Tell me, my child, if the squirrels have taught
The lesson I long to impart in your thought;
Answer me this, and my story is done,
Which of the two would you be, little one?
WHERE do you come from, berries red,
Nuts, apples and plums, that hang ripe overhead, Sweet, juicy grapes, with your rich purple hue,
Saying, 'Pick us, and eat us; we're growing for you?'
"O where do you come from, bright flowers and fair,
That please with your colors and fragrance so rare,
Glowing in sunshine, or sparkling with dew?"
"We are blooming for dear little children like you;
"Our roots are our mouths, taking food from the ground
Our leaves are our lungs, breathing air all around,
Our sap, like your blood, our veins courses through,
Don't you think, little children, we're somewhat like you?
"Your hearts are the soil, your thoughts are the seeds;
Your lives may become useful plants or foul weeds;
If you think but good thoughts, your lives will be true,
For good women and men were once children like you.”
HITHER, MEADOW GOSSIP, TELL ME!
ITHER, meadow gossip, tell me,
Will you never pause to rest?
From the gray of dawn I've watched you,
Till the sun has burned the west;
Seen you whisper to the gentian
What you heard upon the wheat;
And the flowers nod in laughter
At the stories you repeat.
Long and vainly have I listened
To discover what you said,
What you murmured to the daisies,
To the clovers white and red;
And I saw you, after prowling
Where the columbines were hid,
Set the apple blossoms blushing
Yes, you shocking wretch, you did!
Buttercups and dandelions
Show you yellow heaps of gold,
Just to hearken to your chatter
And the scandals you unfold;
Even Jack within his pulpit,
Priestly rascal, likes to hear
Things about his congregation
That should hurt a saintly ear.
And lest any of your items
Through the day should be forgot,
I believe you always write them
On the dim forget-me-not,
If I trust you with a secret
Far more precious, little bee,
Will you tell me on the morrow
If my sweetheart thinks of me!
Gentle tattler, I must love you,
Though you have a meddling way;
And I would that human gossips
Had the wisdom you display,
And could, leaving all their slanders
And the meanness they must meet,
Journey homeward in the gloaming
Bringing only what is sweet.
-H. Prescott Beach - New England Magazine.
OOD-NIGHT, dear Maudie," I softly said,
And tucked her in her little bed.
'Good-night, mamma," she said to me, "I am just as sleepy as I can be.”
But scarcely closed was the chamber door,
When her eager voice called out once more:
'Mamma," she said, "what is it I hear —
That strange little noise, so sharp and queer?"
I listened, then told her all was still,
Save a merry cricket piping shrill;
"He is hidden in the closet here,
To sing you to sleep, my Maudie dear."
Then Maudie sat up in her night-dress white,
And her eyes grew big and round and bright.
"Now, dear mamma, please move my bed
Close up to the closet door," she said.
"Poor little fellow! He wants to speak.
And all he can say is 'Creak, creak, creak!'
I wish to tell him I hear his song,
And ask him to sing it all night long."
"I'll leave the door open," I said, " part way,
So the cricket can hear whatever you say;
Now, while I go to your baby brother,
You little crickets may sing to each other."
When soon again I crept up the stair,
And stood for a moment listening there,
Over the household was silence deep-
Maud and the cricket were both asleep.
When "sleepy time" came for Maude next night,
She rushed around like a fairy white;
Peeped into the closet and over the floor,
To find the little cricket once more.
He was not to be seen in any place,
So Maude lay down with a mournful face;
When under her crib a voice piped clear —
Creak, creakety, creak! I'm here, I'm here!"
Then Maudie screamed with surprised delight;
And she always believed from that very night,
That crickets can hear when little girls speak,
And mean a great deal by their "Creak, creak, creak!”
ITTLE inmate, full of mirth,
Chirping on my kitchen hearth,
Wheresoe'er be thine abode,
Always harbinger of good,
Pay me for thy warm retreat
With a song more soft and sweet;
In return thou shalt receive
Such a strain as I can give.
Neither night nor dawn of day
Puts a period to thy play!
Sing then and extend thy span
Far beyond the date of man.
Wretched man, whose years are spent
In repining discontent,
Lives not, aged though he be,
Half a span, compared with thee.
OOD-BYE, little children, I'm going away,
In my snug little home all winter to stay.
I seldom get up, once I'm tucked in my bed,
And as it grows colder I cover my head.
I sleep very quietly all winter through,
And really enjoy it; there's nothing to do,
The flies are all gone, so there's nothing to eat,
And I take this time to enjoy a good sleep.
|