THE POSY RING

The Posy Ring
is a companion volume to
Golden Numbers
A Book of Verse for Youth
Edited by
Kate Douglas Wiggin and
Nora Archibald Smith

THE POSY RING

A BOOK OF VERSE FOR CHILDREN

CHOSEN AND CLASSIFIED BY

Kate Douglas Wiggin

AND

Nora Archibald Smith

MCCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.
NEW YORK
MCMVI

Copyright, 1903, by
McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.
Published, February, 1903, N
Fifth Impression.

A NOTE

THANKS are due to the following publishers for permission to reprint poems on which they hold copyright:

Charles Scribner's Sons, for permission to use the following poems by Robert Louis Stevenson: "Windy Nights," "Where Go the Boats?" "The Little Land," "The Land of Story Books" and "Bed Time"; for the following poems by Mary Mapes Dodge: "Nearly Ready," "Now the Noisy Winds are Still," "Snowflakes," "Birdies with Broken Wings," and "Night and Day"; for the following poems by Eugene Field: "Wynken, Blynken, and Nod," and "Nightfall in Dordrecht"; for "Rockaby, Lullaby," by J. G. Holland; and for "One, Two, Three," by H. C. Bunner. G. P. Putnam's Sons, for permission to use "High and Low," by Dora Goodale. D. Appleton & Son, publishers of Bryant's Complete Poetical Works, for permission to reprint "Robert of Lincoln," by W. C. Bryant. E. P. Dutton & Co., for permission to reprint "The Birds in Spring," by Thomas Nashe. A. C. McClurg & Co., for permission to reprint "Baby Seed Song" and "Bird's Song in Spring," by E. Nesbit. The Century Company, for permission to reprint the "Seal Lullaby," by Rudyard Kipling. The "Independent," for permission to reprint "Baby Corn," Anon. Dana, Estes & Co., for permission to reprint "The Blue Jay," by Susan Hartley Swett. Small, Maynard & Co., for permission to reprint the following poems by John B. Tabb: "The Fern Song," "A Bunch of Roses," "The Child at Bethlehem." George Routledge & Sons, for permission to reprint the following poems by W. B. Rands: "The Child's World," "The Wonderful World," "Love and the Child," "Dolladine," "Dressing the Doll," "The Pedlar's Caravan," and "Little Christel"; also for "Little White Lily" and "What Would You See?" by George Macdonald, and "The Wind," by L. E. Landon. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., for the right to reprint the following poems: "Marjorie's Almanac," by T. B. Aldrich; "Dandelion," by Helen Grey Cone; "The Fairies' Shopping" and "The Christmas Silence," by Margaret Deland; "The Titmouse" and "Fable," by Ralph Waldo Emerson; "Hiawatha's Chickens" and "Hiawatha's Brothers," by Henry W. Longfellow; "The Fountain," by James Russell Lowell; "The Rivulet," by Lucy Larcom; "The Coming of Spring," by Nora Perry; "May," "The Waterfall," "Clouds," and "Bells of Christmas," by Frank Dempster Sherman; "What the Winds Bring" and "The Singer," by E. C. Stedman; "Spring," "Wild Geese," "Chanticleer," and "Little Gustava," by Celia Thaxter. Little, Brown & Co., for the right to reprint "September," by Helen Hunt Jackson; "When the Leaves Come Down," by Susan Coolidge; and "Summer Days," "A Year's Windfalls," "The Flower Folk," "There's Nothing Like the Rose," "Milking Time," "A Chill," and "A Birthday Gift," by Christina G. Rossetti. St. Nicholas, for permission to reprint "The Little Elf," by John Kendrick Bangs. The Macmillan Company, for permission to reprint "O Lady Moon," by Christina G. Rossetti. Frederick Warne & Co., for permission to reprint "By Cool Siloam's Shady Rill," by Reginald Heber. Cassell & Co., Ltd., for permission to reprint "The Last Voyage of the Fairies," by W. H. Davenport Adams.

PUBLIC NOTICE.—This is to state,
That these are the specimens left at the gate
Of Pinafore Palace, exact to date,
In the hands of the porter, Curlypate,
Who sits in his plush on a chair of state,
By somebody who is a candidate
For the office of Lilliput Laureate.
William Brighty Rands.

CONTENTS

THE POSY RING

I

A YEAR'S WINDFALLS

Who comes dancing over the snow,
His soft little feet all bare and rosy?
Open the door, though the wild winds blow,
Take the child in and make him cosy.
Take him in and hold him dear,
He is the wonderful glad New Year.

Dinah M. Mulock.

A YEAR'S WINDFALLS

Marjorie's Almanac

Robins in the tree-top,
Blossoms in the grass,
Green things a-growing
Everywhere you pass;
Sudden little breezes,
Showers of silver dew,
Black bough and bent twig
Budding out anew;
Pine-tree and willow-tree,
Fringèd elm and larch,—
Don't you think that May-time's
Pleasanter than March?
Apples in the orchard
Mellowing one by one;
Strawberries upturning
Soft cheeks to the sun;
Roses faint with sweetness,
Lilies fair of face,
Drowsy scents and murmurs
Haunting every place;
Lengths of golden sunshine,
Moonlight bright as day,—
Don't you think that summer's
Pleasanter than May?
Roger in the corn-patch
Whistling negro songs;
Pussy by the hearth-side
Romping with the tongs;
Chestnuts in the ashes
Bursting through the rind;
Red leaf and gold leaf
Rustling down the wind;
Mother "doin' peaches"
All the afternoon,—
Don't you think that autumn's
Pleasanter than June?
Little fairy snow-flakes
Dancing in the flue;
Old Mr. Santa Claus,
What is keeping you?
Twilight and firelight
Shadows come and go;
Merry chime of sleigh-bells
Tinkling through the snow;
Mother knitting stockings
(Pussy's got the ball),—
Don't you think that winter's
Pleasanter than all?

Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

In February

The birds have been singing to-day,
And saying: "The spring is near!
The sun is as warm as in May,
And the deep blue heavens are clear."
The little bird on the boughs
Of the sombre snow-laden pine
Thinks: "Where shall I build me my house,
And how shall I make it fine?
"For the season of snow is past;
The mild south wind is on high;
And the scent of the spring is cast
From his wing as he hurries by."
The little birds twitter and cheep
To their loves on the leafless larch;
But seven feet deep the snow-wreaths sleep,
And the year hath not worn to March.

John Addington Symonds.

March

The cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter,
The green field sleeps in the sun;
The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest;
The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding like one.
Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill;
The ploughboy is whooping—anon—anon!
There's joy on the mountains;
There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;
The rain is over and gone.

William Wordsworth.

Nearly Ready[A]

In the snowing and the blowing,
In the cruel sleet,
Little flowers begin their growing
Far beneath our feet.
Softly taps the Spring, and cheerly,
"Darlings, are you here?"
Till they answer, "We are nearly,
Nearly ready, dear."
"Where is Winter, with his snowing?
Tell us, Spring," they say.
Then she answers, "He is going,
Going on his way.
Poor old Winter does not love you;
But his time is past;
Soon my birds shall sing above you,—
Set you free at last."

Mary Mapes Dodge.

Spring Song

Spring comes hither,
Buds the rose;
Roses wither,
Sweet spring goes.
Summer soars,—
Wide-winged day;
White light pours,
Flies away.
Soft winds blow,
Westward born;
Onward go,
Toward the morn.

George Eliot

In April

The poplar drops beside the way
Its tasselled plumes of silver-gray;
The chestnut pouts its great brown buds
Impatient for the laggard May.
The honeysuckles lace the wall,
The hyacinths grow fair and tall;
And mellow sun and pleasant wind
And odorous bees are over all.

Elizabeth Akers.

Spring

The alder by the river
Shakes out her powdery curls;
The willow buds in silver
For little boys and girls.
The little birds fly over,
And oh, how sweet they sing!
To tell the happy children
That once again 'tis spring.
The gay green grass comes creeping
So soft beneath their feet;
The frogs begin to ripple
A music clear and sweet.
And buttercups are coming,
And scarlet columbine;
And in the sunny meadows
The dandelions shine.
And just as many daisies
As their soft hands can hold
The little ones may gather,
All fair in white and gold.
Here blows the warm red clover,
There peeps the violet blue;
O happy little children,
God made them all for you!

Celia Thaxter.

The Voice of Spring

I am coming, I am coming!
Hark! the little bee is humming;
See, the lark is soaring high
In the blue and sunny sky;
And the gnats are on the wing,
Wheeling round in airy ring.
See, the yellow catkins cover
All the slender willows over!
And on the banks of mossy green
Star-like primroses are seen;
And, their clustering leaves below,
White and purple violets blow.
Hark! the new-born lambs are bleating,
And the cawing rooks are meeting
In the elms,—a noisy crowd;
All the birds are singing loud;
And the first white butterfly
In the sunshine dances by.
Look around thee, look around!
Flowers in all the fields abound;
Every running stream is bright;
All the orchard trees are white;
And each small and waving shoot
Promises sweet flowers and fruit.
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.

The Coming of Spring

There's something in the air
That's new and sweet and rare—
A scent of summer things,
A whir as if of wings.
There's something, too, that's new
In the color of the blue
That's in the morning sky,
Before the sun is high.
And though on plain and hill
'Tis winter, winter still,
There's something seems to say
That winter's had its day.
And all this changing tint,
This whispering stir and hint
Of bud and bloom and wing,
Is the coming of the spring.
And to-morrow or to-day
The brooks will break away
From their icy, frozen sleep,
And run, and laugh, and leap.
And the next thing, in the woods,
The catkins in their hoods
Of fur and silk will stand,
A sturdy little band.
And the tassels soft and fine
Of the hazel will entwine,
And the elder branches show
Their buds against the snow.
So, silently but swift,
Above the wintry drift,
The long days gain and gain,
Until on hill and plain,—
Once more, and yet once more,
Returning as before,
We see the bloom of birth
Make young again the earth.

Nora Perry.

May

May shall make the world anew;
Golden sun and silver dew,
Money minted in the sky,
Shall the earth's new garments buy.
May shall make the orchards bloom;
And the blossoms' fine perfume
Shall set all the honey-bees
Murmuring among the trees.
May shall make the bud appear
Like a jewel, crystal clear,
'Mid the leaves upon the limb
Where the robin lilts his hymn.
May shall make the wild flowers tell
Where the shining snowflakes fell;
Just as though each snow-flake's heart,
By some secret, magic art,
Were transmuted to a flower
In the sunlight and the shower.
Is there such another, pray,
Wonder-making month as May?

Frank Dempster Sherman.

