think my eyes saw through the fire The shining? He must have come there after me. Any one's missing him. Then what a shout- They tried, but the fire held them back like a wall, "Never mind, baby, sit still like a man! Carefully placed by his side; and his eyes Again and again. O God, what a cry! - Where the men worked like tigers, nor minded the heat The sight of the child there, when swift at my side Oh, how the men raved, Shouted and cried, and hurrahed! Then they all Rushed at the work again, lest the back wall, Where I was lying away from the fire, Should fall in and bury me. Oh! you'd admire To see Robin now; he's as bright as a dime, Yes, Tom was our dog. Constance Fenimore Woolson. THE THE RAINY DAY. HE day is cold, and dark, and dreary; My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; Some days must be dark and dreary. - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. TH NOVEMBER. HE leaves are fading and falling, Though day by day, as it closes, And when the winter is over, The boughs will get new leaves; The quail come back to the clover, And the swallow back to the eaves. The robin will wear on his bosom The leaves, to-day, are whirling, The spring will be sure to come. There must be rough, cold weather, So, when some dear joy loses Think how the roots of the roses - Alice Cary. THANKSGIVING DAY. VER the river and through the wood, To carry the sleigh Through the white and drifted snow. |