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JUVENILE GEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 SONG AND STORY 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 JOHN B. ALDEN, PUBLISHER. 
 
 1886. 
 
Wtno 
 
 Transfer 
 Engineers School Uby, 
 June 29,1931 
 
 TROWS 
 
 PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY, 
 
 NEW YORK, 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Good Night and Good Morning . By Lord Houghton 9 
 
 April Voices. By Amelia Daley Alden 10 
 
 The Builders. By Henry W. Longfellow 12 
 
 Little Boy Blue. B} r Abby Sage Richardson 13 
 
 The Story of the Wind. By Amanda T. Jones 14 
 
 Our Mother's Sampler. By Susan Teall Perry 15 
 
 Little Florence. By Ellen Tracy Alden 17 
 
 Prayers of the Children. By Frances S. Osgood 21 
 
 Bed-Time . By Josephine Pollard 22 
 
 The Might of Truth. By Alice Cary 23 
 
 The Beautiful Hand. By Clara Doty Bates 24 
 
 JudgeNot. By Adelaide Anne Proctor 25 
 
 Song of Marion's Men. By William Cullen Bryant 26 
 
 TheRelief of Lucknow. By Robert Lowell 28 
 
 Perseverance. By R. S. S. Andros 30 
 
 The Heritage. By James Russell Lowell 33 
 
 The Nurse's Song. ' By Susan Coolidge 34 
 
 Apple Blossoms . By Mary A. P . Stansbury 36 
 
 Baby-Land. By George Cooper 38 
 
 A Centennial Tea-Pot. By Ellen Tracy Alden 39 
 
 Words . By Adelaide Anne Proctor «, 42 
 
 Little Harry and the New Moon . By Helen E . Brown. 43 
 
 The Story of Mother Becker. By Amanda T . Jones 46 
 
 Christ and the Little Ones. By Julia GilL 49 
 
 Paul Revere 's Ride. By Henry W. Longfellow.. 50 
 
 The Old Continentals . By Guy Humphrey McMaster 54 
 
 Wait. ByWardSteele 50 
 
 King Canute . By William Makepeace Thackeray 57 
 
 A Little Philosopher. By Margaret E. Sangster 01 
 
 Arachne. By Dora Read Goodale. 02 
 
 The Voice of the Grass. By Sarah Roberts 03 
 
 The Dandelions. By Amelia D. Alden 04 
 
 Grandmother's Story of Bunker Hill Battle. By Oliver Wen- 
 dell Holmes .. 65 
 
 The Inchcape Rock. By Robert Southey 74 
 
 The Humble Bee. By Ralph Waldo Emerson 7G 
 
 Bruce and the Spider. By Bernard Barton 7S 
 
 To a Waterfowl. By William Cullen Bryant 79 
 
 Baby'sSkies. By M. C. Bartlett SO 
 
 Who Stole the Bird's Nest. By Mrs L M. Child SI 
 
 The Cat's Dinner-Time. By Elizabeth Akers Allen 83 
 
6 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 To Mother Fairie. By Alice Cary 84 
 
 The Gladness of Nature . By William Cullen Bryant 85 
 
 Suppose ! By Phcebe Cary 86 
 
 An Incident of the Fire at Hamburg. By James Russell 
 
 Lowell 87 
 
 Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers . By Felicia Hemans 90 
 
 To the Lady -Bird. By Mrs. Southey 91 
 
 The Season that is Coming. By Mrs. M. F. Butts 92 
 
 Queen Mabel, By Ellen Tracy Alden 93 
 
 They Didn't Think. By Phcebe Cary 99 
 
 A Mystery . By Reaf Coral -. 101 
 
 The Secret. By Mrs. F. L. Ballard 102 
 
 The Common Question. By John Greenleaf Whittier 103 
 
 Fable. By Ralph Waldo Emerson 104 
 
 Baby. By George MacDonald 105 
 
 Robert of Lincoln . By William Cullen Bryant , 106 
 
 Small Beginnings. By Charles Mackay 108 
 
 A Psalm of Life. By Henry W. Longfellow *. ... 109 
 
 The Fairy Wedding . By Amelia Daley Alden 110 
 
 High-Tide on the Cost of Lincolnshire. By Jean Ingelow 112 
 
 Buttercups and Daisies. By Mary Howitt 117 
 
 Song of the Brook. By Alfred Tennyson :. 119 
 
 Wild Geese . By Celia Thaxter 120 
 
 The Tradespeople . By Julius Sturm . . 121 
 
 Take Care, By Alice Cary 122 
 
 Sir Patrick Spens. An Old Ballad 123 
 
 The Destruction of Sennacherib . Byron 126 
 
 The Better Land. By Felicia Hemans 128 
 
 The King Speaks. By Will H. Veith. 129 
 
 Casabianca. By Felicia Hemans 130 
 
 Giant and Dwarf. By William Allen Butler 131 
 
 Baby Bye . By Theodore Tilton 133 
 
 Katy . By Ellen Tracy Alden 136 
 
 The Motherless Turkeys. By Marian Douglass., 137 
 
 Tiny Tokens. By Frances Ridley Havergal , 139 
 
 The Song of Steam. By G. W. Cutter 140 
 
 The Last Hymn. By Marianne Farmingham 142 
 
 Dutiful Jem. By Jane Taylor 144 
 
 The Brown Thrush, By Lucy Larcom 146 
 
 Seven Times One. By Jean Ingelow 147 
 
 The Heavenly Friend. By Anna Shipton 143 
 
 The Signs of the Season. By M.E.N. Hathaway 150 
 
 The First Tangle. By Anna F. Burnham 151 
 
 A Builder's Lesson . By John Boyle O'Reilly 152 
 
 The Fairy Isle. By Louise V. Boyd 153 
 
 The Arab's Farewell to His Steed. By Mrs. Norton 156 
 
 The Battle of Blenheim. By Robert Southey 159 
 
 Dream of the Golden Age. By Persie Vere 161 
 
 Grandma's Corner. By Augusta Moore 163 
 
CONTENTS. 7 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 The Little Yellow Bee. By Mary L . Bolles Branch 164 
 
 Winsome Maggie. By Ellen Tracy Alden 166 
 
 " Somebody's Mother . " Home Journal 168 
 
 Woodman Spare That Tree. By Geo. P . Morris 169 
 
 Be Honest and True 170 
 
 One Saturday. By Marion Douglass 171 
 
 The Sea. By Barry Cornwall 173 
 
 The Brown Thrush. By Lucy Larcom 174 
 
 The Little Cavalier. By Geo. Cooper 175 
 
 The Wind Blows. By Dora Read Good ale 176 
 
 A Danish Legend. By Caroline It. Hewins 177 
 
 The Pied Piper of Hamelin . By Robert Browning 179 
 
 The Spider and the Fly. By Mary Howitt 185 
 
 The Wise Fairy. By Alice Cary 188 
 
 The Death of the Flowers . By W illiam Cullen Bryant 189 
 
 The Secret of a Happy Day By Frances Ridley Havergal. . . ; 191 
 
 The Color-Bearer. By J. T. Trowbridge 193 
 
 Day-Dreams . By Annie M . Libby 195 
 
 The Brook that Ran Into the Sea. By Lucy Larcom 196 
 
 Work . By Mary N. Prescott 193 
 
 Before Snow Time , By James Berry Bensel 199 
 
 Light For All. S. S. Advocate 200 
 
 A Visit from St . Nicholas . By Clement C. Moore 201 
 
 A Dinner and a Kiss 203 
 
 The Angel's Blessing By Amelia Daley Alden 204 
 
 The Angel's Song. By Edmund H. Sears .205 
 
 A Christmas Carol. By Mrs. J. K. Hervey 206 
 
 Christmas. By Margaret Sidney 209 
 
 Little By Little. Youth's Companion 21 1 
 
 Old Christmas. By Mary Howitt. 212 
 
 An Old Legend. By Rose Terry 214 
 
 The Three Kings. By H. W. Longfellow 216 
 
 Christmas Time. By Sir Walter Scott 218 
 
 The Christmas Story. By Nahum Tate 220 
 
 Jacky's Sock and Jennie's Stocking. By Helen Stannard 221 
 
 Brightest and Best . By Reginald Heber 223 
 
 Contentment. By Frances S. Osgood, 224 
 
JUVENILE GEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 SONG AND STORY 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT AND GOOD-MORNING. 
 
 A fair little girl 
 Sat under a tree. 
 
 Sewing as long as 
 Her eyes could see ; 
 She smoothed her work, 
 And folded it right, 
 And said, " Dear work, 
 Good-night, good-night." 
 
 Such a number of rooks 
 Went over her head, 
 Crying, " Caw, caw," 
 On their way to bed, 
 She said, as she watched 
 Their curious flight, 
 " Little black things, 
 Good-night, good-night." 
 
 The horses neighed, 
 
 And the oxen lowed, 
 
 And the sheep's " bleat, bleat 
 
 Came over the road, 
 
 All seeming to say, 
 
 With a quiet delight, 
 
 11 Good little girl, 
 
 Good-night, good-night." 
 
io JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 She did not say 
 To the sun " Good-night," 
 Though she saw him there 
 Like a ball of light ; 
 For she knew he had 
 God's time to keep 
 All over the world, 
 And never could sleep. 
 
 The tall, pink fox-glove 
 Bowed her head ; 
 The violets curtsied 
 And went to bed ; 
 And s^ood little Lucv 
 Tied up her hair, 
 And said, on her knees, 
 Her favorite prayer. 
 
 And while on her pillow 
 
 She softly lay, 
 
 She heard nothing more 
 
 Till again it was day. 
 
 And all things said 
 
 To the beautiful sun, 
 
 " Good-morning, good-morning ; 
 
 Our work has begun." 
 
 Lord Houghton. 
 
 APRIL VOICES. 
 
 When winter snows have melted, 
 And in April's sunny track 
 
 The sparrow, and the phebe-bird, 
 And blue-bird venture back ; 
 
 When the days are growing longer, 
 And the buds begin to swell, 
 
 And, noiselessly, the sun unlocks 
 Each blossom's winter cell ; 
 
SONG AND STORY, U 
 
 Then listen at some hillside ; 
 
 Put your ear against the earth ; 
 And you may hear a murmuring — 
 A faint sweet sound of mirth, 
 
 As if from some far country 
 
 The wandering wind should bring 
 
 A murmur of the melody 
 That tuneful joy-bells ring, 
 
 And gush of childish laughter, 
 Across the meadows blown, 
 
 Should mingle with the chiming, 
 In a happy undertone. 
 
 But 'tis not distant chiming, 
 
 Nor sound of childish glee, 
 That gushes from the hillside's heart, 
 
 As sweet as sweet can be. 
 
 It comes from souls of blossoms, 
 That long have waiting lain, 
 
 For April suns to call them forth 
 To outward life again. 
 
 The violet is calling 
 
 To the bloodroot frail and fair ; 
 The dandelion laughs aloud 
 
 At thought of sun and air ; 
 
 And longs to throw his blossoms, 
 
 Like stars, upon the grass, 
 And feel the children's little feet 
 
 Among them lightly pass. 
 
 The cowslip and the daisy, 
 The clovers, red and white, 
 
 The bluebell and the buttercup, 
 Are longing for the light. 
 
 And all their voices blending. 
 Ring out so sweet and clear, 
 
 That he who listens earnestlv 
 The merry tones may hear. 
 
 Amelia Da lev A I den. 
 
12 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 THE BUILDERS. 
 
 All are architects of Fate, 
 
 Working in these walls of Time ; 
 
 Some with massive deeds and great, 
 Some with ornaments of rhyme. 
 
 Nothing useless is or low ; 
 
 Each thing in its place is best ; 
 And what seems but idle show 
 
 Strengthens and supports the rest. 
 
 For the structure that we raise 
 Time is with materials filled; 
 
 Our to-days and yesterdays 
 
 Are the blocks with which we build. 
 
 Truly shape and fashion these, 
 Leave no yawning gaps between ; 
 
 Think not, because no man sees, 
 Such things will remain unseen. 
 
 In the elder days of Art, 
 
 Builders wrought with greatest care 
 Each minute and unseen part ; 
 
 For the gods see everywhere. 
 
 Let us do our work as well, 
 Both the unseen and the seen; 
 
 Make the house where gods may dwell, 
 Beautiful, entire and clean. 
 
 Else our lives are incomplete, 
 Standing in these walls of Time, 
 
 Broken stairways, where the feet 
 Stumble as they seek to climb. 
 
 Build to-day, then, strong and sure, 
 With a firm and ample base ; 
 
 And ascending and secure 
 Shall to-morrow find its place. 
 
SONG AND STORY. 13 
 
 Thus alone can we attain 
 
 To those turrets, where the eye 
 
 Sees the world as one vast plain, 
 And one boundless reach of sky. 
 
 Henry W. Longfellow. 
 
 LITTLE BOY BLUE. 
 
 Under the hay-stack little Boy Blue 
 Sleeps with his head on his arm, 
 
 While voices of men and voices of maids 
 Are calling him over the farm. 
 
 Sheep in the meadows are running wild, 
 Where poisonous herbage grows , 
 
 Leaving white tufts of downv fleece 
 On the thorns of the sweet wild-rose. 
 
 Out in the fields where the silken corn 
 Its plumed head nods and bows, 
 
 Where golden pumpkins ripen below, 
 Trample the white-faced cows. 
 
 But no loud blast on the shining horn 
 
 Calls back the straying sheep ; 
 And the cows may wander in hay or corn, 
 
 While their keeper lies asleep. 
 
 His roguish eyes are tightly shut, 
 
 His dimples are all at rest ; 
 The chubby hand, tucked under his head, 
 
 By one rosy cheek is pressed. 
 
 Waken him ? No. Let down the bars, 
 
 And gather the truant sheep ; 
 Open the barnyard and drive in the cows, 
 
 But let the little boy sleep. 
 
 For year after year we can shear the fleece, 
 And corn can always be sown ; 
 
 But the sleep that visits little Boy Blue 
 Will not come when the years have flown. 
 Abby Sage Richardson. 
 
M JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 THE STORY OF THE WIND. 
 
 The wind came over the hills one day, 
 
 Singing a charming tune, 
 As light and low as the sleepy lay 
 
 Of a humming-bird in June, 
 
 I should not have heeded his idle song, 
 But his breath was on my face.' 
 
 And his arms around my neck were flung 
 In a fairy-like embrace. 
 
 Then " Whither away, sweet wind ? " said I, 
 " And why is thy song so gay ? 
 
 And why do thy waving pinions fly 
 So busily all the day ? " 
 
 " Like a child asleep," the zephyr said, 
 " I have lain the whole long night, 
 
 With the moonbeams spread above my bed, 
 For a covering pure and white. 
 
 " But, just as the sun from out of the sea 
 Had lifted his princely head, 
 
 The morn, like a mother, lifted me 
 From out of my snowy bed. 
 
 " Then up, in the golden light, I flew 
 O'er meadow and grassy hills ; 
 
 I sprinkled the clover-heads with dew, 
 I ruffled the meadow rills ; 
 
 " I swept the boughs of the beech aside, 
 To look at the nestling birds ; 
 
 The broken flower by the rolling tide 
 I cheered with my loving words. 
 
 " I fluttered afar with the dancing hours, 
 O'er forest and creeping vine ; 
 
 I gleefully kissed the bending flowers, 
 Till their lips were red as wine. 
 