Spring and Summer

Spring is growing up,
Is not it a pity?
She was such a little thing,
And so very pretty!
Summer is extremely grand,
We must pay her duty,
(But it is to little Spring
That she owes her beauty!)
All the buds are blown,
Trees are dark and shady,
(It was Spring who dress'd them, though,
Such a little lady!)
And the birds sing loud and sweet
Their enchanting hist'ries,
(It was Spring who taught them, though,
Such a singing mistress!)
From the glowing sky
Summer shines above us;
Spring was such a little dear,
But will Summer love us?
She is very beautiful,
With her grown-up blisses,
Summer we must bow before;
Spring we coaxed with kisses!
Spring is growing up,
Leaving us so lonely,
In the place of little Spring
We have Summer only!
Summer with her lofty airs,
And her stately faces,
In the place of little Spring,
With her childish graces!

"A."

Summer Days

Winter is cold-hearted;
Spring is yea and nay;
Autumn is a weathercock,
Blown every way:
Summer days for me,
When every leaf is on its tree,
When Robin's not a beggar,
And Jenny Wren's a bride,
And larks hang, singing, singing, singing,
Over the wheat-fields wide,
And anchored lilies ride,
And the pendulum spider
Swings from side to side,
And blue-black beetles transact business,
And gnats fly in a host,
And furry caterpillars hasten
That no time be lost,
And moths grow fat and thrive,
And ladybirds arrive.
Before green apples blush,
Before green nuts embrown,
Why, one day in the country
Is worth a month in town—
Is worth a day and a year
Of the dusty, musty, lag-last fashion
That days drone elsewhere.

Christina G. Rossetti.

September

The goldenrod is yellow,
The corn is turning brown,
The trees in apple orchards
With fruit are bending down;
The gentian's bluest fringes
Are curling in the sun;
In dusty pods the milkweed
Its hidden silk has spun;
The sedges flaunt their harvest
In every meadow nook,
And asters by the brookside
Make asters in the brook;
From dewy lanes at morning
The grapes' sweet odors rise;
At noon the roads all flutter
With yellow butterflies—
By all these lovely tokens
September days are here,
With summer's best of weather
And autumn's best of cheer.

H. H.

How the Leaves Came Down

I'll tell you how the leaves came down.
The great Tree to his children said,
"You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown,
Yes, very sleepy, little Red;
It is quite time you went to bed."
"Ah!" begged each silly, pouting leaf,
"Let us a little longer stay;
Dear Father Tree, behold our grief,
'Tis such a very pleasant day
We do not want to go away."
So, just for one more merry day
To the great Tree the leaflets clung,
Frolicked and danced and had their way,
Upon the autumn breezes swung,
Whispering all their sports among,
"Perhaps the great Tree will forget
And let us stay until the spring,
If we all beg and coax and fret."
But the great Tree did no such thing;
He smiled to hear their whispering.
"Come, children all, to bed," he cried;
And ere the leaves could urge their prayer
He shook his head, and far and wide,
Fluttering and rustling everywhere,
Down sped the leaflets through the air.
I saw them; on the ground they lay,
Golden and red, a huddled swarm,
Waiting till one from far away,
White bed-clothes heaped upon her arm,
Should come to wrap them safe and warm.
The great bare Tree looked down and smiled.
"Good-night, dear little leaves," he said;
And from below each sleepy child
Replied "Good-night," and murmured,
"It is so nice to go to bed."

Susan Coolidge.

Winter Night

Blow, wind, blow!
Drift the flying snow!
Send it twirling, whirling overhead!
There's a bedroom in a tree
Where, snug as snug can be,
The squirrel nests in his cosey bed.
Shriek, wind, shriek!
Make the branches creak!
Battle with the boughs till break o' day!
In a snow-cave warm and tight,
Through the icy winter night
The rabbit sleeps the peaceful hours away.
Call, wind, call,
In entry and in hall,
Straight from off the mountain white and wild!
Soft purrs the pussy-cat
On her little fluffy mat,
And beside her nestles close her furry child.
Scold, wind, scold,
So bitter and so bold!
Shake the windows with your tap, tap, tap!
With half-shut, dreamy eyes
The drowsy baby lies
Cuddled closely in his mother's lap.

Mary F. Butts.

A Year's Windfalls

On the wind of January
Down flits the snow,
Travelling from the frozen North
As cold as it can blow.
Poor robin redbreast,
Look where he comes;
Let him in to feel your fire,
And toss him of your crumbs.
On the wind in February
Snowflakes float still,
Half inclined to turn to rain,
Nipping, dripping, chill.
Then the thaws swell the streams,
And swollen rivers swell the sea:—
If the winter ever ends
How pleasant it will be.
In the wind of windy March
The catkins drop down,
Curly, caterpillar-like,
Curious green and brown.
With concourse of nest-building birds
And leaf-buds by the way,
We begin to think of flowers
And life and nuts some day.
With the gusts of April
Rich fruit-tree blossoms fall,
On the hedged-in orchard-green,
From the southern wall.
Apple-trees and pear-trees
Shed petals white or pink,
Plum-trees and peach-trees;
While sharp showers sink and sink.
Little brings the May breeze
Beside pure scent of flowers,
While all things wax and nothing wanes
In lengthening daylight hours.
Across the hyacinth beds
The wind lags warm and sweet,
Across the hawthorn tops,
Across the blades of wheat.
In the wind of sunny June
Thrives the red rose crop,
Every day fresh blossoms blow
While the first leaves drop;
White rose and yellow rose
And moss rose choice to find,
And the cottage cabbage-rose
Not one whit behind.
On the blast of scorched July
Drives the pelting hail,
From thunderous lightning-clouds, that blot
Blue heaven grown lurid-pale.
Weedy waves are tossed ashore,
Sea-things strange to sight
Gasp upon the barren shore
And fade away in light.
In the parching August wind
Corn-fields bow the head,
Sheltered in round valley depths,
On low hills outspread.
Early leaves drop loitering down
Weightless on the breeze,
First fruits of the year's decay
From the withering trees.
In brisk wind of September
The heavy-headed fruits
Shake upon their bending boughs
And drop from the shoots;
Some glow golden in the sun,
Some show green and streaked,
Some set forth a purple bloom,
Some blush rosy-cheeked.
In strong blast of October
At the equinox,
Stirred up in his hollow bed
Broad ocean rocks;
Plunge the ships on his bosom,
Leaps and plunges the foam,
It's oh! for mothers' sons at sea,
That they were safe at home.
In slack wind of November
The fog forms and shifts;
All the world comes out again
When the fog lifts.
Loosened from their sapless twigs
Leaves drop with every gust;
Drifting, rustling, out of sight
In the damp or dust.
Last of all, December,
The year's sands nearly run,
Speeds on the shortest day,
Curtails the sun;
With its bleak raw wind
Lays the last leaves low,
Brings back the nightly frosts,
Brings back the snow.

