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IN SCHOOL-DAYS

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TILL sits the school-house

by the road, A ragged beggar sunning; Around it still the sumachs

grow, And blackberry-vines are running.

Within, the Master's desk is seen,

Deep scarred by raps official;
The warping floor, the battered seats,

The jack-knife's carved initial;

The charcoal frescoes on its wall;

Its door's worn sill, betraying
The feet that, creeping slow to school,

Went storming out to playing!

Long years ago a winter sun

Shone over it at setting;
Lit up its western window-panes

And low eaves' icy fretting.

It touched the tangled golden curls

And brown eyes full of grieving Of one who still her steps delayed When all the school were leaving.

For near her stood the little boy

Her childish favor singled, His cap pulled low upon a face Where pride and shame were mingled. Pushing with restless feet the snow

To right and left, he lingered ;As restlessly her tiny hands

The blue-checked apron fingered. He saw her lift her eyes; he felt

The soft hand's light caressing, And heard the tremble of her voice,

As if a fault confessing. I'm sorry that I spelt the word:

I hate to go above you, Because,”-the brown eyes lower fell,

Because, you see, I love you!” Still memory to a gray-haired man

That sweet child-face is showing.
Dear girl! the grasses on her grave

Have forty years been growing!
He lives to learn, in life's hard school,

How few who pass above him
Lament their triumph and his loss,
Like her,-because they love him.

-John Greenleaf Whittier,

CRADLE SONG

WEET and low, sweet and

low,

S

Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow,

Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow,

Blow him again to me: While my little one, while my pretty

one sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

Father will come to thee soon: Rest, rest, on mother's breast,

Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west

Under the silver moon: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

-Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

FAREWELL

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T

HE crimson sunset faded into

gray;
Upon the murmurous sea

the twilight fell;
The last warm breath of the
delicious day
Passed with a mute farewell.

Above my head, in the soft purple sky,
A wild note sounded like a shrill-voiced

bell;
Three gulls met, wheeled, and parted with

a cry That seemed to say “Farewell!”

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I watched them; one sailed east, and one

soared west, And one went floating south; while

like a knell That mournful cry the empty sky pos

sessed, “Farewell, farewell, farewell!”

“Farewell!” I thought, it is the earth's

one speech; All human voices the sad chorus swell;

Though mighty love to heaven's high

gate may reach, Yet must he say “Farewell !”

The rolling world is girdled with the

sound, Perpetually breathed from all who

dwell Upon its bosom, for no place is found

Where is not heard “Farewell!”

Farewell, farewell !” from wave to

wave 'tis tossed, From wind to wind: earth has one tale

to tell; All other sounds are dulled and drowned

and lost
In this one cry, “Farewell!”

-Celia Thaxter.

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