SONG AND STORY. T5 
 
 " Oh, swiftly I fly o'er the rustling grass, 
 And the wheat on smiling farms, 
 
 Till the old nurse Night comes clown at last, 
 And cradles me in her arms. 
 
 "Then whither away ? " said the wind to me, 
 " And where hast thou been to-day ? 
 
 And why is thy face so sad to see, 
 When everything else is gay ? " 
 
 " Alas ! sweet wind," I sighed to say, 
 While the tears in my eyelids grew, 
 
 " / have, not borne to a soul to-day, 
 Love's delicate draught of dew. 
 
 " 1 have not searched for the broken flowers 
 
 That wither along the way, 
 Nor gladdened the flight of the priceless hours, 
 
 Nor bent my knee to pray. 
 
 " O, sweet are thy songs o'er lake and lea, 
 
 At the morning and eventide ; 
 But the lesson of love thou hast taught to me, 
 
 Is sweeter than aught beside." 
 
 Amanda T.Jones. 
 
 OUR MOTHER'S SAMPLER. 
 
 It was wrought in silken letters, 
 
 As was the fashion then. 
 Stitched into our mother's sampler — 
 
 " Eliza, aged Ten ! " 
 'Twas long ago — passed sixty years! 
 Below the name the date appears. 
 
 In " eighteen hundred twenty-three ! " 
 
 We often heard her tell — 
 She walked two miles to school that year. 
 
 And we remember well, 
 How 7 underneath the elm tree's shade 
 She rested when a little maid. 
 
16 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 Above her name the Alphabet, 
 
 In letters large and small, 
 Was wrought in red, and " true love blue," 
 
 And cross-stitched, one and all. 
 The rows divided off by lines, 
 Made from some old and quaint designs. 
 
 And through the Summer sunshine, 
 And through the Winter's snow, 
 
 With the sampler in her pocket, 
 Our mother used to go. 
 
 And afternoons, the lessons done, 
 
 She worked the letters one by one. 
 
 The stitches evenly were set, 
 
 With only here and there 
 A misplaced one, perhaps the count 
 
 Was lost midst childish care. 
 Distracting things in school, perchance, 
 Stole from the work a thought, a glance. 
 
 They tell me it was beautiful, 
 
 Our mother's childhood face, 
 And speak of all her kindly words, 
 
 Her ways of simple grace. 
 Could we have onlv seen her then, 
 That child, " Eliza,' aged ten ! " 
 
 We knew her not at morning : 
 But when her noon-time came, 
 
 With childish love and prattle, 
 We gave her the new name ; 
 
 Replete with all that's pure and gpod — - 
 
 The sacred name of motherhood. 
 
 And now the afternoon has passed : 
 
 It is the evening tide ; 
 Our mother has just entered in 
 
 Among the glorified. 
 We look her finished life-work through™ 
 The misplaced stitches, O how few ! 
 
 Susan Teall Perry, in Evangelist 
 
SONG AND STORY. 17 
 
 LITTLE FLORENCE, 
 
 O Florence, little Florence, 
 With your face so bonny-bright, 
 
 With your hair so full of sunshine, 
 With your eyes so full of light, 
 
 With your head so full of frolic, 
 With your heart so full of love, 
 
 If you could only tell me, 
 Could tell me, pretty dove 1 
 
 Do the little laughing cherubs 
 
 Slide down the moonbeams white, 
 
 And whisper funny stories, 
 And talk to you all night ? — 
 
 The funny bits of ballads 
 
 You babble now and then, 
 In a sweeter, softer language 
 
 Than other mortals ken. 
 
 Do they joke and jest so gleeful, 
 
 From set of sun till dawn, 
 That you lie and crow and giggle 
 
 Long after they are gone ? 
 
 Do they always bring two dewy, 
 
 Fresh pieces of the sky, 
 And lift your lashes softly 
 
 And slip them under sly ? 
 
 Do they pinch your cheeks a trifle, 
 
 To make the roses blow ? 
 Do they punch your chubby fingers, 
 
 To make the dimples grow ? 
 
 Do they show you sights of mischief, 
 
 All sorts of things to do 
 (Just to keep a body busy, 
 
 And the world from getting "blue ") ? 
 
 2 
 
18 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 Do they tickle you at table, 
 And tempt you to a spree 
 
 (Just to shake the mental cobwebs) 
 When the Parson's in to tea ? 
 
 Do they pity the canary, 
 And come to you and say, 
 
 'Tis weary of its prison 
 And wants to get away ? 
 
 Do they hint the budding calla 
 Is bold enough to bloom, 
 
 If some one isn't careful 
 To pluck it pretty soon ? 
 
 Do they tell you on which bushes 
 Grows "de bestest zinzerbread" 1 
 
 That how to get new dollies 
 
 Is to smash the old one's head ? 
 
 Do they teach you model methods 
 For enslaving humankind — 
 
 The way to rule the father 
 
 And to make the mother mind ? 
 
 And to keep all of us people, 
 Who live across the street, 
 
 Forever on the listen 
 
 For the tinkling of your feet ? 
 
 Alas ! ere you can answer, 
 
 I'm very much in fear 
 The cherubs will have finished 
 
 A-whispering in your ear. 
 
 'Tis cloudy April weather, 
 There's a chill in all the air, 
 
 And over in the window 
 I see the golden hair. 
 
 Somebody must stay indoors, 
 For fear of catching cold ; 
 
 And it's " defful " tiresome business 
 For little Three-years-old. 
 
SONG AND STORY. 19 
 
 But the whole town remembers 
 
 How, not six months agone, 
 All round the house the curtains 
 
 Were ever closely drawn, 
 
 And where erewhile the door-bell 
 
 Its frequent summons rang, 
 Was pinned a pencilled notice, 
 
 To hush the piercing clang. 
 
 For little, little Florence 
 
 Among the shadows lay, 
 In fever, moaning, tossing, 
 
 The livelong night and day. 
 
 And oft was asked the question, 
 
 " Is she any better now ? " 
 With a choking and a tremor 
 
 One couldn't help, somehow. 
 
 But she does not remember, 
 
 Of course — the blithesome heart. 
 
 See ! she has donned her "yiding-hood," 
 All ready for a start. 
 
 And — now ! quick, no one watching, 
 Down, down the walk she flies — 
 
 And Betsy rushing after, 
 With a twinkle in her eyes. 
 
 Ha ! let us see you catch her — 
 
 The wee Red Riding-hood ! 
 A flash of scarlet lightning ; 
 
 She's in a racing mood. 
 
 Quick, o'er the muddy crossing 
 (The dainty buttoned shoes !) 
 
 Quick, quick, around the corner — 
 Ah, she begins to lose ! 
 
 And — now ! — the race is over. 
 
 You little midget, you ! 
 To laugh such bubbling laughter. 
 
 The other must laugh too. 
 
20 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 And now the door closed on her, 
 As yesterday, no doubt — 
 
 "Mamma must haf to lock it, 
 Or some peoples vill get out." 
 
 Once, left alone a moment, 
 They couldn't find the child ; 
 
 And the father's face was ghastly, 
 And the mother — she went wild. 
 
 Nor here, nor there, the missing ; 
 
 The neighbors, looking out, 
 Saw all the household flying 
 
 Promiscuously about, 
 
 And joined the search, in terror, 
 
 And hurried to and fro ; 
 " Oh ! where — oh ! where is Florence ? 
 
 Does anybody know ? " 
 
 " O Florence ! Florence ! Florence ! " 
 There came a little squeal 
 
 From Pony Prince's manger — 
 "I be here in de meal." 
 
 The darling ! may kind Heaven 
 Preserve her safe and sound ! 
 
 For her ways defy conjecture, 
 
 And her plans — they are profound. 
 
 But bless the little cherubs 
 
 Who ride the moonbeams white, 
 
 And come to her a-cooing, 
 A-cooing all the night ! 
 
 Who come to her with manna — 
 
 The melting music-mirth 
 She scatters in her pathway, 
 
 To gladden all the earth. 
 
 And bless the little Florence, 
 With her face so bonny-bright, 
 
 With her hair so full of sunshine, 
 With her eyes so full of light ! 
 
SONG AND STORY. 21 
 
 Aye, bless you, little sunbeam ! 
 
 Shine on a good long while ! 
 The world will be the better 
 
 For the ripple in your smile ! 
 
 Ellen Tracy ALien. 
 
 PRAYERS OF THE CHILDREN. 
 
 " Come hither, George and Marion, 
 
 Come hither, Isabelle ! " 
 Far off, the mother's voice, and low, 
 
 But on their hearts it fell. 
 
 And George — the rosy, dark-eved rogue, 
 
 Came bounding at her will ; 
 And Isabelle — the darling, 
 
 And Marion meek and still. 
 
 "Now if you each one prayer to Heaven, 
 
 And only one, might say, 
 For what, my precious little ones, 
 
 Would you this moment pray ? 
 
 1 7 
 
 " Oh ! I would pray that God would send 
 His bright heaven down to earth. 
 
 Nor take us from our tender friends/'' 
 Said George, in thoughtless mirth. 
 
 "And I," said loving Isabelle. 
 
 " Would ask, my darling mother, 
 That we might go together there — 
 
 Thou, Marion, I, and brother." 
 
 Then Marion raised her thoughtful eyes — 
 
 Our little dreaming nun — 
 " And thou ? " — Serene the child replies, 
 
 " I'd say—Thy will be done ! " 
 
 Frances S. Osgood, 
 
22 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 BED-TIME. 
 
 When the lamps were lit in the evening, 
 
 And the shutters were fastened tight, 
 And the room where the household gathered 
 
 Was cosy, and warm and bright, 
 When the bustle of work was over, 
 
 And the children were tired of play, 
 It seemed to us that our bed-time 
 
 Was the pleasantest part of the day. 
 
 For grandmother had her knitting ; 
 
 Click ! click ! would the needles go ; 
 The baby was snug in the cradle, 
 
 And mother had time to sew ; 
 And we in our little night-gowns, 
 
 Would clamber on father's knee, 
 And sheltered within his loving arms 
 
 Were happy as we could be. 
 
 He could not sing ; but he whistled 
 
 A tune that was sure to keep 
 The little ones very quiet, 
 
 And put the baby to sleep ; 
 And whenever I want a lullaby, 
 
 The sweetest I e'er shall know 
 Is the one that my father always used 
 
 In the beautiful long ago. 
 
 Sometimes there were apples roasted, 
 
 And then there were nuts to crack ; 
 And jokes to be told, and stories 
 
 That had a delicious smack ; 
 And the longer we lingered, the harder 
 
 We found it to get away, 
 For to us the children's bed-time 
 
 Seemed the sweetest hour of the day. 
 
 But at last the word was spoken ; 
 
 " Come, come ! " the mother said, 
 In her quietest tones, — " it is really time 
 
 That little folks went to bed ; " ' 
 
SONG AND STORY. 23 
 
 And we who were wide awake as owls, 
 
 And ready for any lark, 
 With mournful step moved slowly out 
 
 And into the joyless dark. 
 
 And long after we were folded 
 
 In slumber's serene embrace, 
 And with the angels of dreamland 
 
 Were floating through fairy space, 
 Dear father would come to our bedside, 
 
 And tuck us in, oh, so tight ! 
 We'd sleep as warm as birds in a nest 
 
 All through the livelong night. 
 
 And when my bed-time cometh, 
 
 And the last " Good-nights " are said, 
 And with the rest of the children 
 
 I go to my narrow bed, 
 My sleep will be the sweeter 
 
 For the touch of a loving hand, 
 And a Father's smile will greet me 
 
 As I enter the morning-land. 
 
 Josephine Pollard, 
 
 THE MIGHT OF TRUTH. 
 
 We are proclaimed, even against our wills — 
 If we are silent, then our silence speaks — 
 
 Children from tumbling on the summer hills 
 Come home with roses rooted in their 
 cheeks. 
 
 I think no man can make his lie hold good, — 
 
 One way or other, truth is understood. 
 
 The still sweet influence of a life of prayer 
 Quickens their hearts who never bow the 
 knee, — 
 So come fresh draughts of living inland air 
 
 To weary homesick men, far out at sea. 
 Acquaint thyself with God, O man, and lo ! 
 His light shall like a garment round thee 
 flow. 
 
24 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 The selfishness that with our lives has grown, 
 
 Though outward grace its full expression bar, 
 
 Will crop out here and there like belts of 
 
 stone 
 
 From shallow soil, discovering what we are. 
 
 The thing most specious cannot stead the 
 
 true, — 
 Who would appear clean, must be clean all 
 
 through, 
 
 Alice Cary 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL HAND. 
 
 Three maidens by the wayside — 
 So runs an ancient story — 
 
 From idle chat and jest, 
 Began at length, disputing 
 
 Whose hands were loveliest. 
 
 The strife grew hot and bitter, 
 Until, at last, each yielded 
 
 Thus much of stubborn pride, 
 To say the first one passing 
 
 Between them should decide. 
 
 Then one in crystal water, 
 Dipped all her pretty fingers 
 
 A dazzling white to gain ; 
 Another gathered strawberries 
 
 To give a rosy stain ; 
 
 Another in the thicket, 
 
 Sought violets white and purple, 
 
 And plucked them for their scent 
 Just then an aged woman 
 
 Drew near, so wan, so bent. 
 
 Only a feeble beggar, 
 Faltering and thin and hungry, 
 
 Opening her withered palms 
 To each in turn, beseeching, 
 
 In quavering tones, for alms. 
 
SONG AND STORY. m 25 
 
 Close followed a girl, a peasant ; 
 The three, the beggar scorning, 
 
 Of her made quick demand, 
 Holding their hands before her : — 
 
 " Whose is the loveliest hand ?" 
 
 She gave them smiling answer : 
 (But gently thrust a penny — 
 
 More than she well could spare — 
 First in the beggar's fingers) 
 
 " Oh, all are very fair." 
 
 Ah, then what change came over 
 That bowed and shrivelled figure ! 
 
 Full in their dazzled sight 
 Her faded, tattered garments 
 
 Grew into robes of light. 
 
 With soft white wings unfolded, 
 They saw her lifted, rising, 
 
 Beautiful as a bird, 
 Up to the sky, while breathless 
 
 With awe, these words they heard : 
 
 " The hands of the vain and selfish 
 Are never fair nor lovely ; 
 
 The peasant's are more fair, 
 For she gave to the Lord's own needy, 
 
 More than she well could spare." 
 
 And then they knew that an angel 
 Had crossed their path and spoken 
 
 In that poor beggar's guise, 
 And the hard hands of the peasant 
 
 Looked white even to their eves. 
 Mrs. Clara Doty Bates, in Good Cheer 
 
 JUDGE NOT. 
 
 Judge not ; the workings of his brain 
 And of his heart thou canst not see 
 
 What looks to thy dim eyes a stain, 
 In God's pure light may only be 
 
26 b JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 A scar, brought from some well-worn field, 
 Where thou wouldst only faint and yield. 
 
 The look, the air, that frets thy sight, 
 
 May be a token, that below 
 The soul has closed in deadly fight 
 
 With some infernal fiery foe, 
 Whose glance would scorch thy smiling grace, 
 And cast thee shuddering on thy face ! 
 
 The fall thou darest to despise — 
 May be the angel's slackened hand 
 
 Has suffered it, that he may rise 
 And take a firmer, surer stand. 
 