Christina G. Rossetti.

II

THE CHILD'S WORLD

Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,
With the wonderful water round you curled,
And the wonderful grass upon your breast,
World, you are beautifully drest.

William Brighty Rands.

THE CHILD'S WORLD

The Wonderful World

Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,
With the wonderful water round you curled,
And the wonderful grass upon your breast,
World, you are beautifully drest.
The wonderful air is over me,
And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree—
It walks on the water, and whirls the mills,
And talks to itself on the top of the hills.
You friendly Earth, how far do you go,
With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow,
With cities and gardens, and cliffs and isles,
And people upon you for thousands of miles?
Ah! you are so great, and I am so small,
I hardly can think of you, World, at all;
And yet, when I said my prayers to-day,
My mother kissed me, and said, quite gay,
"If the wonderful World is great to you,
And great to father and mother, too,
You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot!
You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!"

William Brighty Rands.

A Day

I'll tell you how the sun rose,
A ribbon at a time.
The steeples swam in amethyst,
The news like squirrels ran.
The hills untied their bonnets,
The bobolinks begun.
Then I said softly to myself,
"That must have been the sun!"
. . . . . . . .
But how he set, I know not.
There seemed a purple stile
Which little yellow boys and girls
Were climbing all the while
Till when they reached the other side,
A dominie in gray
Put gently up the evening bars,
And led the flock away.

Emily Dickinson.

Good-Morning

The year's at the Spring,
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in his heaven—
All's right with the world.

Robert Browning.

What the Winds Bring

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
The cows come shivering up the lane,
When the East begins to blow.
Which is the Wind that brings the flowers?
The West-Wind, Bessy; and soft and low
The birdies sing in the summer hours,
When the West begins to blow.

Edmund Clarence Stedman.

Lady Moon

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?
"Over the sea."
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?
"All that love me."
Are you not tired with rolling, and never
Resting to sleep?
Why look so pale and so sad, as forever
Wishing to weep?
"Ask me not this, little child, if you love me:
You are too bold:
I must obey my dear Father above me,
And do as I'm told."
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?
"Over the sea."
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?
"All that love me."

Lord Houghton.

O Lady Moon[B]

O Lady Moon, your horns point toward the east:
Shine, be increased;
O Lady Moon, your horns point toward the west:
Wane, be at rest.

Christina G. Rossetti.

Windy Nights[C]

Whenever the moon and stars are set,
Whenever the wind is high,
All night long in the dark and wet,
A man goes riding by,
Late at night when the fires are out,
Why does he gallop and gallop about?
Whenever the trees are crying aloud,
And ships are tossed at sea,
By, on the highway, low and loud,
By at the gallop goes he.
By at the gallop he goes, and then
By he comes back at the gallop again.

Robert Louis Stevenson.

Wild Winds

Oh, oh, how the wild winds blow!
Blow high,
Blow low,
And whirlwinds go,
To chase the little leaves that fly—
Fly low and high,
To hollow and to steep hill-side;
They shiver in the dreary weather,
And creep in little heaps together,
And nestle close and try to hide.
Oh, oh, how the wild winds blow!
Blow low,
Blow high,
And whirlwinds try
To find a crevice—to find a crack,
They whirl to the front; they whirl to the back.
But Tommy and Will and the baby together
Are snug and safe from the wintry weather.
All the winds that blow
Cannot touch a toe—
Cannot twist or twirl
One silken curl.
They may rattle the doors in a noisy pack,
But the blazing fires will drive them back.

Mary F. Butts.

Now the Noisy Winds Are Still[D]

Now the noisy winds are still;
April's coming up the hill!
All the spring is in her train,
Led by shining ranks of rain;
Pit, pat, patter, clatter,
Sudden sun, and clatter, patter!—
First the blue, and then the shower;
Bursting bud, and smiling flower;
Brooks set free with tinkling ring;
Birds too full of song to sing;
Crisp old leaves astir with pride,
Where the timid violets hide,—
All things ready with a will,—
April's coming up the hill!

Mary Mapes Dodge.

The Wind

The wind has a language, I would I could learn;
Sometimes 'tis soothing, and sometimes 'tis stern;
Sometimes it comes like a low, sweet song,
And all things grow calm, as the sound floats along;
And the forest is lulled by the dreamy strain;
And slumber sinks down on the wandering main;
And its crystal arms are folded in rest,
And the tall ship sleeps on its heaving breast.