 Or, trusting less to earthly things, 
 
 May henceforth learn to use his wings. 
 
 And judge none lost ; but wait and see, 
 With hopeful pity, not disdain, 
 
 The depth of the abyss may be 
 The measure of the height of pain, 
 
 And love and glory, that may raise 
 
 This soul to God in after days. 
 
 Adelaide Anne Proctor. 
 
 SONG OF MARION'S MEN, 
 
 Our band is few, but true and tried, 
 
 Our leader frank and bold ; 
 The British soldier trembles 
 
 When Marion's name is told. 
 Our fortress is the good greenwood, 
 
 Our tent the cypress tree ; 
 We know the forest round us, 
 
 As seamen know the sea ; 
 We know its walls of thorny vines 
 
 Its glades of reedy grass, 
 Its safe and silent islands 
 
 Within the dark morass. 
 
SONG AND STORY. 27 
 
 Woe to the English soldiery 
 
 That little dread us near ! 
 On them shall light at midnight 
 
 A strange and sudden fear, 
 When, waking to their tents on fire, 
 
 They grasp their arms in vain, 
 And they who stand to free us 
 
 Are beat to earth again ; 
 And they who fly in terror deem 
 
 A mighty host behind, 
 And hear the tramp of thousands 
 
 Upon the hollow wind. 
 
 Then sweet the hour that brings release 
 
 From danger and from toil ; 
 We talk the battle over, 
 
 And share the battle's spoil. 
 The woodland rings with laugh and shout, 
 
 As if a hunt were up, 
 And woodland flowers are gathered 
 
 To crown the soldier's cup. 
 With merry songs we mock the wind 
 
 That in the pine-top grieves, 
 And slumber long and sweetly 
 
 On beds of oaken leaves. 
 
 Well knows the fair and friendly moon 
 
 The band that Marion leads, — 
 The glitter of their rifles. 
 
 The scampering of their steeds. 
 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb 
 
 Across the moonlight plain ; 
 'Tis life to feel the night-wind 
 
 That lifts his tossing mane. 
 A moment in the British camp — 
 
 A moment — and away 
 Back to the pathless forest 
 
 Before the peep of day. 
 
 Grave men there are by broad Santee, 
 
 Grave men with hoary hairs ; 
 Their hearts are all with Marion, 
 
 For Marion are their prayers. 
 
JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 And lovely ladies p-rset our band 
 
 With kindliest welcoming. 
 With smiles like those of summer, 
 
 And tears like those of spring. 
 For them we wear these trusty arms, 
 
 And lay them down no more 
 Till we have driven the Briton 
 
 Forever from our shore. 
 
 177/7. Cullen Bryant. 
 
 THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW. 
 
 Oh that last day in Lucknow fort ! 
 
 We knew that it was the last, 
 That the enemy's lines crept surely on, 
 
 And the end was coming fast. 
 
 To yield to that foe was worse than death, 
 And the men and we all worked on; 
 
 It was one day more of smoke and war, 
 And then it would all be done. 
 
 There was one of us, a corporal's wife, 
 
 A fair, young, gentle thing, 
 Wasted with fever in the sie^e 
 
 And her mind was wandering;. 
 
 She lay on the ground in her Scottish plaid, 
 And I took her head on my knee : 
 
 " When my father comes hame frae the pleugh," 
 she said, 
 "Oh! then please wauken me." 
 
 She slept like a child on her father's floor 
 In the flecking of woodbine shade. 
 
 When the house-dog sprawls by the open 
 door, 
 And the mother's wheel is staid. 
 
SONG AND STORY. 29 
 
 It was smoke and roar and powder-stench, 
 
 And hopeless waiting for death ; 
 And the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child, 
 
 Seemed scarcely to draw her breath. 
 
 I sank to sleep, and I had my dream 
 
 Of an English village-lane, 
 And wall and garden ; — but one wild scream 
 
 Brought me back to the roar again. 
 
 There Jessie Brown stood listening, 
 
 Till a sudden gladness broke 
 All over her face, and she caught my hand, 
 
 And drew me near as she spoke : — 
 
 " The Hielanders ! Oh ! dinna ye hear 
 F ~ ' The slogan far awa' ? 
 The McGregors ! Oh ! I ken it weel, 
 It's the grandest o' them a' ! 
 
 " God bless the bonnv Hielanders ! 
 
 We're saved ! we're saved ! " she cried ; 
 And fell on her knees, and thanks to God 
 
 Flowed forth like a full flood-tide. 
 
 Along the battery-line her cry 
 
 Had fallen among the men, [die ; 
 
 And they started back ; — they were there to 
 
 But was life so near them, thejj ? 
 
 They listened for life ; the rattling fire 
 
 Far off, and the far-off roar, 
 Were all ; and the colonel shook his head, 
 
 And they turned to their guns once more. 
 
 But Jessie said, " The slogan's done ; 
 
 But winna ye hear it noo ? 
 The Campbells are comitC ! It's nae a dream ; 
 
 Our succors hae broken through ! " 
 
 We heard the roar and the rattle afar, 
 But the pipes we could not hear ; 
 
 So the men plied their work of hopeless war, 
 And knew that the end was near. 
 
30 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 It was not long ere it made its way, — 
 
 A shrilling ceaseless sound : 
 It was no noise from the strife afar, 
 
 Or the sappers underground. 
 
 It was the pipes of the Highlanders ! 
 
 And now they played "Auld Lang Syne ; " 
 It came to our men like the voice of God, 
 
 And they shouted along the line. 
 
 And they wept, and shook one another's 
 hands, 
 
 And the women sobbed in a crowd ; 
 And every one knelt down where he stood, 
 
 And w r e all thanked God aloud. 
 
 That happy time when we welcomed them, 
 
 Our men put Jessie first ; 
 And the general gave her his hand, and 
 cheers 
 
 Like a storm from the soldiers burst. 
 
 And the pipers' ribbons and tartans streamed, 
 Marching round and round our line ; 
 
 And our joyful cheers were broken with tears 
 As the pipers played Auld Lang Syne. 
 
 Robert LowelL 
 
 
 PERSEVERANCE. 
 
 A swallow in the spring 
 Came to our granary, and 'neath the eaves 
 Essayed to make a nest, and there did bring 
 
 Wet straw and earth and leaves. 
 
 Day after day she toiled 
 With patient art, but ere her work was 
 
 crowned, 
 Some sad mishap the tiny fabric spoiled, 
 
 And dashed it to the ground. 
 
SOiYG AND STORY. 31 
 
 She found the ruin wrought, 
 But not cast down, forth from the place she 
 
 flew, 
 And with her mate fresh earth and grasses 
 brought 
 
 And built her nest anew. 
 
 But scarcely had she placed 
 The last soft feather on its ample floor, 
 When wicked hand, or chance, again laid 
 waste 
 
 And wrought the ruin o'er. 
 
 But still her heart she kept, 
 And toiled again, — and last night, hearing 
 
 calls, 
 I looked, — and lo ! three little swallows slept 
 
 Within the earth-made walls. 
 
 What truth is here, O man ! 
 Hath hope been smitten in its early dawn ? 
 Have clouds o'ercast thy purpose, trust or 
 plan ? 
 
 Have faith, and struggle on ! 
 
 R. S, S t Andros 
 

SONG AND STORY. 33 
 
 THE HERITAGE. 
 
 The rich man's son inherits lands, 
 And piles of brick, and stone, and gold, 
 
 And he inherits soft, white hands, 
 And tender flesh that feels the cold, 
 Nor dares to wear a garment old ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 
 
 The rich man's son inherits cares ; 
 The bank may break, the factory burn, 
 
 A breath may burst his bubble shares, 
 And soft, white hands could hardly earn 
 A living that would serve his turn ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 
 
 The rich man's son inherits wants, 
 His stomach craves for dainty fare ; 
 
 With sated heart, he hears the pants 
 Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, 
 And wearies in his easy chair ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 
 
 What doth the poor man's son inherit ? 
 
 Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, 
 A hardy frame, a hardier spirit ; 
 
 King of two hands, he does his part 
 
 In every useful toil and art ; 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 A king might wish to hold in fee. 
 
 What doth the poor man's son inherit ? 
 Wishes o'er joyed with humble things, 
 
 A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit, 
 Content that from employment springs, 
 A heart that in his labor sings ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 A king might wish to hold in fee. 
 
34 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 What doth the poor man's son inherit ? 
 A patience learned by being poor, 
 
 Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, 
 A fellow-feeling that is sure 
 To make the outcast bless his door : 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 A king might wish to hold in fee. 
 
 O rich man's son ! there is a toil, 
 That with all others level stands ; 
 
 Large charity doth never soil, 
 But only whiten, soft, white hands,— 
 This is the best crop from thy lands ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 Worth being rich to hold in fee. 
 
 O poor man's son ! scorn not thy state ; 
 There is worse weariness than thine. 
 
 In merely being rich and great ; 
 Toil only gives the soul to shine, 
 And makes rest fragrant and benign ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me. 
 
 Worth being poor to hold in fee. 
 
 Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, 
 Are equal in the earth at last ; 
 
 Both, children of the same dear God, 
 Prove title to your heirship vast 
 By record of a well-filled past ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 Well worth a life to hold in fee. 
 
 James Russell Lowell. 
 
 THE NURSE'S SONG 
 
 When nursery lamps are veiled, and nurse is 
 singing 
 
 In accents low, 
 Timing her music to the cradle's swinging, 
 
 Now fast, now slow — 
 
SONG AND STORY. 35 
 
 Singing of Baby Bunting, soft and furry 
 
 In rabbit cloak, 
 Or rock-a-byed amid the toss and flurry 
 
 Of wind-swept oak ; 
 
 Of Boy Blue, sleeping with his horn beside him ; 
 
 Of my son John, 
 "Who went to bed (let all good boys deride him) 
 
 With stockings on ; 
 
 Of sweet Bo-Peep, following her lambkins 
 straying; 
 
 Of Dames in shoes ; 
 Of cows, considerate, 'mid the Piper's playing, 
 
 Which tune to choose ; 
 
 Of G-otham's wise men bowling o'er the billow, 
 
 Or him, less wise, 
 Who chose rough bramble-bushes for a pillow, 
 
 And scratched his eyes. 
 
 It may be, while she sings, that through the 
 portal 
 
 Soft footsteps glide, 
 And, all invisible to grown-up mortal, 
 
 At cradle side 
 
 Sits Mother Goose herself, the dear old mother, 
 And rocks and croons, 
 
 In tones which Baby hearkens, but no other, 
 Her old-new tunes ! 
 
 I think it must be so, else why, years a^ter, 
 
 Do we retrace 
 And sing with shadowy recollected laughter, 
 
 Thoughts of that face ; 
 
 Seen, yet unseen, beaming across the ages 
 
 Brimful of fun 
 And wit and wisdom, baffling all the sages 
 
 Under the sun \ 
 
36 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 A grown-up child has place still, which no 
 other 
 
 May dare refuse, 
 I, grown-up, bring this offering to our Mother, 
 
 To Mother Goose. 
 
 And standing with the babies at that olden, 
 
 Immortal knee, 
 I seem to feel her smile, benign and golden, 
 
 Falling on me. 
 
 Susan Coolidge. 
 
 APPLE BLOSSOMS. 
 
 I leant from my eastward window 
 To the kiss of the morning fair, 
 And a joy in my heart too full for words, 
 Springs up at the matin hymn of the birds, 
 Thrilling the tremulous air. 
 
 The brown of the winding roadway 
 
 Is bound with ribbons of green ; 
 Beyond is the stretch of the grassy leas, 
 And the blossoming boughs of the orchard 
 trees 
 Are rosy and white between. 
 
 An ocean of scented billows, 
 
 They sway to the breath of spring, — 
 With many a craft of new-built nest, 
 Rocking at anchor upon their breast, 
 Its pennant a flashing wing. 
 
 Hark I Clearer than note of robin, 
 
 A song to my window comes ! 
 'Tis Alice, crowned with a garland sweet, 
 Who sings, to the beat of her gladsome feet, 
 
 This lay of the apple blooms : 
 
SONG AND STORY. 37 
 
 " Tell me, Apple Blossoms, 
 
 How your robes were made ! 
 Did the fairies weave them 
 
 In the grassy glade, 
 Out of threads of sunshine, 
 
 On a magic loom, — 
 Paint them with the morning. 
 
 Dip them in perfume I 
 
 "Or, when May looked northward, 
 
 To the waiting land, 
 And stem winter, f rowning f 
 
 Raised his icy hand, 
 Did the wall of snow-flakes 
 
 That he fain would pile, 
 Turn to drifting blossoms 
 
 Underneath her smile 1 
 
 1 * Tell me, Apple Blossoms ! 
 
 Do not trust the bee 3 
 He will buzz the secret 
 
 Ere he leaves the tree. 
 Butterflies are fickle, 
 
 Humming birds so proud! 
 Tell me, Apple Blossoms, — 
 
 Do not speak aloud ! " 
 
 O Alice! My love, my darling! 
 
 If the Apple Blossoms could speak, 
 The beautiful secret they fain would tell, 
 Were not of their colors that match so 
 well 
 
 The tint of your glowing cheek: 
 
 When the rose-white petals have fallen, 
 And their delicate fragrance has fled, 
 
 What is it will grow through the summer 
 noons, 
 
 And ripen under calm harvest moons 
 In the place of the flower that i* dead ? 
 
38 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 So the beautiful face of my darling 
 
 May fade and be hidden some day, 
 But the fair white soul that God's breath 
 
 has given, 
 Unblighted shall grow through the sum- 
 mer of heaven :— 
 This the Apple Blossoms would say. 
 
 Mary A. P. Humphrey, 
 
 BABY-LAND. 
 
 How many miles to Baby-Land ? 
 Any one can tell ; 
 
 Up one flight, 
 To your right — 
 Please to ring the bell. 
 
 What can you see in Baby-Land ? 
 Little folks in white. 
 Downy heads. 
 Cradle-beds, 
 Faces pure and bright. 
 
 What do they do in Baby-Land ? 
 Dream and wake and play, 
 
 Laugh and crow, 
 
 Shout and grow ; 
 Jolly times have they. 
 
 What do they say in Baby-Land ? 
 Why, the oddest things ; 
 
 Might as well 
 
 Try to tell 
 What a birdie sings. 
 
 Who is the queen of Baby-Land ? 
 Mother ; kind and sweet ; 
 And her love, 
 Born above, 
 Guides the little feet. 
 
 George Cooper. 
 
SONG AXD STORY. 39 
 
 A CENTENNIAL TEA-POT. 
 
 Great-great-grandmother, Winifred Lee, 
 Brought, when she came across the sea, 
 A porcelain tea-pot pictured o'er, 
 After a fashion they knew of yore, 
 Bright with birds and with summer flowers 
 And fairies dancing in shady bowers — 
 A pretty treasure to keep in mind 
 The pleasant home she had left behind. 
 
 Weeks of battle with storm and gale 
 Wore on timber and mast and sail, 
 And just a league from its destined goal 
 The ship was wrecked on a sudden shoal. 
 Rescued, the people sped to shore, 
 Saving their lives and nothing more. 
 
 But Winifred, pacing the beach next day, 
 Dreaming of England far away — 
 A little homesick and lone and sad, 
 In spite of the morning gay and glad — 
 Saw, as she strolled, how the thriving tide 
 Had brought its plunder and scattered wide, 
 And beheld, in seaweed carefully wound, 
 The porcelain tea-pot safe and sound ! 
 
 When years had passed and the King's 
 
 demand 
 Roused the people of all the land, 
 And a ship's cargo was put away 
 To steep at the bottom of Boston Bay, 
 With a rebel heart and a flashing eye 
 Winifred laid her tea-pot by ; 
 4 " Till we are granted our rights," said she, 
 '111 drink not another cup of tea." 
 
40 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 (Oh, matrons of this luxurious age, 
 
 Who lightly turn from History's page, 
 
 Just for a year or two forego 
 
 Your redolent draughts of rare Pekoe, 
 
 And say if you deem the self-denial 
 
 Of our great-great-grandmothers not a trial !) 
 
 Murder, and pillage, and cannon's roar, 
 All along the Connecticut shore, 
 Frighted from town the worthy dame. 
 Next day a barrack her house became, 
 And a troop of Redcoats helped themselves 
 To all they could find on the pantry shelves. 
 They drank and feasted, and sang and 
 
 swore, 
 They tumbled the beds and the curtains 
 
 tore, 
 And the quiet, orderly, well-kept house 
 Was the scene of a livelong night's carouse. 
 
 Homeward stealing when they had passed, 
 Winifred gazed at the sight aghast. 
 With wrecks of revel the floors were strewn, 
 With tables broken and chairs o'erthrown ; 
 Delicate saucer, and cup, and plate, 
 Euined all — but, strange to relate, 
 The porcelain tea-pot standing still, 
 Safe and sound, on a window-sill ! 
 
 Long and long have the lichens grown. 
 Wreathing a slender slab of stone, 
 Till scarcely the letters can you see 
 That spell the name of Winifred Lee. 
 But the pictured porcelain, handed down, 
 Far from the old elm-shaded town. 
 An heirloom prized, had found retreat 
 High over a thronged Chicago street — 
 There, in its corner, fresh and gay 
 As tho' it were made but yesterday. 
 
SONG AND STORY. 41 
 
 When in the night a terror came, 
 
 And the great city was red with name, 
 
 And the people, jostling, gasped for breath 
 
 As they wildly fled from the jaws of death ; 
 
 Little leisure or care had they 
 
 Their household treasures to bear away. 
 
 Nevertheless, as one returned 
 To where the debris smouldering burned, 
 Where heaps of ashes, and brick, and stone, 
 Were all that remained of a goodly home — 
 Saving a charred and blackened wall, 
 Like skeleton rising gaunt and tall — 
 Glancing upward, with wondering eye, 
 The marvelous tea-pot did he spy, 
 Boldly gleaming against the sky. 
 
 Ah, old tea-pot, gleaming still, 
 
 What is the magic that guards from ill, 
 
 From tempest, and war, and time, and fire — 
 
 All for thy ruin that conspire ? 
 
 Behold thee, shining so bright and gay ! 
 
 Old tea-pot, art thou bewitched, I say ? 
 
 If that be true, and in some- hour 
 
 Thou should'st possess thee of speech the 
 
 power, 
 With the vapor that curls from thy graceful 
 
 spout 
 What prisoned secret wilt thou let out ? 
 Wilt tell how gossips have lisped and chided 
 At little suppers where thou hast presided ? 
 Wilt ever laugh at the fortunes told, 
 The willing credence of young and old, 
 As the sibylline leaves thou didst unfold ? 
 
 Forsooth, as I watch thee blink and shine 
 In that remarkable way of thine, 
 I'm half afraid of thee ! — No, not so, 
 Thou precious relic of long ago ! 
 
42 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 Breathing fragrance and friendly cheer, 
 Live for many and many a year ! 
 The next Centennial may'st thou see, 
 Is the toast I drink in a cup of tea. 
 
 Ellen Tracy Alden. 
 
 WORDS. 
 
 Words are lighter than the cloud-foam 
 
 Of the restless ocean spray ; 
 Vainer than the trembling shadow 
 
 That the next hour steals away. 
 By the fall of summer rain-drops 
 
 Is the air as deeply stirred ; 
 And the rose-leaf that we tread on 
 
 Will outlive a word. 
 
 Yet, on the dull silence breaking 
 
 With a lightning flash, a Word, 
 Bearing endless desolation 
 
 On its blighting wings, I heard ; 
 Earth can forge no keener weapon 
 
 Dealing surer death and pain, 
 And the cruel echo answered 
 
 Through long years again. 
 
 I have known one word hang star-like 
 
 O'er a dreary waste of years, 
 And it only shone the brighter 
 
 Looked at through a mist of tears ; 
 While a weary wanderer gathered 
 
 Hope and heart on Life's dark way, 
 By its faithful promise-shining 
 
 Clearer day by day. 
 
 I have known a spirit, calmer 
 Than the calmest lake, and clear 
 
 As the heavens that gazed upon it, 
 With no wave of hope or fear ; 
 
SONG AND STORY. 4:J 
 
 But a storm had swept across it, 
 And its deepest depths were stirred, 
 
 (Never, never more to slumber,) 
 Only by a word. 
 
 I have known a word more gentle 
 
 Than the breath of summer air ; 
 In a listening heart it nestled, 
 
 And it lived forever there. 
 Not the beating of its prison 
 
 Stirred it ever, night or day, 
 Only with the heart's last throbbing 
 
 Could it fade away. 
 
 Words are mighty, words are living ; 
 
 Serpents with their venomous stings, 
 Or bright angels crowding round us, 
 
 With heaven's light upon their wings. 
 Every word has its own spirit, 
 
 True or false, that never dies ; 
 Every word man's lips have uttered, 
 
 Echoes in God's skies. 
 
 Adelaide Anne Proctor. 
 
 LITTLE HARRY AND THE NEW MOON, 
 
 ; ' Pretty new moon, 
 How do you do ? 
 Long I've been looking, 
 
 And looking for you ! 
 Where have you hid yourself, 
 
 'Way off so far ? 
 Or did you get lost, 
 
 Like the wandering star ? 
 
 ' ' My mamma undressed me, 
 And now off she goes ; 
 She kisses and leaves me, 
 And nobody knows 
 
44 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 How sad and how frightened 
 
 I feel here alone, 
 Except when you're shining, 
 
 You pretty new moon. 
 
 " I like to lie watching 
 
 Your bright little boat, 
 That seems on the sky 
 
 So smoothly to float ; 
 And then every evening, 
 
 To watch how you grow, 
 Getting bigger and bigger, 
 
 Till again off you go. 
 
 "If you only would tell me, 
 
 You pretty new moon, 
 Whereabouts you are living, 
 
 And where you are gone 
 When you hide away from me, 
 
 For many a week ; 
 If you only would tell me — 
 
 Pretty moon, won't you speak ? " 
 
 u 'Tis a wonderful story, 
 
 My dear little boy ; 
 I cannot half tell you, 
 
 My wQrk and my joy. 
 The dear God has made me 
 
 And hung rne on high, 
 To shine in the evening 
 
 And light up the sky. 
 
 "I hang where he bids me, 
 
 And roll on the line 
 Marked out by his finger, 
 
 And do naught but shine. 
 The sunlight falls on me, 
 
 Wherever I go, 
 And then I'm so happy 
 
 I smile upon you. 
 
 
SONG AND STORY. 4n 
 
 6 4 Sometimes I roll near you 
 
 While 'tis yet afternoon, 
 Just one edge you see then, 
 
 And call me new moon; 
 But when I get larger 
 
 I shine all the night, 
 And give the grown-up folks 
 
 My pretty, soft light. 
 
 u Suppose now, I pouted, 
 
 And hung down my head, 
 And wouldn't be happy, 
 
 Or do as I'm bid; 
 And shook off the sunbeams 
 
 That wanted to fall, 
 And covered my face 
 
 With a gloomy black pall." 
 
 Little Harry was frightened, 
 
 And crouched down in bed, 
 To think that the new moon 
 
 Had seen what he did ! 
 For he had been naughty, 
 
 Had pouted and frowned, 
 Though all things were pleasant 
 
 And smiling around. 
 
 He had not minded mamma, 
 
 Nor gone, as she said, 
 Contented to supper, 
 
 And then off to bed ; 
 And now, to find out 
 
 That the pretty new moon 
 Had seen his bad conduct. 
 
 And told it so soon ! 
 
 He hid in the bed-clothes, 
 
 Ashamed and afraid, 
 And, while bo lay there, 
 
 This is just what he said: 
 
46 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 " Pretty moon, from this moment 
 111 always obey, 
 With a bright smiling face, 
 And will mind right away/' 
 
 Helen E. Brown. 
 
 THE STORY OF MOTHER BECKER. 
 
 [Mrs. Abigail Becker, who lived upon a little island near the 
 foot of Lake Erie, saved the crew of the schooner "Conductor" 
 from death, November, 1854.] 
 
 " Awake! " cried Mother Becker, " ; wake, 
 
 My children one and all : 
 For there's a wreck upon the lake — 
 
 I heard the sailors call ; 
 And you must keep the cabin warm, 
 
 And safe from wind and frost ; 
 Unless I save them from the storm 
 
 Their lives will all be lost." 
 
 Up sprang the children from their beds — 
 
 Her seven girls and boys ; 
 The blast was shrieking o'er their heads^ 
 
 The air was full of noise ; 
 The waves with driven foam were crowned, 
 
 Far flew the freezing spray ; 
 They saw the schooner lie aground, 
 
 Full half a mile away. 
 
 Across a sandy bar at night, 
 
 Hard beaten by the gale — 
 Her leaky hull had sunk from sight, 
 
 And torn was every sail. 
 But, in the sleety air, each mast 
 
 Still to and fro was swung 
 And, to the icy shrouds made fast, 
 
 Seven weary sailors clung- 
 
SONG AND STORY. 47 
 
 In haste ran Mother Becker then ! 
 
 What cared she for the cold, 
 If aught could aid those freezing men, 
 
 Out where the waters rolled ? 
 "Now if I had a boat," said she, 
 " In spite of wind and wave, 
 I'd row across this plunging sea, 
 
 Their precious lives to save." 
 
 She looked afar to left and right, 
 
 Along the sandy wall, 
 But not a boat was there in sight — 
 
 The tide had loosed them all. 
 She looked toward the further beach 
 
 Half hidden with the spray ; 
 But not a man the isle could reach, 
 
 Through all that wintry day. 
 
 Beside the raging lake she stood, 
 
 And many a sign she made ; 
 ' k Leap down and swim the angry flood — 
 
 O, do not be afraid ! " 
 The captain saw — " My men," he cried, 
 ' i Her signals let us trust ; 
 I'll be the first to brave the tide 
 
 And drown — if drown we must. " 
 
 He plunged among the boiling waves, 
 
 On, toward the sandy shore 
 He swam — above the sailors 1 graves, 
 
 Who had been wrecked before, 
 Almost to land his way he urged, 
 
 When, rolling broad and free, 
 A backward billow o'er him surged 
 
 And tossed him out to sea ! 
 
 Haste, mother Becker ! see ! he drowns ! 
 
 She rushes out to save, 
 A foamy crest above her frowns — 
 
 She battles with the wave. 
 
48 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 On to his aid she presses fast j 
 He sinks — his strength is o'er; 
 
 She grasps him in her arms at last, 
 She bears him safe to shore. 
 
 She hears beyond the sandy bar 
 
 The waiting sailors' cheer; 
 She smiles, she beckons from afar, 
 *' Plunge in and do not fear! " 
 Against their feet the tide is rolled — 
 
 They shudder on the brink ; 
 They faint with hunger and with cold ; 
 
 But not a man will shrink. 
 
 And one by one, across the lake, 
 
 They try the foaming track ; 
 Till flung from shore, the billows break, 
 
 And whirl them, helpless, back, 
 And still as, one by one, the crew 
 
 Go down with gasping breath, 
 Brave mother Becker struggles through 
 
 And snatches them frem death. 
 
 Her freezing raiment round her clings, 
 
 Her bare feet print the sand ; 
 But, toiling, panting, lo, she brings 
 
 The last man safe to land. 
 In from the howling of the storm, 
 
 That fills the world with noise, 
 She leads them to her cabin warm, 
 
 Among her girls and boys. 
 
 The smoking meal was ready set, 
 
 A merry lire they had ; 
 Dear mother Becker, never yet 
 
 Were boys and girls so glad ! 
 And for your sake, on land or sea, 
 
 O, woman strong to save, 
 May all your seven children be 
 
 As noble and as brave ! 
 
 Amanda T. Jones. 
 
SONG AXD STORY. 49 
 
 CHRIST AND THE LITTLE ONES. 
 
 "The Master has come over Jordan/" 
 Said Hannah the mother one day ; 
 
 u 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 I 
 
 1 ' If the children were tortured by demons. 
 Or dying of fever 'twere well ; 
 Or had they the taint of the leper. 
 Like many in Israel." 
 
 4 'Nay, do not hinder me, Nathan; 
 I feel such a burden of care ; 
 If I carry it to my 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 Judea, 
 Along by the vine-rows green. 
 
 With Esther asleep on her bosom. 
 And Rachel her brothers between : 
 
50 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 'Mid the people who hung on His teaching. 
 Or waited His touch and His Word, 
 
 Through the row of proud Pharisees listening 
 She pressed to the feet of the 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 to 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 hand on the brothers, 
 And blessed them with tenderest love ; 
 
 As He said of the babes in His bosom : 
 " Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven; r 
 And strength for all duty and trial 
 That hour to her spirit was given. 
 
 Julia Gill, 
 
 PAUL REVERE'S RIDE. 
 
 Listen, my children, and you shall hear 
 
 Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 
 
 On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy -five ; 
 
 Hardly a man is now alive 
 
 Who remembers that famous day and year. 
 
 He said to his friend, iC If the British march 
 By land or sea from the town to-night, 
 Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch 
 Of the North Church tower as a signal light, 
 One, if by land, and two, if by sea ; 
 
SONG AND STORY. 51 
 
 And I on the opposite shore will be, 
 Ready to ride and spread the alarm 
 Through every Middlesex village and farm, 
 For the country folk to be up and to arm." 
 
 Then he said, ,k Good-night ! v and with 
 
 muffled oar 
 Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, 
 Just as the moon rose over the bay, 
 Where swinging wide at her moorings lay 
 The Somerset, British man-of-war ; 
 A phantom ship, with each mast and spar 
 Across the moon like a prison bar, 
 And a huge black hulk, that was magnified 
 By its own reflection in the tide. 
 
 Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and 
 
 street, 
 Wanders and watches with eager ears, 
 Till in the silence around him he hears 
 The muster of men at the barrack door. 
 The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet. 
 And the measured tread of the grenadiers, 
 Marching down to their boats on the shore. 
 
 Then he climbed the tower of the Old North 
 
 Church, 
 By the wooden stairs with stealthy tread. 
 To the belfry-chamber overhead, 
 And startled the pigeons from their perch 
 On the sombre rafters that round him made 
 Masses and moving shapes of shade, — 
 By the trembling ladder, steep and tall. 
 To the highest window in the wall, 
 Where he paused to listen and look down 
 A moment on the roofs of the town, 
 And the moonlight flowing over all. 
 
 Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, 
 In their night-encampment on the hill, 
 
52 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 Wrapped in silence so deep and still 
 
 That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, 
 
 The watchful night-wind as it went 
 
 Creeping along from tent to tent, 
 
 And seeming to whisper, "All is well ! " 
 
 A moment only he feels the spell 
 
 Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread 
 
 Of the lonely belfry and the dead ; 
 
 For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 
 
 On a shadowy something far away, 
 
 Where the river widens to meet the bay, 
 
 A line of black that bends and floats 
 
 On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. 
 
 Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, 
 Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride 
 On the opposite shore walked Paul Eevere. 
 Now he patted his horse's side, 
 Now gazed at the landscape far and near, 
 Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, 
 And turned and tightened his saddle-girth ; 
 But mostly he watched with eager search 
 The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, 
 As it rose above the graves on the hill, 
 Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. 
 And lo ! as he looks, on the belfry's height 
 A glimmer, and then a gleam of light ! 
 He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, 
 But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight 
 A second lamp in the belfry burns! 
 
 A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 
 
 A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, 
 
 And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a 
 
 spark 
 Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet ; 
 That was all ! And yet, through the gloom and 
 
 the light, 
 The fate of a nation was riding that night ; 
 
SONG AND STORY. 53 
 
 And the spark struck out by the steed in his 
 
 flight, 
 Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 
 
 He has left the village, and mounted the 
 
 steep, 
 And beneath him, tranquil and broad and 
 
 deep, 
 Is the JVlystic, meeting the ocean tides ; 
 And under the alders that skirt its edge, 
 Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, 
 Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. 
 
 It was twelve by the village clock 
 
 When he crossed the bridge into Medford 
 
 town. 
 He heard the crowing of the cock, 
 And the barking of the farmer's dog, 
 And felt the damp of the river fog, 
 That rises after the sun goes down. 
 
 It was one by the village clock, 
 
 When he galloped into Lexington. 
 
 He saw the gilded weathercock 
 
 Swim in the moonlight as he passed, 
 
 And the meeting-house windows, blank and 
 
 bare. 
 Gaze at him with a spectral glare, 
 As if they already stood aghast 
 At the bloody work they would look upon. 
 
 It was two by the village clock. 
 
 When he came to the bridge in Concord town. 
 
 He heard the bleating of the flock, 
 
 And the twitter of birds among the trees, 
 
 And felt the breath of the morning breeze 
 
 Blowing over the meadows brown. 
 
 And one was safe and asleep in his bed 
 
 Who at the bridge would be first to fall, 
 
 Who that day would be lying dead, 
 
 Pierced by a British musket-ball. 
 
54 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 You know the rest. In the books you have 
 
 read, 
 How the British Eegulars fired and fled, — 
 How the farmers gave them ball for ball, 
 From behind each fence and farm-yard wall, 
 Chasing the red-coats down the lane, 
 Then crossing the fields to emerge again 
 Under the trees at the turn of the road, 
 And only pausing to fire and load. 
 
 So through the night rode Paul Revere ; 
 And so through the night went his cry of 
 
 alarm 
 To every Middlesex village and farm, — 
 A cry of defiance and not of fear, 
 A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, 
 And a word that shall echo evermore ! 
 
 For, borne on the night- wind of the Past, 
 Through all our history, to the last, 
 In the hour of darkness and peril and need, 
 The people will waken and listc n to hear 
 The hurrying hoof -beats of that steed, 
 And the midnight message of Paul Revere. 
 
 Henry W. Longfelloiv. 
 
 
 THE OLD CONTINENTALS. 
 
 In their ragged regimentals 
 Stood the old continentals, 
 
 Yielding not, 
 When the grenadiers were lunging, 
 And like hail fell the plunging 
 
 Cannon-shot ; 
 
 When the files 
 
 Of the isles. 
 
SONG AND STORY. 55 
 
 From the smoky night encampment, 
 bore the banner of the rampant 
 Unicorn, 
 And grummer, grummer, grummer, 
 rolled the roll of the drummer, 
 Through the morn ! 
 
 Then with eyes to the front all, 
 And with guns horizontal, 
 
 Stood our sires ; 
 And the balls whistled deadly, 
 And in streams flashing redly 
 
 Blazed the fires ; 
 
 As the roar 
 
 On the shore 
 Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er 
 the green-sodded acres 
 
 Of the plain ; 
 And louder, louder, louder, cracked 
 the black gunpowder, 
 
 Cracking amain! 
 
 Now like smiths at their forges 
 Worked the red St. George's 
 
 Cannoneers ; 
 And the " villainous saltpetre" 
 Rung a fierce discordant metre 
 
 Round their ears ; 
 
 As the swift 
 
 Storm-drift 
 With hot sweeping anger, came the 
 horse-guards' clangor 
 
 On our flanks. 
 Then higher, higher, higher, burned 
 the old-fashioned fire 
 
 Through the ranks ! 
 
 Then the old-fashioned colonel 
 Galloped through the white infernal 
 Powder-cloud ; 
 
m JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 And his broad sword was swinging 
 And his brazen throat was ringing 
 Trumpet loud. 
 Then the blue 
 Bullets flew, 
 And the trooper-jackets redden at the 
 touch of the leaden 
 Eifle-breath ; 
 And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared 
 the iron six-pounder, 
 Hurling death! 
 
 Guy Humphrey McMaster. 
 
 WAIT! 
 
 When a thought comes to your brain 
 That would place on life a stain, 
 Crush it out from heart and mind : 
 For a purer thought to find, 
 
 Wait! 
 
 When your lips in haste would speak 
 Words that show a judgment weak, 
 Through a passion that would blind, 
 Or an impulse yet unkind, 
 
 Wait! 
 
 When a deed you fain would do, 
 That you might have cause to rue, 
 Till the shadows flee your mind, 
 Hands withhold ; to calm your mind, 
 
 Wait! 
 
 Wait to passion all subdue ; 
 Wait for loving thought and true ; 
 Wait till lips breathe tender word, 
 For deeds by gentle impulse stirred. 
 
 Wait! 
 Ward Steele, in " The Pansy." 
 
HONG AND STORY, 57 
 
 KING CANUTE. 
 
 King Canute was weary-hearted; he had 
 
 reigned for years a score, 
 Battling, struggling, pushing, fighting, killing 
 
 much and robbing more ; 
 And he thought upon his actions, walking by 
 
 the wild sea-shore. 
 
 7 Twixt the Chancellor and Bishop, walked the 
 King with steps sedate, 
 
 Chamberlains and grooms came after, silver- 
 sticks and gold-sticks great, 
 
 Chaplains, aides-de-camp and pages, — all the 
 officers of state. 
 
 Sliding after like his shadow, pausing when 
 
 he chose to pause, 
 If a frown his face contracted, straight the 
 
 courtiers dropped their jaws ; 
 If to laugh the king was minded, out they 
 
 burst in loud hee-haws. 
 
 But that day a something vexed him; that 
 
 was clear to old and young ; 
 Thrice His Grace had yawned at table when 
 
 his favorite gleemen sung, 
 Once the Queen would have consoled him, 
 
 but he bade her hold her tongue. 
 
 "Something ails my gracious master! " cried 
 
 the Keeper of the Seal, 
 "Sure, my lord, it is the lampreys served for 
 
 dinner, or the veal? " 
 "Psha! 1 ' exclaimed the angry monarch, 
 
 " Keeper, 't is not that I feel. 
 
58 J.UVRNILE GEMS OF 
 
 " 'T is the heart, and not the dinner, fool, that 
 
 doth my rest impair ; 
 Can a king be great as I am, prithee, and yet 
 
 know no care? 
 Oh, I 'm sick, and tired, and weary." Some 
 
 one cried : w ' The King's arm-chair ! n 
 
 Then toward the lackeys turning, quick my 
 
 lord the Keeper nodded, 
 Straight the King's great chair was brought 
 
 him, by two footmen able-bodied : 
 Languidly he sank into it ; it was comfortably 
 
 wadded. 
 
 " Leading on my fierce companions," cried he, 
 
 ' ; over storm and brine, 
 I have fought and I have conquered ! Where 
 
 was glory like to mine? " 
 Loudly all the courtiers echoed : ' * Where is 
 
 glory like to thine ! " 
 
 "What avail me all my kingdoms? Weary 
 
 am I now and old ; 
 Those fair sons I have begotten long to see me 
 
 dead and cold : 
 Would I were, and quiet buried, underneath 
 
 the silent mold ! 
 
 "Oh, remorse, the writhing serpent! at my 
 
 bosom tears and bites ; 
 Horrid, horrid things I look on. though I put 
 
 out all the lights ; 
 Ghosts of ghastly recollections troop about 
 
 my bed at nights. 
 
 "Cities burning, convents blazing, red with 
 
 sacrilegious fires ; 
 Mothers weeping, virgins screaming vainly 
 
 for their slaughtered sires/' 
 " Such a tender conscience." cries the Bishop, 
 
 " every one admires." 
 
SONG AND STORY. 59 
 
 "Look, the land is crowned with minsters 
 which your Grace's bounty raised ; 
 
 Abbeys filled with holy men, where you and 
 Heaven are daily praised ; 
 
 You, my lord, to think of dying? on my 
 conscience, I 'm amazed ! " 
 
 "Nay, I feel," replied King Canute, "that my 
 
 end is drawing near." 
 "Don't say so!" exclaimed the courtiers 
 
 (striving each to squeeze a tear). 
 "Sure your Grace is strong and lusty, and 
 
 may live this fifty year." 
 
 "Live these fifty years! " the Bishop roared, 
 
 with actious made to suit. 
 "Are you mad, my good Lord Keeper, thus 
 
 to speak of King Canute ! 
 Men have lived a thousand years, and sure 
 
 His Majesty will do 't. 
 
 "Adam, Enoch, Lamech, Cainan, Mahaleel, 
 
 Methusela 
 Lived nine hundred years apiece, and may n't 
 
 the king as well as they?" 
 "Fervently," exclaimed the Keeper, — 
 
 "fervently I trust he may." 
 
 "He to die?" resumed the Bishop. "He a 
 
 mortal like to us f 
 Death was not for him intended, though 
 
 communis omnibus ; * 
 Keeper, you are irreligious for to talk and 
 
 cavil thus. 
 
 4 ' With his wondrous skill in healing ne'er a 
 
 doctor can compete, 
 Loathsome lepers, if he touch them, start up 
 
 clean upon their feet ; 
 Surely he could raise the dead up, did His 
 
 Highness think it meet. 
 
 * Meaning : Common to all. 
 
60 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 " Did not once the Jewish captain stay the sun 
 
 upon the hill, 
 And the while he slew the foemen, bid the 
 
 silver moon stand still? 
 So, no doubt, could gracious Canute, if it were 
 
 his sacred will." 
 
 1 1 Might I stay the sun above us, good Sir 
 
 Bishop?" Canute cried; 
 " Could I bid the silver moon to pause upon 
 
 her heavenly ride? 
 If the moon obeys my orders, sure I can 
 
 command the tide ! 
 
 "Will the advancing waves obey me, Bishop, 
 
 if I make the sign? " 
 Said the Bishop, bowing lowly: "Land and 
 
 sea, my lord, are thine. " 
 Canute turned toward the ocean: k 'Back!" 
 
 he said, " thou foaming brine. 
 
 ' 'From the sacred shore I stand on, I com- 
 mand thee to retreat ; 
 
 Venture not, thou stormy rebel, to approach 
 thy master's seat ; 
 
 Ocean, be thou still! I bid thee come not 
 nearer to my feet 1 " 
 
 But the sullen ocean answered with a louder, 
 
 deeper roar, 
 And the rapid waves drew nearer, falling 
 
 sounding on the shore ; 
 Back the Keeper and the Bishop, back the 
 
 King and courtiers bore. 
 
 And he sternly bade them never more to kneel 
 
 to human clay, 
 But alone to praise and worship That which 
 
 earth and seas obey ; 
 And his golden crown of empire never wore 
 
 he from that day. 
 
SONG AND STORY. 61 
 
 King Canute is dead and gone. Parasites 
 exist alway. 
 
 William Makepeace Thackeray, 
 
 A LITTLE PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 The days are short and the nights are long, 
 
 And the wind is nipping cold ; 
 The tasks are hard and the sums are wrong, 
 And the teachers often scold. 
 But Johnny McCree, 
 Oh, what cares he, 
 As he whistles along the way } 
 • ' It will all come right 
 By to-morrow night," 
 Says Johnny McCree to-day. 
 
 The plums are few and the cake is plain, 
 
 The shoes are out at the toe ; 
 For money you look in the purse in vain — 
 It was all spent long ago. 
 
 But Johnny McCree, 
 Oh, what cares he. 
 As he whistles along the street? 
 Would you have the blues 
 For a pair of shoes, 
 While you have a pair of feet i 
 
 The snow is deep, there are paths to break, 
 
 But the little arm is strong, 
 And work is play if you'll only take 
 Your work with a bit of song. 
 And Johnny McCree. 
 Oh, what cares he. 
 As he whistles along the road ? 
 He will do his best. 
 And will leave the rest 
 To the care of his Father, God. 
 
JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 The mothers face is often sad, 
 
 She scarce knows what to do ; 
 But at Johnny's kiss she is bright and glad- 
 She loves him, and wouldn't you ? 
 For Johnny McCree, 
 Oh, what cares he, 
 As he whistles along the way? 
 The trouble will go, 
 And % 'I told you so," 
 Our brave little John will say. 
 
 Margaret E. Sangster. 
 
 ARACHNE. 
 
 The garret crowds beneath the roof 
 
 With rafters dusty-brown, 
 And like a ringing horse's hoof 
 
 All day the rain comes down ; 
 The jagged beams are scarred and stained 
 
 With many a turn and twist ; 
 The two high windows, diamond-paned. 
 
 Are dim with circling mist, 
 
 The heavy oaken casement shuts 
 
 Against the rocking wind, 
 And on the sill the rusty nuts 
 
 Grow sweeter in the rind ; 
 Above the crooked wooden stair 
 
 Are idly hanging still 
 The anise and the lavender. 
 
 The basil and the dill. 
 
 The wide old-fashioned quilting-bars, 
 
 A dozen years gone by, 
 Have stretched their yellow mimic stars 
 
 And purple-banded sky ; 
 The baby creeps beneath, perchance, 
 
 And lying hidden there, 
 She clutches with her rosy hands 
 
 The parti-colored square. 
 
SONG AND STORY. 03 
 
 Here, with the gayly-knotted reel 
 
 And spindle broke in twain. 
 The brown, dismantled spinning-wheel 
 
 These fifty years has lain: 
 Where shall we find the stately dame 
 
 The noble maids and true. 
 Who stitched across the creaking frames 
 
 Or spun the yarn of bluel 
 
 Ah: underneath the hanging eaves. 
 
 The seamed and sloping roof. 
 A later spinner daily weaves 
 
 A silken web and woof : 
 The watchful spider in and out 
 
 Her empty wheel has fed. 
 And wound the distaff round about 
 
 With silver-knotted thread. 
 
 Dora Read Goodale. in " Wide Awake." 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE GRASS. 
 
 Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere ; 
 
 By the dusty roadside. 
 
 On the sunny hillside. 
 
 Close by the noisy brook. 
 
 In every shady nook, 
 I come creeping, creeping everywhere. 
 
 Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere ; 
 
 All round 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 
 
 liy pleasant face you'll meet. 
 