Letitia Elizabeth Landon.

The Fountain

Into the sunshine,
Full of the light,
Leaping and flashing
From morn till night!
Into the moonlight,
Whiter than snow,
Waving so flower-like
When the winds blow!
Into the starlight,
Rushing in spray,
Happy at midnight,
Happy by day;
Ever in motion,
Blithesome and cheery,
Still climbing heavenward,
Never aweary;
Glad of all weathers;
Still seeming best,
Upward or downward;
Motion thy rest;
Full of a nature
Nothing can tame,
Changed every moment,
Ever the same;
Ceaseless aspiring,
Ceaseless content,
Darkness or sunshine
Thy element;
Glorious fountain!
Let my heart be
Fresh, changeful, constant,
Upward like thee!

James Russell Lowell.

The Waterfall

Tinkle, tinkle!
Listen well!
Like a fairy silver bell
In the distance ringing,
Lightly swinging
In the air;
'Tis the water in the dell
Where the elfin minstrels dwell,
Falling in a rainbow sprinkle,
Dropping stars that brightly twinkle,
Bright and fair,
On the darkling pool below,
Making music so;
'Tis the water elves who play
On their lutes of spray.
Tinkle, tinkle!
Like a fairy silver bell;
Like a pebble in a shell;
Tinkle, tinkle!
Listen well!

Frank Dempster Sherman.

The Voice of the Grass

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
By the dusty roadside,
On the sunny hill-side,
Close by the noisy brook,
In every shady nook,
I come creeping, creeping everywhere.
Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere;
All around the open door,
Where sit the aged poor;
Here where the children play,
In the bright and merry May,
I come creeping, creeping everywhere.
Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
In the noisy city street
My pleasant face you'll meet,
Cheering the sick at heart
Toiling his busy part,—
Silently creeping, creeping everywhere.
Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
You cannot see me coming,
Nor hear my low sweet humming;
For in the starry night,
And the glad morning light,
I come quietly creeping everywhere.
Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
More welcome than the flowers
In summer's pleasant hours;
The gentle cow is glad,
And the merry bird not sad,
To see me creeping, creeping everywhere.
. . . . . . . .
Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
My humble song of praise
Most joyfully I raise
To him at whose command
I beautify the land,
Creeping, silently creeping everywhere.

Sarah Roberts Boyle.

The Wind in a Frolic

The wind one morning sprang up from sleep,
Saying, "Now for a frolic! Now for a leap!
Now for a madcap, galloping chase!
I'll make a commotion in every place!"
So it swept with a bustle right through a great town,
Creaking the signs, and scattering down
Shutters, and whisking, with merciless squalls,
Old women's bonnets and gingerbread stalls.
There never was heard a much lustier shout,
As the apples and oranges tumbled about;
And the urchins that stand with their thievish eyes
Forever on watch, ran off with each prize.
Then away to the field it went blustering and humming,
And the cattle all wondered whatever was coming.
It plucked by their tails the grave matronly cows,
And tossed the colts' manes all about their brows,
Till offended at such a familiar salute,
They all turned their backs and stood silently mute.
So on it went capering and playing its pranks;
Whistling with reeds on the broad river-banks;
Puffing the birds as they sat on the spray,
Or the traveller grave on the king's highway.
It was not too nice to bustle the bags
Of the beggar and flutter his dirty rags.
'Twas so bold that it feared not to play its joke
With the doctor's wig and the gentleman's cloak.
Through the forest it roared, and cried gayly, "Now,
You sturdy old oaks, I'll make you bow!"
And it made them bow without more ado,
Or it cracked their branches through and through.
Then it rushed like a monster o'er cottage and farm,
Striking their inmates with sudden alarm;
And they ran out like bees in a midsummer swarm.
There were dames with their kerchiefs tied over their caps,
To see if their poultry were free from mishaps;
The turkeys they gobbled, the geese screamed aloud,
And the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd;
There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on,
Where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to be gone.
But the wind had passed on, and had met in a lane
With a schoolboy, who panted and struggled in vain,
For it tossed him, and twirled him, then passed, and he stood
With his hat in a pool and his shoe in the mud.

William Howitt.

Clouds

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

Frank Dempster Sherman.

Signs of Rain

The hollow winds begin to blow,
The clouds look black, the glass is low,
The soot falls down, the spaniels sleep,
The spiders from their cobwebs peep:
Last night the sun went pale to bed,
The moon in halos hid her head;
The boding shepherd heaves a sigh,
For, see, a rainbow spans the sky:
The walls are damp, the ditches smell,
Closed is the pink-eyed pimpernel.
Hark how the chairs and tables crack!
Old Betty's joints are on the rack;
Loud quack the ducks, the peacocks cry,
The distant hills are seeming nigh.
How restless are the snorting swine;
The busy flies disturb the kine;
Low o'er the grass the swallow wings,
The cricket too, how sharp he sings;
Puss on the hearth, with velvet paws,
Sits wiping o'er her whiskered jaws.
Through the clear stream the fishes rise,
And nimbly catch the incautious flies.
The glow-worms, numerous and bright,
Illumed the dewy dell last night.
At dusk the squalid toad was seen,
Hopping and crawling o'er the green;
The whirling wind the dust obeys,
And in the rapid eddy plays;
The frog has changed his yellow vest,
And in a russet coat is dressed.
Though June, the air is cold and still,
The mellow blackbird's voice is shrill.
My dog, so altered in his taste,
Quits mutton-bones on grass to feast;
And see yon rooks, how odd their flight,
They imitate the gliding kite,
And seem precipitate to fall,
As if they felt the piercing ball.
'Twill surely rain, I see with sorrow,
Our jaunt must be put off to-morrow.