 Cheering the sick at heart 
 
 Toiling his bu8y part. — 
 Silently creeping, creeping everywhere. 
 

 64 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere ; 
 Yon 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 ; 
 When you're numbered with the dead 
 In your still and narrow bed, 
 In the happy spring I'll come 
 And deck your silent home, — 
 
 Creeping, silently 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. 
 
 
 THE DANDELIONS. 
 
 The sun shone into the garden, 
 The children were all at play ; 
 
 They gathered the dandelions, 
 And threw them at little May. 
 
 She laughed when the yellow blossoms 
 ♦Came falling around her head, 
 
 And, clapping her hands together, 
 In wondering tones she said: 
 
SONG AND STORY. 65 
 
 "Oh, sisters! the stars were .shining 
 Last night in the dark, dark sky, 
 And mamma said God had set them 
 To light the poor travelers by. 
 
 "I'm sure that we do not need them 
 To shine for us in the day ; 
 But here they are lying around us, 
 And lighting us while we play." 
 
 Then Emily stooped to kiss her, 
 And said, " No, my darling one, 
 
 These things are not stars, but flowers, 
 That open to greet the sun. 
 
 ' ' They stare at him through the daytime, 
 And when he has gone to rest, 
 They close all their yellow petals, 
 And nestle to earth's warm breast. 
 
 "You see they are only flowers; " 
 
 But May shook her head in doubt : — 
 
 "I know they are stars, dear sister, 
 They're stars with the fire put out." 
 Amelia D. Alden. 
 
 GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER 
 
 HILL BATTLE, 
 
 « 
 
 AS SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY. 
 
 'Tis like stirring living embers, when, at 
 
 eighty, one remembers 
 All the achings and the quakings of "the 
 
 times that tried men's souls ; " 
 "When I talk of Whig and Tory, when I tell 
 
 the Rebel story, 
 To you the words are ashes, but to me they're 
 
 burning coals. 
 
m JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 I had heard the muskets' rattle of the April 
 
 running *battle; 
 Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see their 
 
 red coats still ; 
 But a deadly chill conies o'er me, as the day 
 
 looms up before me. 
 When a thousand men lay bleeding on the 
 
 slopes of Bunker Hill. 
 
 'Twas a peaceful summer's morning, when the 
 
 first thing gave us warning 
 Was the booming of the cannon from the 
 
 river and the shore ; 
 4 "Child," says grandma, " what's the matter? 
 
 what is all this noise and clatter? 
 Have those scalping Indian devils come to 
 
 murder us once more? " 
 
 Poor old soul! my sides were shaking in the 
 
 midst of all my quaking, 
 To hear her talk of Indians when the guns 
 
 began to roar ; 
 She had seen the burning village, and the 
 
 slaughter and the pillage, 
 When the Mohawks killed her father with 
 
 their bullets through the door. 
 
 Then I said, "Now, dear old granny, don't you 
 
 fret and worry any, 
 For I'll soon come back and tell you whether 
 
 this is work or play ; 
 There can't be mischief in it, so I won't be 
 
 gone a minute " — 
 For a minute then I started. I was gone the 
 
 livelong day. 
 
 No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass 
 
 grimacing ; 
 Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling 
 
 half-way to my heels ; 
 
SONG AND STORY, 67 
 
 God forbid your ever knowing, when there's 
 
 blood around her flowing. 
 How the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet 
 
 household feels ! 
 
 In the street I heard a thumping j and I knew 
 it was the stumping 
 
 Of the Corporal, our old neighbor, on that- 
 wooden leg he wore. 
 
 With a knot of women round him — it was 
 lucky I had found him. 
 
 So I followed with the others, and the 
 Corporal marched before. 
 
 They were making for the steeple. — the old 
 
 soldier and his people ; 
 The pigeons circled round us as we climbed 
 
 the creaking stair. 
 Just across the narrow river — oh. so close it 
 
 made me shiver! 
 Stood a fortress on the hill- top that but 
 
 yesterday was bare. 
 
 Not slow our eyes to find it ; well we knew 
 
 who stood behind it. 
 Though the earth-work hid them from us. and 
 
 the stubborn walls were dumb : 
 Here were sister, wife, and mother, looking 
 
 wild upon each other. 
 And their lips were white with terror as they 
 
 said. "The hour has Come!" 
 
 The morning slowly wasted, not a morsel had 
 
 we tasted. 
 And our heads were almost splitting with the 
 
 cannon's deafening thrill, 
 When a figure tall and stately round the 
 
 rampart strode sedately ; 
 It was Prescott, once since told me: he 
 
 commanded on the hill. 
 
68 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 Every woman's heart grew bigger when we 
 
 saw his manly figure. 
 With the banyan buckled round it, standing 
 
 up so straight and tall ; 
 Like a gentleman of leisure who is strolling 
 
 out for pleasure, 
 Through the storm of shells and cannon shot 
 
 he walked around the wall, 
 
 At eleven the streets were swarming, for the 
 
 red-coats r ranks were forming ; 
 At noon in marching order they were moving 
 
 to the piers; 
 How the bayonets gleamed and glistened, as 
 
 we looked far down and listened 
 To the trampling and the drum, beat of the 
 
 belted grenadiers. 
 
 At length the men have started, with a cheer 
 (it seemed faint-hearted) , 
 
 In their scarlet regimentals, with their knap- 
 sacks on their backs. 
 
 And the reddening, rippling water, as after a 
 sea-fight T s slaughter. 
 
 Round the barges gliding onward blushed like 
 blood along their tracks. 
 
 So they crossed to the other border, and again 
 
 they formed in order ; 
 And the boats came back for soldiers, came 
 
 for soldiers, soldiers still ; 
 The time seemed everlasting to us wome» 
 
 faint and fasting — 
 At last they're moving, marching, marching 
 
 proudly up the hilL 
 
 We can seethe bright steel glancing all along 
 
 the lines advancing — 
 Now the front rank fires a volley — they have 
 
 thrown away their shot: 
 
SONG AND STORY. fiO 
 
 For behind their earthwork lying, all the balls 
 
 above them flying, 
 Our people need not hurry; so they wait and 
 
 answer not 
 
 Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he would 
 
 swear sometimes and tipple) — 
 He had heard the bullets whistle (in the old 
 
 French war) before — 
 Calls out in words of jeering, just as if they 
 
 were all hearing — 
 And his wooden leg thumps fiercely on the 
 
 dusty belfry floor: — 
 
 ""Oh! fire away, ye villains, and earn King 
 
 George's shillings. 
 But yell waste a ton of powder before a l rebel ' 
 
 falls: 
 You may bang the dirt and welcome, they're 
 
 as safe as Dan'l Malcolm 
 Ten feet beneath the gravestone that you've 
 
 splintered with your balls 1 ~ 
 
 In the hush of expectation, in the awe and 
 
 trepidation 
 Of the dread approaching moment, we are 
 
 well-nigli breathless all: 
 Though the rotten hars are failing on the 
 
 rickety belfry railing, 
 We are crowding up against them like the 
 
 waves against a walL 
 
 Just a glimpse (the air is clearer), they are 
 
 nearer, — nearer, — nearer, 
 When a flash — a curling smoke-wreath — then 
 
 a crash — the steeple shakes • 
 The deadly truce is ended; the tempest's 
 
 shroud is rended ; 
 Like a morning mist it gathered, like a 
 
 thunder-cloud it breaks: 
 
TO JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 Oh the sight our eyes discover as the blue- 
 black smoke blows over ! 
 
 The red-coats stretched in windrows as a 
 mower rakes his hay ; 
 
 Here a scarlet heap is lying, there a headlong 
 crowd is flying 
 
 Like a billow that has broken and is shivered 
 into spray. 
 
 Then we cried, ' * The troops are routed ! They 
 
 are beat — it can't be doubted ! 
 God be thanked, the fight is over ! " — Ah ! the 
 
 grim old soldier's smile ! 
 u Tell us, tell us why you look so ! " * we could 
 
 hardly speak, we shook so | 
 "Are they beaten? Are they beaten r Are 
 
 they beaten J " k v Wait a while. n 
 
 Oh the trembling and the terror S for too soon 
 
 we saw our error : 
 They are baffled, not defeated: we have 
 
 driven them back in vain : 
 And the columns that were scattered, round 
 
 the colors that were tattered. 
 Toward the sullen silent fortress turn their 
 
 belted breasts again. 
 
 All at once, as we are gazing, lo the roofs of 
 
 Chariest own blazing ! 
 They have fired the harmless village: in an 
 
 hour it will be down ! 
 The Lord in heaven confound them, ram his 
 
 fire and brimstone round them. — 
 The robbing, murdering red-coats, that would 
 
 burn a peaceful town ! 
 
 They are marching, stern and solemn : we can 
 
 see each massive column 
 As they near the naked earth-mound with the 
 
 slanting walls so steep. 
 
SONG AND STORY. 71 
 
 Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and in 
 
 noiseless haste departed? 
 Are they panic-struck and helpless ? Are they 
 
 palsied or asleep? 
 
 Now ! the walls they're almost under ! scarce a 
 
 rod the foes asunder! 
 Not a firelock flashed against them! up the 
 
 earthwork they will swarm ! 
 But the words have scarce been spoken, when 
 
 the ominous calm is broken, 
 And a bellowing crash has emptied all the 
 
 vengeance of the storm ! 
 
 Lo again, with murderous slaughter, pelted 
 
 backwards to the water, 
 Fly Pigot's running heroes, and the frightened 
 
 braves of Howe ; 
 And we shout, ' ' At last they're done for, it's 
 
 their barges they have run for : 
 They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the 
 
 battle's over now ! " 
 
 And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the 
 
 rough old soldier's features, 
 Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what 
 
 we would ask : 
 "Not sure," he said; "Keep quiet,— once 
 
 more, I guess, they'll try it — 
 Here's damnation to the cut-throats!" — then 
 
 he handed me his flask, 
 
 Saying, "Gal, you're looking shaky; have a 
 
 drop of old Jamaiky ; 
 I'm afraid there'll be more trouble afore the 
 
 job is done; " 
 So I took one scorching swallow; dreadful 
 
 faint I felt and hollow, 
 Standing there from early morning when the 
 
 firing was begun. 
 
72 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 All through those hours of trial I had watched 
 
 a calm clock dial. 
 As the hands kept creeping, creeping, — they 
 
 were creeping r@und to four. 
 When the old man said, • l They're forming 
 
 with their bayonets fixed for storming: 
 It's the death-grip that's a coming. — they will 
 
 try the works once more." 
 
 With brazen trumpets blaring, the flames 
 
 behind them glaring. 
 The deadly wall before them, in close array 
 
 they come ; 
 Still onward, upward toiling, like a dragon's 
 
 fold uncoiling — 
 Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning the 
 
 reverberating drum ! 
 
 Over heaps all torn and gory — shall I tell the 
 fearful story. 
 
 How they surged above the breastwork, as a 
 sea breaks over a deck ; 
 
 How driven, yet scarce defeated, our worn- 
 out men retreated, 
 
 With their powder-horns all emptied, like the 
 swimmers from a wreck \ 
 
 It has all been told and painted ; as for me 
 
 they say I fainted, 
 And the wooden-legged old Corporal stumped 
 
 with me down the stair. 
 And when I woke from dreams affrighted the 
 
 evening lamps were lighted. — 
 On the floor a youth was lying ; his bleeding 
 
 breast was bare. 
 
 And I heard through all the flurry, ' ' Send for 
 
 Warren! hurry! hurry! 
 Tell him here's a soldier bleeding, and he'll 
 
 come and dress his wound ! " 
 
SONG AND STORY. 73 
 
 Ah, we knew not till the morrow told its tale 
 
 of death and sorrow, 
 How the starlight found him stiffened on the 
 
 dark and bloody ground. 
 
 Who the youth was, what his name was, 
 
 where the place from which he came was, 
 Who had brought him from the battle, and 
 
 had left him at our door, 
 He could not speak to tell us ; but 'twas one 
 
 of our brave fellows, 
 As the homespun plainly showed us which 
 
 the dying soldier wore. 
 
 For they all thought he was dying, as they 
 
 gathered round him crying, — 
 And they said, "Oh, how they'll miss him!" 
 
 and, "What will his mother do? " 
 Then, his eyelids just unclosing like a child's 
 
 that has been dozing, 
 He faintly murmured, i l Mother ! " — and —I 
 
 saw his eyes were blue. 
 
 "Why grandma, how you're winking!" — 
 
 1 L Ah, my child, it sets me thinking 
 Of a story not like this one. Well, he 
 
 somehow lived along : 
 So w^e came to know each other, and I nursed 
 
 him like a — mother, 
 'Till at last he stood before me, tall and 
 
 rosy-cheeked, and strong. 
 
 And we sometimes walked together in the 
 
 pleasant summer weather ; 
 —"Please to tell us what his name was!" — 
 
 Just your own, my little dear, — 
 There's his picture Copley painted ; we became 
 
 so well acquainted, 
 That — in short, that's why I'm grandma, and 
 
 you children all are here." 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 
74 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 THE INCHCAPE ROCK. 
 
 No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, — 
 The ship was still as she might be ; 
 Her sails from heaven received no motion ; 
 Her keel was steady in the ocean. 
 
 Without either sign or sound of their shock, 
 The waves flowed over the Inchcape rock ; 
 So little they rose, so little they fell. 
 They did not move the Inchcape bell. 
 
 The holy abbot of Aberbrothok 
 Had floated that bell on the Inchcape rock ; 
 On the waves of the storm it floated and swung. 
 And louder and louder its warning rung. 
 
 When the rock was hid by the tempest's swell, 
 The mariners heard the warning bell ; 
 And then they knew the perilous rock 
 And blessed the priest of Aberbrothok. 
 
 The sun in heaven shone so gay, — 
 
 All things were joyful on that day ; 
 
 The sea-birds screamed as they sported round. 
 
 And there was pleasure in their sound. 
 
 The float of the Inchcape bell was seen, 
 A darker speck on the ocean green ; 
 Sir Ralph, the rover, walked his deck. 
 And he fixed his eyes on the darker speck. 
 
 He felt the cheering power of spring, — 
 It made him whistle, it made him sing; 
 His heart was mirthful to excess ; 
 But the rover's mirth was wickedness. 
 
 His eye was on the bell and float, 
 Quoth he, " My men, pull out the boat; 
 And row me to the Inchcape rock, 
 And I'll plague the priest of Aberbrothok. n 
 
SONG AXD STORY. 75 
 
 The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, 
 And to the Inchcape rock they go ; 
 Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, 
 And cut the warning bell from the float. 
 
 Down sank the bell with a gurgling sound ; 
 
 The bubbles rose, and burst around, 
 
 Quoth Sir Ralph, ;< The next who comes to, 
 
 the rock 
 Will not bless the priest of Aberbrothok." 
 
 Sir Ralph, the rover, sailed away, — 
 He scoured the seas for many a day ; 
 And now, grown rich with plundered store. 
 He steers his course to Scotland's shore. 
 
 So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky 
 They could not see the sun on high ; 
 The wind hath blown a gale all day ; 
 At evening it hath died away. 
 
 On the deck the rover takes his stand ; 
 So dark it is they see no land. 
 Quoth Sir Ralph, " It will be lighter soon, 
 For there is the dawn of the rising moon.'' 
 
 ki Canst hear,'' said one, "the breakers roarr 
 For yonder, methinks should be the shore. 
 Now where we are I cannot tell. 
 But I wish we could hear the Inchcape bell." 
 