Edward Jenner.

A Sudden Shower

Barefooted boys scud up the street,
Or scurry under sheltering sheds;
And school-girl faces, pale and sweet,
Gleam from the shawls about their heads.
Doors bang; and mother-voices call
From alien homes; and rusty gates
Are slammed; and high above it all
The thunder grim reverberates.
And then abrupt,—the rain, the rain!
The earth lies gasping; and the eyes
Behind the streaming window-panes
Smile at the trouble of the skies.
The highway smokes, sharp echoes ring;
The cattle bawl and cow-bells clank;
And into town comes galloping
The farmer's horse, with steaming flank.
The swallow dips beneath the eaves,
And flirts his plumes and folds his wings;
And under the catawba leaves
The caterpillar curls and clings.
The bumble-bee is pelted down
The wet stem of the hollyhock;
And sullenly in spattered brown
The cricket leaps the garden walk.
Within, the baby claps his hands
And crows with rapture strange and vague;
Without, beneath the rosebush stands
A dripping rooster on one leg.

James Whitcomb Riley.

Strange Lands

Where do you come from, Mr. Jay?
"From the land of Play, from the land of Play."
And where can that be, Mr. Jay?
"Far away—far away."
Where do you come from, Mrs. Dove?
"From the land of Love, from the land of Love."
And how do you get there, Mrs. Dove?
"Look above—look above."
Where do you come from, Baby Miss?
"From the land of Bliss, from the land of Bliss."
And what is the way there, Baby Miss?
"Mother's kiss—mother's kiss."

Laurence Alma Tadema.

Guessing Song

Oh ho! oh ho! Pray, who can I be?
I sweep o'er the land, I scour o'er the sea;
I cuff the tall trees till they bow down their heads,
And I rock the wee birdies asleep in their beds.
Oh ho! oh ho! And who can I be,
That sweep o'er the land and scour o'er the sea?
I rumple the breast of the gray-headed daw,
I tip the rook's tail up and make him cry "caw";
But though I love fun, I'm so big and so strong,
At a puff of my breath the great ships sail along.
Oh ho! oh ho! And who can I be,
That sweep o'er the land and sail o'er the sea?
I swing all the weather-cocks this way and that,
I play hare-and-hounds with a runaway hat;
But however I wander, I never can stray,
For go where I will, I've a free right of way!
Oh ho! oh ho! And who can I be,
That sweep o'er the land and scour o'er the sea?
I skim o'er the heather, I dance up the street,
I've foes that I laugh at, and friends that I greet;
I'm known in the country, I'm named in the town,
For all the world over extends my renown.
Oh ho! oh ho! And who can I be,
That sweep o'er the land and scour o'er the sea?

Henry Johnstone.

The Rivulet

Run, little rivulet, run!
Summer is fairly begun.
Bear to the meadow the hymn of the pines,
And the echo that rings where the waterfall shines;
Run, little rivulet, run!
Run, little rivulet, run!
Sing to the fields of the sun
That wavers in emerald, shimmers in gold,
Where you glide from your rocky ravine, crystal-cold;
Run, little rivulet, run!
Run, little rivulet, run!
Sing of the flowers, every one,—
Of the delicate harebell and violet blue;
Of the red mountain rose-bud, all dripping with dew;
Run, little rivulet, run!
Run, little rivulet, run!
Carry the perfume you won
From the lily, that woke when the morning was gray,
To the white waiting moonbeam adrift on the bay;
Run, little rivulet, run!
Run, little rivulet, run!
Stay not till summer is done!
Carry the city the mountain-birds' glee;
Carry the joy of the hills to the sea;
Run, little rivulet, run!

Lucy Larcom.

Jack Frost

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.

Snowflakes[E]

Whenever 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.

Mary Mapes Dodge.

The Water! the Water!

The Water! the Water!
The joyous brook for me,
That tuneth through the quiet night
Its ever-living glee.
The Water! the Water!
That sleepless, merry heart,
Which gurgles on unstintedly,
And loveth to impart,
To all around it, some small measure
Of its own most perfect pleasure.
The Water! the Water!
The gentle stream for me,
That gushes from the old gray stone
Beside the alder-tree.
The Water! the Water!
That ever-bubbling spring
I loved and look'd on while a child,
In deepest wondering,—
And ask'd it whence it came and went,
And when its treasures would be spent.
The Water! the Water!
The merry, wanton brook
That bent itself to pleasure me,
Like mine old shepherd crook.
The Water! the Water!
That sang so sweet at noon,
And sweeter still all night, to win
Smiles from the pale proud moon,
And from the little fairy faces
That gleam in heaven's remotest places.
. . . . . . . .

William Motherwell.

III

HIAWATHA'S CHICKENS

Then the little Hiawatha
Learned of every bird its language,
Learned their names and all their secrets,
How they built their nests in Summer,
Where they hid themselves in Winter,
Talked with them whene'er he met them,
Called them "Hiawatha's Chickens."

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

HIAWATHA'S CHICKENS

The Swallows

Gallant and gay in their doublets gray,
All at a flash like the darting of flame,
Chattering Arabic, African, Indian—
Certain of springtime, the swallows came!
Doublets of gray silk and surcoats of purple,
And ruffs of russet round each little throat,
Wearing such garb they had crossed the waters,
Mariners sailing with never a boat.