 They hear no sound ; the swell is strong ; 
 Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along; 
 Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock, — 
 Alas ! it is the Inchcape rock ! 
 
 Sir Ralph, the rover, tore his hair 
 He beat himself in wild despair. 
 The waves rush in on every side ; 
 The ship is sinking beneath the tide. 
 
76 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 But ever in his dying fear 
 One dreadful sound he seemed to hear, — 
 A sound as if with the Inchcape bell 
 The evil spirit was ringing his knell. 
 
 Robert Southey. 
 
 THE HUMBLE-BEE. 
 
 Burly, dozing humble-bee, 
 Where thou art is clime for me. 
 Let them sail for Porto Bique, 
 Far-off heats through seas to seek ; 
 I will follow thee alone, 
 Thou animated torrid-zone ! 
 Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer. 
 Let me chase thy waving lines ; 
 Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, 
 Singing over shrubs and vines. 
 
 Insect lover of the sun, 
 Joy of thy dominion ! 
 Sailor of the atmosphere ; 
 Swimmer through the waves of air ; 
 Voyager of light and noon ■ 
 Epicurean of June ; 
 Wait, I prithee, till I come 
 Within earshot of thy hum, — 
 All without is martyrdom. 
 
 When the south wind, in May days. 
 With a net of shining haze 
 Silver the horizon wall, 
 And with softness touching all. 
 Tints the human countenance 
 With a color of romance, 
 And infusing subtle heats. 
 Turns the sod to violets. 
 
 
SONG AXD STORY. rr 
 
 Thou in sunny solitudes. 
 Rover of the underwoods, 
 The green silence dost displace 
 With thy mellow, breezy bass. 
 
 Hut mid-summer's petted crone. 
 
 Sweet to me thy drowsy tone 
 
 Tells of countless sunny hours. 
 
 Long days, and solid banks of flowers ; 
 
 Of gulfs of sweetness without bound 
 
 In Indian wildernesses found; 
 
 Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure. 
 
 Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. 
 
 Aught unsavory or unclean 
 
 Hath my insect never seen ; 
 
 But violets and bilberry bells. 
 
 Maple-sap and daffodels, 
 
 Grass with green flag half-mast high, 
 
 Succory to match the sky. 
 
 Columbine with horn of honev. 
 
 ■ 
 
 Scent- grimony, 
 
 Clover, eatckfly. adders-tongue 
 
 And brier-roses, dwelt among: 
 All beside was unknown was 
 
 All was picture a n.ssed. 
 
 Wiser tar than human seer, 
 Yellow-breechf d philosopher ! 
 Seeing only what is fair. 
 Sipping only what i> sw< 
 Thou dost mock at fate and 
 Leave the chaff, and take the wheat. 
 "When the fierce northwestern blast 
 Cools sea and land - i : tr and fast, 
 Thou already slumb 
 Woe and want thou canst out sleep. 
 Want and woe which torture us. 
 Thy sleep makes ridicul 
 
 Ralph Waldo Ernei 
 
78 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 BEUCE AND THE SPIDER. 
 
 For Scotland's and for freedom's right 
 
 The Bruce his part had played. 
 In five successive fields of fight 
 
 Been conquered and dismayed ; 
 Once more against the English host 
 His band he led and once more lost 
 
 The meed for which he fought ; 
 And now from battle, faint and worn, 
 The homeless fugitive forlorn 
 
 A hut's lone shelter sought. 
 
 And cheerless was that resting-place 
 
 For him who claimed a throne ; 
 His canopy, devoid of grace. 
 
 The rude, rough beams alone : 
 The heather couch his only bed, — 
 Yet well I ween had slumber fled 
 
 From couch of eider-down! 
 Through darksome night till dawn of day, 
 Absorbed in wakeful thought he lay 
 
 Of Scotland and her crown. 
 
 The sun rose brightly, and its gleam 
 
 Fell on that hapless bed, 
 And tinged with light each shapeless beam 
 
 Which roofed the lowly shed ; 
 When, looking up with wistful eye, 
 The Bruce beheld a spider try 
 
 His filmy thread to fling 
 From beam to beam of that rude cot ; 
 And well the insect's toilsome lot 
 
 Taught Scotland's future king. 
 
 Six times his gossamery thread 
 
 The wary spider threw ; 
 In vain the filmy line was sped, 
 
 For powerless or untrue 
 
SONG AND STORY. 79 
 
 Each aim appeared, and back recoiled 
 The patient insect, six times foiled. 
 
 And yet unconquered still ; 
 And soon the Bruce, with eager eye. 
 Saw him prepare once more to try 
 
 His courage, strength, and skill. 
 
 One effort more, his seventh and last ! 
 
 The hero hailed the sign ! 
 And on the wished-f or beam hung fast 
 
 That slender silken line ; 
 Slight as it was, his spirit caught 
 The more than omen, for his thought 
 
 The lesson well could trace. 
 Which even ' % he who runs may read/' 
 That Perse verence gains its meed. 
 
 And Patience wins the race. 
 
 Bernard Barton. 
 
 TO A WATERFOWL, 
 
 Whither, midst falling dew 
 While glow the heavens with the last steps 
 
 of day, 
 Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou 
 pursue 
 
 Thy solitary way : 
 
 Vainly the fowler's eye 
 Might mark thy distant flight to do the wrong, 
 As, darkly seen against the crimson sky, 
 
 Thy figure floats along. 
 
 Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
 Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide. 
 Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 
 
 On the chafed ocean side \ 
 
80 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 There is a Power whose care 
 Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, — 
 The desert and illimitable air 
 
 Lone wandering, but not lost. 
 
 All day thy wings have fanned, 
 At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 
 Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 
 
 Though the dark night is near. 
 
 And soon that toil shall end ; 
 Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 
 And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall 
 bend, 
 
 Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. 
 
 Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
 Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my 
 
 heart 
 Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 
 
 And shall not soon depart : 
 
 He who, from zone to zone, 
 Guides through the boundless sky thy certain 
 
 flight, 
 In the long way that I must tread alone, 
 Will lead my steps aright. 
 
 Wm. Cidlen Bryant. 
 
 BABY'S SKIES. 
 
 Would you know the baby's skies? 
 Baby's skies are mother's eyes. 
 Mother's eyes and smile together 
 Make the baby's pleasant weather. 
 
 Mother, keep your eyes from tears, 
 Keep your heart from foolish fears, 
 Keep your lips from dull complaining 
 Lest the baby think 'tis raining. 
 
 _¥. C. Bartlett. 
 
SONG AND STORY. 81 
 
 WHO STOLE THE BIRD'S NEST f 
 
 " To whit! to whit! to wheel 
 Will you listen to me? 
 Who stole four eggs I laid, 
 And the nice, warm nest I made ? ,1 
 
 "Not I," said the cow — " moo-oo! 
 Such a thing I'd never do. 
 I gave you a wisp of hay, 
 But did not take your nest away. 
 Not I," said the cow — " moo-oo! 
 Such a thing I'd never do. " 
 
 ' ' Bobolink ! bobolink ! 
 Now, what do you think ? 
 Who stole a nest away 
 From the plum-tree to-day?" 
 
 " Not I," said the dog — "bow-wow! 
 I couldn't be so mean, I trow. 
 I gave hairs, the nest to make, 
 But the nest I didn't take. 
 Not I," said the dog — "bow-wow! 
 I couldn't be so mean. I trow." 
 
 * ; Bobolink ! bobolink ! 
 Now, what do you think/ 
 Who stole a nest away 
 From the plum-tree to-day?" 
 
 "Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo! 
 Let me speak a word, too. 
 Who stole that pretty nest 
 From poor little yellow-breast \ " 
 
 ''Baa! baa ! " said the sheep — * 4 oh, no! 
 I wouldn't treat a poor bird so. 
 I gave wool, the nest to line. 
 
82 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 But the nest was none of mine. 
 Baa ! baa ! " said the sheep — " oh, no ! 
 I wouldn't treat a poor bird so/' 
 
 14 To whit ! to whit ! to whee ! 
 Will you listen to me? 
 Who stole four eggs I laid, 
 And the nice, warm nest I made ] " 
 
 ''Bobolink! bobolink! 
 Now, what do you think ? 
 Who stole a nest away 
 From the plum-tree to-day ? " 
 
 1 ' Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! cuckoo ! 
 Let me speak a word, too. 
 Who stole that pretty nest 
 From poor little yellow-breast? " 
 
 "Caw! caw! " said the crow, 
 " I should like to know 
 
 What thief took away 
 
 A bird's nest to-day ! ' T 
 
 ww Cluck ! cluck ! '• said the hen — 
 
 ''Don't ask me again. 
 Why, I haven't a chick 
 That 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.'' 
 
 ' ' Chira whirr ! chira whirr ! 
 Let us make a great stir; 
 Let us find out his name, 
 And all cry — ' for shame ! ' " 
 
SONG AND STORY, 83 
 
 I would not rob a bird," 
 Said little Mary Green ; 
 I think I never heard 
 Of anything so mean." 
 
 It's very cruel, too ! " 
 
 Said little Alice Neal ; 
 
 I wonder if he knew 
 
 How bad 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. 
 
 Mrs. L. M. Child. 
 
 THE CATS DINNER-TIME. 
 
 Loth at once to leave her play 
 
 Under the pear-tree, Bessie stands : 
 k ' Mamma, why do you always say 
 
 ' Come to dinner, and wash your hands? ' 
 There's my kitty — you said to-day 
 
 You only wished I were half as neat — 
 She don't bother herself to stay 
 
 And wash her hands when she wants to eat. 
 
 "After dinner I've seen her sit 
 
 And wash herself for an hour or more. 
 And smooth her kitten, and tidy it — 
 
 She never does it at all before.^ 
 Mamma laughed. ' ' There was once a time, 
 
 Ages and ages long ago. 
 When mice could reason, and birds make 
 rhyme, 
 
 And cats could talk — or they tell us so. 
 
84 
 
 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 " Then all cathood (or so 'tis writ 
 
 I read it once in a book of mine), 
 Grown-up tabby and little kit, 
 
 Washed their hands when they went to dine. 
 Once, a cat of an ancient house, 
 
 Mindful always of social laws, 
 Caught a frightened and trembling mouse, 
 
 And as she held him with teeth and claws, 
 
 " 'O,' said he, ' you're forgetting quite 
 
 What even a poor mouse understands — 
 It isn't tidy, nor yet polite 
 
 To eat before you have washed your hands ! » 
 So a moment the cat put by 
 
 Her longed-for dinner, to wash herself, 
 And — whisk ! — he found, without one good-by, 
 
 The mouse-hole under the pantry shelf ! 
 
 t i t There ! ' said the cat, with a vexed grimace, 
 
 1 Hereafter, whether in field or town, 
 I never will wash my hands and face, 
 
 Until my dinner is safely down ! ' 
 And ever since, it is said, my sweet, 
 
 All the kittens beneath the sun, 
 Rush unwashed when they're called to eat, 
 
 And make their toilet when dinner's done ! " 
 Elizabeth AJcers Allen, in " Our Little 
 Men and Women.' 11 
 
 TO MOTHER FAIRIE. 
 
 Good old mother Fairie, 
 
 Sitting by y our fire, 
 Have you any little folk 
 
 You would like to hire ? 
 
 I want no chubby drudges 
 To milk and churn and spin, 
 
 Nor old and wrinkled Brownies, 
 With grisly beards and thin: 
 
SONG AXD STORY. 85 
 
 But patient little people. 
 
 With hands of busy care. 
 And gentle speech and loving hearts ; 
 
 Say, have you such to spare? 
 
 I know a poor pale body, 
 
 Who cannot sleep at night. 
 And I want the little people 
 
 To keep her chamber bright ; 
 
 To chase away the shadows 
 That make her moan and weep, 
 
 To sing her loving lullabies, 
 And kiss her eyes asleep. 
 
 And when in dreams she reaches 
 For pleasures dead and gone, 
 
 To hold her wasted fingers, 
 And make her rings stay on. 
 
 They must be very cunning 
 
 To make the future shine 
 Like leaves, and flowers, and 
 strawberries, 
 
 A-gr owing on one vine. 
 
 Good old mother Fairie, 
 
 Since my need you know, 
 Tell me, have you any folk 
 
 Wise enough to go ? 
 
 Alice Gary. 
 
 THE GLADNESS OF NATURE. 
 
 Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, 
 When our mother Nature laughs around ; 
 
 When even the deep blue heavens look glad, 
 And gladness breathes from the blossoming 
 ground? 
 
86 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 There are notes of joy froin the hang-bird and 
 wren, 
 And the gossip of swallows through all the 
 sky: 
 The ground-squirrel gayly chirps by his den. 
 And the wilding bee hums merrily by. 
 
 The clouds are at play in the azure space 
 And their shadows at play on the bright- 
 green vale. 
 And here they stretch to the frolic chase, 
 And there they roll on the easy gale. 
 
 There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower, 
 
 There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree. 
 
 There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on 
 
 the flower. 
 
 And a laugh from the brook that runs to 
 
 the sea. 
 
 And look at the broad-faced sun. how he 
 smiles 
 On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray, 
 On the leaping waters and gay young isles; 
 Ay, look, and hell smile thy gloom away. 
 
 Wm. Cullen Bryant. 
 
 suppose: 
 
 Suppose, my little lady, 
 
 Your doll should break her head. 
 Could you make it whole by crying 
 
 Till your eyes and nose are red I 
 And would n't it be pleasanter 
 
 To treat it as a joke ; 
 And say you're glad " 'Twas Dolly's 
 
 And not your head that broke?" 
 
 Suppose you're dressed for walking. 
 
 And the rain comes pouring down. 
 Will it clear off any sooner 
 
 Because vou scold and frov 
 
SOXG AXD STORY. B7 
 
 And would n't it be nicer 
 
 For you to smile than pout. 
 And so make sunshine in the house 
 
 Where there is none without I 
 
 Suppose your task, my little man. 
 
 Is very hard to get. 
 "Will it make it any easier 
 
 For you to sit and fret : 
 And would n't it be wiser 
 
 Than waiting like a dunce. 
 To go to work in earnest 
 
 And learn the thing at once I 
 
 Suppose that some boys have a horse. 
 
 And some a coach and pair, 
 Will it tire you less while walking 
 
 To say. " It is n't fair;"' 
 And would n't it be nobler 
 
 To keep your temper sweet, 
 And in your heart be thankful 
 
 You can walk upon your feet : 
 
 And suppose the world don't please you. 
 
 Nor the way some people do, 
 Do you think the whole creation 
 
 Will be altered just for you i 
 And is n't it, my boy or girl. 
 
 The wisest, bravest plan. 
 Whatever comes, or does n't come. 
 
 To do the best you can i 
 
 Phoebe Gary. 
 
 AX INCIDENT OF THE FIRE AT 
 HAMBURG. 
 
 The tower of old Saint Nichol; red 
 
 upward to the skies. 
 Like some huge piece of Nature's make, the 
 
 growth of centur 
 
88 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 You could not deem its crowding spires a 
 
 work of human art, 
 They seemed to struggle lightward from a 
 
 sturdy living heart. 
 