Edwin Arnold.

The Swallow's Nest

Day after day her nest she moulded,
Building with magic, love and mud,
A gray cup made by a thousand journeys,
And the tiny beak was trowel and hod.

Edwin Arnold.

The Birds in Spring

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;
Then blooms each thing, then Maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing—
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The Palm and May make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the Shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay—
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The Fields breathe sweet, the Daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every Street these Tunes our ears do greet—
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
Spring, the sweet Spring!

Thomas Nashe.

Robin Redbreast

(A Child's Song)

Good-bye, good-bye to Summer!
For Summer's nearly done;
The garden smiling faintly,
Cool breezes in the sun;
Our Thrushes now are silent,
Our Swallows flown away,—
But Robin's here, in coat of brown,
With ruddy breast-knot gay.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
Robin singing sweetly
In the falling of the year.
Bright yellow, red, and orange,
The leaves come down in hosts;
The trees are Indian Princes,
But soon they'll turn to Ghosts;
The scanty pears and apples
Hang russet on the bough,
It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late,
'Twill soon be Winter now.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
And welaway! my Robin,
For pinching times are near.
The fireside for the Cricket,
The wheatstack for the Mouse,
When trembling night-winds whistle
And moan all round the house;
The frosty ways like iron,
The branches plumed with snow,—
Alas! in Winter, dead and dark,
Where can poor Robin go?
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
And a crumb of bread for Robin,
His little heart to cheer.

William Allingham.

The Lark and the Rook

"Good-night, Sir Rook!" said a little lark.
"The daylight fades; it will soon be dark;
I've bathed my wings in the sun's last ray;
I've sung my hymn to the parting day;
So now I haste to my quiet nook
In yon dewy meadow—good-night, Sir Rook!"
"Good-night, poor Lark," said his titled friend
With a haughty toss and a distant bend;
"I also go to my rest profound,
But not to sleep on the cold, damp ground.
The fittest place for a bird like me
Is the topmost bough of yon tall pine-tree.
"I opened my eyes at peep of day
And saw you taking your upward way,
Dreaming your fond romantic dreams,
An ugly speck in the sun's bright beams;
Soaring too high to be seen or heard;
And I said to myself: 'What a foolish bird!'
"I trod the park with a princely air,
I filled my crop with the richest fare;
I cawed all day 'mid a lordly crew,
And I made more noise in the world than you!
The sun shone forth on my ebon wing;
I looked and wondered—good-night, poor thing!"
"Good-night, once more," said the lark's sweet voice.
"I see no cause to repent my choice;
You build your nest in the lofty pine,
But is your slumber more sweet than mine?
You make more noise in the world than I,
But whose is the sweeter minstrelsy?"

Unknown.

The Snowbird

In the rosy light trills the gay swallow,
The thrush, in the roses below;
The meadow-lark sings in the meadow,
But the snowbird sings in the snow.
Ah me!
Chickadee!
The snowbird sings in the snow!
The blue martin trills in the gable,
The wren, in the gourd below;
In the elm flutes the golden robin,
But the snowbird sings in the snow.
Ah me!
Chickadee!
The snowbird sings in the snow!
High wheels the gray wing of the osprey,
The wing of the sparrow drops low;
In the mist dips the wing of the robin,
And the snowbird's wing in the snow.
Ah me!
Chickadee!
The snowbird sings in the snow.
I love the high heart of the osprey,
The meek heart of the thrush below,
The heart of the lark in the meadow,
And the snowbird's heart in the snow.
But dearest to me,
Chickadee! Chickadee!
Is that true little heart in the snow.

Hezekiah Butterworth.

Who Stole the Bird's Nest?

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!
Will you listen to me?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made?"
"Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo!
Such a thing I'd never do.
I gave you a wisp of hay,
But didn't take your nest away.
Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo!
Such a thing I'd never do."
"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!
Will you listen to me?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made?"
"Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link!
Now what do you think?
Who stole a nest away
From the plum-tree, to-day?"
"Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow!
I wouldn't be so mean, anyhow!
I gave hairs the nest to make,
But the nest I did not take.
Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow!
I'm not so mean, anyhow."
"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!
Will you listen to me?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made?"
"Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link!
Now what do you think?
Who stole a nest away
From the plum-tree, to-day?"
"Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo!
Let me speak a word, too!
Who stole that pretty nest
From little yellow-breast?"
"Not I," said the sheep; "Oh, no!
I wouldn't treat a poor bird so.
I gave wool the nest to line,
But the nest was none of mine.
Baa! Baa!" said the sheep, "Oh, no
I wouldn't treat a poor bird so."
"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!
Will you listen to me?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made?"
"Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link!
Now what do you think?
Who stole a nest away
From the plum-tree, to-day?"
"Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo!
Let me speak a word, too!
Who stole that pretty nest
From little yellow-breast?"
"Caw! Caw!" cried the crow;
"I should like to know
What thief took away
A bird's nest, to-day?"
"Cluck! Cluck!" said the hen;
"Don't ask me again,
Why I haven't a chick
Would do such a trick.
We all gave her a feather,
And she wove them together.
I'd scorn to intrude
On her and her brood.
Cluck! Cluck!" said the hen,
"Don't ask me again."
"Chirr-a-whirr! Chirr-a-whirr!
All the birds make a stir!
Let us find out his name,
And all cry 'For shame!'"
"I would not rob a bird,"
Said little Mary Green;
"I think I never heard
Of anything so mean."
"It is very cruel, too,"
Said little Alice Neal;
"I wonder if he knew
How sad the bird would feel?"
A little boy hung down his head,
And went and hid behind the bed,
For he stole that pretty nest
From poor little yellow-breast;
And he felt so full of shame,
He didn't like to tell his name.

Lydia Maria Child.

Answer to a Child's Question

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.

The Burial of the Linnet

Found in the garden dead in his beauty—
Oh that a linnet should die in the spring!
Bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty,
Muffle the dinner-bell, solemnly ring.
Bury him kindly, up in the corner;
Bird, beast, and goldfish are sepulchred there
Bid the black kitten march as chief mourner,
Waving her tail like a plume in the air.
Bury him nobly—next to the donkey;
Fetch the old banner, and wave it about;
Bury him deeply—think of the monkey,
Shallow his grave, and the dogs got him out.
Bury him softly—white wool around him,
Kiss his poor feathers—the first kiss and last;
Tell his poor widow kind friends have found him:
Plant his poor grave with whatever grows fast.
Farewell, sweet singer! dead in thy beauty,
Silent through summer, though other birds sing,
Bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty,
Muffle the dinner-bell, mournfully ring.

Juliana Horatia Ewing.

The Titmouse

. . . . Piped a tiny voice hard by,
Gay and polite, a cheerful cry,
Chic-chicadeedee! saucy note
Out of sound heart and merry throat,
As if it said, "Good-day, good sir!
Fine afternoon, old passenger!
Happy to meet you in these places,
Where January brings few faces."
This poet, though he live apart,
Moved by his hospitable heart,
Sped, when I passed his sylvan fort,
To do the honors of his court,
As fits a feathered lord of land;
Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand;
Hopped on the bough, then, darting low,
Prints his small impress on the snow,
Shows feats of his gymnastic play,
Head downward, clinging to the spray,
. . . . . . . .
Here was this atom in full breath,
Hurling defiance at vast death.
This scrap of valor, just for play,
Fronts the north wind in waistcoat gray.
. . . . . . . .

Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Birds in Summer

How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Flitting about in each leafy tree;
In the leafy trees so broad and tall,
Like a green and beautiful palace hall,
With its airy chambers, light and boon,
That open to sun, and stars, and moon;
That open unto the bright blue sky,
And the frolicsome winds as they wander by!
They have left their nests in the forest bough;
Those homes of delight they need not now;
And the young and old they wander out,
And traverse the green world round about;
And hark at the top of this leafy hall,
How, one to another, they lovingly call!
"Come up, come up!" they seem to say,
"Where the topmost twigs in the breezes play!"
"Come up, come up, for the world is fair,
Where the merry leaves dance in the summer air!"
And the birds below give back the cry,
"We come, we come to the branches high!"
How pleasant the life of the birds must be,
Living above in a leafy tree!
And away through the air what joy to go,
And to look on the green, bright earth below!
How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Skimming about on the breezy sea,
Cresting the billows like silvery foam,
Then wheeling away to its cliff-built home!
What joy it must be to sail, upborne,
By a strong free wing, through the rosy morn,
To meet the young sun, face to face,
And pierce, like a shaft, the boundless space!
To pass through the bowers of the silver cloud;
To sing in the thunder halls aloud:
To spread out the wings for a wild, free flight
With the upper cloud-winds,—oh, what delight!
Oh, what would I give, like a bird, to go,
Right on through the arch of the sun-lit bow,
And see how the water-drops are kissed
Into green and yellow and amethyst.
How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Wherever it listeth, there to flee;
To go, when a joyful fancy calls,
Dashing down 'mong the waterfalls;
Then wheeling about, with its mate at play,
Above and below, and among the spray,
Hither and thither, with screams as wild
As the laughing mirth of a rosy child.
What joy it must be, like a living breeze,
To flutter about 'mid the flowering trees;
Lightly to soar and to see beneath,
The wastes of the blossoming purple heath,
And the yellow furze, like fields of gold,
That gladden some fairy region old!
On mountain-tops, on the billowy sea,
On the leafy stems of the forest-tree,
How pleasant the life of a bird must be!

Mary Howitt.

An Epitaph on a Robin Redbreast

Tread lightly here; for here, 'tis said,
When piping winds are hush'd around,
A small note wakes from underground,
Where now his tiny bones are laid.
No more in lone or leafless groves,
With ruffled wing and faded breast,
His friendless, homeless spirit roves;
Gone to the world where birds are blest!
Where never cat glides o'er the green,
Or school-boy's giant form is seen;
But love, and joy, and smiling Spring
Inspire their little souls to sing!

Samuel Rogers.

The Bluebird

I know the song that the bluebird is singing,
Out in the apple-tree where he is swinging.
Brave little fellow! the skies may be dreary,
Nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery.
Hark! how the music leaps out from his throat!
Hark! was there ever so merry a note?
Listen awhile, and you'll hear what he's saying,
Up in the apple-tree, swinging and swaying:
"Dear little blossoms, down under the snow,
You must be weary of winter, I know;
Hark! while I sing you a message of cheer,
Summer is coming and spring-time is here!
"Little white snowdrop, I pray you arise;
Bright yellow crocus, come, open your eyes;
Sweet little violets hid from the cold,
Put on your mantles of purple and gold;
Daffodils, daffodils! say, do you hear?
Summer is coming, and spring-time is here!"

Mrs. Emily Huntington Miller.