 Not Nature's self more freely speaks in crystal 
 
 or in oak. 
 Than, through the pious builder's hand, in 
 
 that gray pile she spoke ; 
 And as from acorn springs the oak, so, freely 
 
 and alone, 
 Sprang from his heart this hymn to God. sung 
 
 in obedient stone. 
 
 It seemed a wondrous freak of chance, so 
 
 perfect, yet so rough, 
 A whim of Nature crystallized slowly in 
 
 granite tough ; 
 The thick spires yearned towards the sky in 
 
 quaint, harmonious lines, 
 And in broad sunlight basked and slept, like 
 
 a grove of blasted pines. 
 
 Never did rock or stream or tree lay claim 
 
 with better right 
 To all the adorning sympathies of shadow and 
 
 of light ; 
 And, in that forest petrified, as forester there 
 
 dwells 
 Stout Herman, the old sacristan, sole lord of 
 
 all its bells. 
 
 Surge leaping after surge, the fire roared 
 
 onward red as blood, 
 Till half of Hamburg lay engulfed beneath the 
 
 eddying flood ; 
 For miles away, the fiery spray poured down 
 
 its deadly rain, 
 And back and forth the billows sucked, and 
 
 paused, and burst again. 
 
SONG AND STORY. s9 
 
 From square to square with tiger leaps rushed 
 
 on the lustful lire, 
 The air to leeward shuddered w T ith the gasps 
 
 of its desire ; 
 And church and palace, which even now 
 
 stood whelmed but to the knee, 
 Lift their black roofs like breakers lone amid 
 
 the whirling sea. 
 
 Up in his tower old Herman sat and watched 
 
 with quiet look ; 
 His soul had trusted God too long to be at 
 
 last forsook ; 
 He could not fear, for surely God a pathway 
 
 would unfold 
 Through this red sea for faithful hearts, as 
 
 once he did of old. 
 
 But scarcely can he cross himself, or on his 
 
 good saint call, 
 Before the sacrilegious flood o'erleaped the 
 
 church-yard wall ; 
 And ere a pater half was said, 'mid smoke 
 
 and crackling glare, 
 His island tower scarce juts its head above 
 
 the wide despair. 
 
 Upon the peril's desperate peak his heart 
 
 stood up sublime ; 
 His first thought was for God above, his next 
 
 was for his chime ; 
 "Sing now, and make your voices heard in 
 
 hymns of praise," cried he, 
 " As did the Israelites of old, safe walking 
 
 through the sea ! 
 
 ' ' Through this red sea our God hath made the 
 
 pathway safe to shore; 
 Our promised land stands full in sight ; shout 
 
 now as ne'er before! " 
 
90 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 And as the tower came crushing down, the 
 
 bells, in clear accord, 
 Pealed forth the grand old German hymn, — 
 
 " All good souls, praise the Lord! " 
 
 James Russell Lowell. 
 
 LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 
 
 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 moored their bark 
 
 On the wild New England shore. 
 
 Not as the conqueror comes, 
 
 They the true-hearted, came ; 
 Not with the roll of 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's 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 wood rang 
 To the anthems 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 ! 
 
 There were men with hoary hair 
 
 Amidst that pilgrim-band ; — 
 Why had they come to wither there, 
 
 Away from their childhood's land? 
 
SONG AXD STORY. 91 
 
 There was woman's fearless eve, 
 
 Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
 There was manhood's brow serenely high, 
 
 And the fiery heart of youth. 
 
 What sought they thus afarr 
 
 Bright jewels of the mine I 
 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 left unstained what there they found, — 
 
 Freedom to worship God. 
 
 Felicia Hemans. 
 
 TO THE LADY-BIRD. 
 
 Lady-bird I lady-bird! fly away home, — 
 The field-mouse is gone to her nest. 
 
 The daisies have shut up their sleepy red eyes, 
 And the bees and the birds are at rest. 
 
 Lady-bird: lady-bird: fly away home, — 
 The glow-worm is lighting her lamp. 
 
 The dew's falling fast, and your fine speckled 
 wings 
 Will flag with the close-clinging damp. 
 
 Lady-bird! lady-bird: fly away home, — 
 
 The fairy bells tinkle afar! 
 Make haste, or they'll catch ye, and harness 
 ye fast 
 
 With a cobweb to Oberon's car. 
 
 Lady-bird! lady-bird! fly away home, — 
 To your house in the old willow-tree, 
 
 Where your children, so dear, have invited 
 the ant 
 And a few cozy neighbors to tea. 
 
92 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 Lady -bird! lady -bird! fly away home, — 
 And, if not gobbled up by the way, 
 
 Nor yoked by the fairies to Oberon's car, 
 You're in luck, — and that's all I've to say. 
 
 Mrs. Southey. 
 
 THE SEASON THAT IS COMING. 
 
 Sweet, sweet, sweet is the season that is 
 coming ; 
 
 Sweet the wayside wild rose and the wild bee's 
 humming ; 
 
 Sweet the pink azalia in the woods' recesses, 
 
 Sweet the nodding barberry buds, wearing- 
 yellow dresses, 
 
 Sweet the scarlet columbine climbing up the 
 ledges, 
 
 Sweet the pale anemone in the forest edges, 
 
 Sweet the rosy apple blooms, sweet the birds 
 among them, 
 
 Sweet the petals in the grass where the winds 
 have flung them. 
 
 Sweet, sweet, sweet are the gardens 
 
 overflowing 
 With pinks and yellow marigolds, and 
 
 mignonette a-blowing, 
 With four-o'clocks and London-pride, and 
 
 pretty pansy faces, 
 With honeysuckle by the wall, and roses in 
 
 all places ; 
 And sweet the happy children who come from 
 
 days of duty 
 To find the fair earth all a-bloom, a place of 
 
 perfect beauty 
 Books thrown away, they laugh and play, 
 
 with sun and sweet winds blowing, 
 A rose blooms out on every cheek, and pinks 
 
 in the lips are growing. 
 
m story. m 
 
 ae breeze-blown pastures with vi 
 running over ; 
 Sweet tlie meadows stretching wide ore 
 :h white clover: 
 
 thickets st Burred with flowers and 
 flushed with growing be 
 And pretty dinners set for birds of rose-hips 
 
 and wild cherri— 
 Sweet the corners dim and deep where 
 
 floating boughs are meeting 
 And little lovers come and go with son ~ - 
 happy greeti:— 
 
 : the fronds of fairy fern in hidden nooks 
 unfolding; 
 
 thoughts in loving hea::- these 
 lav : I ings beholding. 
 
 M F 3 ieAwaker 
 
 --3EEX, green are the : - 
 
 And blue, blue Ls the sky. 
 And glad, glad is the morning. 
 
 And happy and gay am I. 
 Tirra-la -i 
 
 And happy and gay am I. 
 
 White, white a: laisies 
 
 Blossoming 
 
 -r S. 
 
 is :he air! 
 
 "An trade's muai 
 
 .And the mus bird 
 
 H; e sic 
 
 That ever and e u heard 
 
 golden the sunbeams 
 And bright, bright 
 
 A - and the birds, and Mabel 
 
94 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 *'0h! and over the meadows, 
 
 Oh ! and under the sky, 
 And all in the dewy morning, 
 
 Happy and gay am I ' 
 Tirra-la-la, la, la, la! 
 
 Happy and gay am I ! 
 
 The queen passed by in her carriage, 
 
 And little Mabel's song, 
 By a roving zephyr wafted. 
 She heard as she rode along. 
 " Ah, child ! " she sighed as she listened, 
 
 A shadow upon her brow — 
 "With the birds, and the bees, and the 
 blossoms 
 How happy and gay art thou ! " 
 
 Standing knee-deep in clover, 
 
 Mabel looked up and saw 
 The glitter and royal splendor, 
 
 And her voice was hushed with awe ; 
 And the light from her sweet eyes faded, 
 
 And the song died out of her heart ; 
 "O queen! " she sighed in her envy, 
 ' ' How happy and grand thou art ! " 
 
 And the glee was gone from the morning, 
 
 The gladness gone from the day, 
 As through the tangle of clover 
 
 She wearily took her way. 
 ' ' What a wretched place to live in ! " 
 
 She paused at a cottage door. 
 ' ' How lowly and plain and humble ! 
 
 I never noticed before ! " 
 And over her work she muttered, 
 "Little the queen of the land 
 With the soot and grime of the kitchen 
 
 Needs ever to soil her hand ! " 
 And over her simple sewing, 
 
 As the afternoon went by, 
 Often she fell to musing, 
 
SONG AND STORY. 95 
 
 Often she breathed a sigh ; 
 And often she thus would murmur— 
 44 1 doubt if ever the queen 
 Would deign, with the jeweled fingers, 
 
 To sew an inch of a seam. " 
 And wearily on her pillow 
 
 At even she laid her head ; 
 4i I never shall be a queen," she sobbed, 
 " And I wish that I were dead ! " 
 
 But presently came a message, 
 
 Reading— oh, was it true? — 
 " Arise and come to me, Mabel; 
 
 I, the queen, have sent for you." 
 Then quick to the royal palace 
 
 She rode in the carriage grand, 
 And they led her through halls of marble 
 
 To the queen of all the land ; 
 And the queen arose, and laying 
 
 Her crown at Mabel's feet, 
 "I go to be free and happy, 
 
 And play in the meadows sweet," 
 She said, and to all her people — 
 4 ' Farewell ! " and ' ' farewell ! " she said ; 
 And the people took up the golden crown 
 
 And put it on Mabel's head. 
 And oh ! it was heavy, heavy ! 
 
 Heavy, heavy as lead ! 
 
 To a gilded throne they brought her, 
 
 In purple and ermine clad. 
 "Hail to thee, fair queen Mabel! " 
 
 They shouted with voices glad ; 
 And " Hail to thee, fair queen Mabel ! " 
 
 Rang in her ears all day, 
 Till, weary, herself she questioned 
 "Is it right, is it right to stay? 
 To drive the cows from the pasture 
 
 Is Mabel's task alone; 
 And my father at work since morning, 
 
 He will soon be coming home. 
 
<£ JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 " He will miss his little Mabel, 
 
 For there is no one but nie 
 To toast the bread for his supper 
 
 And make him a cup of tea. 
 But no ! am I not a lady ? 
 
 It is no care of mine 
 To worry about the supper 
 
 And the milking of the kine ! " 
 
 So she dwelt in the marble palace, 
 
 And dined from a golden plate, 
 And slept in a silken chamber, 
 
 And sat in the chair of state. 
 And whenever she went riding 
 
 The people with cheers would greet, 
 And maidens and little children 
 
 With blossoms would strew the street. 
 
 And royally thus lived Mable, 
 
 Her only task — to command ; 
 Servants, unnumbered, ready 
 
 To move at the wave of her hand ; 
 And alway about her lingered 
 
 Gay courtiers, a dazzling throng ; 
 And the blithe hours swiftly flitted 
 
 With story and dance and song. 
 But often herself she questioned, 
 
 As she sat on the gilded throne, 
 "How is it with them, I wonder — 
 
 How is it with them at home? " 
 
 As the palace with mirth and music 
 
 Echoed and rang, one night, 
 The people peered through the windows, 
 
 Watching the festive sight: 
 And a beggar in rags and tatters. 
 
 Listening, shook his fist ; 
 "What right have they to be merry 
 
 When my little ones starve?" he hissed. 
 And the people his words repeated: 
 11 What right, to be sure? " they said, 
 
SONG AND STORY. <)7 
 
 1 Flaunting in silk and diamonds 
 
 While our little ones cry for bread." 
 
 And ever, as thus they murmured, 
 
 Louder their voices grew, 
 Till, all in a red-hot anger, 
 
 To the palace doors they flew. 
 And the sentinels, at each entrance, 
 
 Quickly they put to flight, 
 And hurried with cries and clamor 
 
 Into the halls so bright — 
 Into the halls of marble, 
 
 With clubs and with axes armed, 
 Till the sound of their shouts and curses 
 
 The courtiers hearing, alarmed, 
 Fled in their silks and diamonds, 
 
 Leaving the queen alone. 
 On rushed the riotous rabble, 
 
 Making its way to the throne, 
 And they who had " Hail Queen Mabel! " 
 
 Shouted with loyal will, 
 Now aloft their cruel weapons 
 
 Brandished, intent to kill. 
 
 Then she shrieked for help in her terror, 
 
 Never a friend came nigh. 
 So, as the crowd drew nearer, 
 
 Sudden she turned to fly ; 
 And casting aside the purple robe 
 
 And the heavy golden crown. 
 Away and away she hastened. 
 
 To the meadows she wandered down ; 
 Down to the meadows wandered, 
 
 Hastened away and away, 
 Till the birds and the dewy blossoms 
 
 Were roused by the dawning day. 
 
 But the world it was sad and silent. 
 
 Clouded and gray the morn. 
 As wearily on she wandered, 
 
 Wearily and forlorn. 
 
JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 The burnie it went complaining, 
 
 Fretting its way along. 
 Making no pleasant music, 
 
 Singing no pleasant song ; 
 And ever as in the hedges 
 
 She came to a sweet wild rose, 
 At the touch of her queenly fingers 
 
 The petals would sadly close. 
 Once did she call, "Sing, birdies!" 
 
 But the little birds were dumb : 
 4 k Come to me as you used to ! n 
 
 But they, fearing, would not come. 
 
 "What a cozy place to live in ! " 
 She paused at a cottage door. 
 "Not a palace half so lovely 
 Is there the country o'er ! " 
 Within sat a woman knitting — 
 
 A women aged and blind ; 
 And ever she dropped the stitches. 
 Trying in vain to find. 
 4 ' Grandmother, let me help thee, " 
 
 Mabel held out her hand. 
 "Nay," said the gray-haired woman, 
 " Thou art the queen of the land ! V 
 
 Just at that moment entered 
 
 A workingman — quick she cried 
 "Father, oh, dost thou know me? " 
 
 Sorrowfully he sighed, 
 "Oh, queen and gracious lady, 
 
 Tell me if thou dost know 
 Aught of our little Mabel, 
 
 Who was lost long years ago? 
 On a sunny summer morning 
 
 She strayed from the meadows green, 
 Tell me if thou hast seen her — 
 
 Tell me, oh, gracious queen ! " 
 
 "Alas, they too have forgotten! " 
 Bowing her head, she wept — 
 
SONG AND STORY. 09 
 
 And the weeping queen awakened, 
 
 And found she had only slept. 
 Safe in her low-ceiled chamber, 
 
 Flooded with rosy light. 
 Only the little Mabel, 
 
 The Mabel of yesternight ! 
 Then aloud rejoicing sang she 
 
 The song of the day gone by 
 "Glad, glad is the morning, 
 
 And happy and gay am I ! v 
 
 Ellen Tracy Alden. 
 
 THEY DIDJNPT THINK. 
 
 Once a trap was baited 
 
 With a piece of cheese ; 
 It tickled so a little mouse 
 
 It almost made him sneeze ; 
 An old rat said, ' ' There's danger, 
 
 Be careful where you go ! " 
 ' ' Nonsense ! " said the other, 
 
 • - I don't think you know! " 
 So he walked in boldly — 
 
 Nobody in sight ; 
 First he took a nibble, 
 
 Then he took a bite ; 
 Close the trap together 
 
 Snapped as quick as wink, 
 Catching mousey fast there, 
 
 'Cause he didn't think. 
 
 Once a little turkey, 
 
 Fond of her own way, 
 Wouldn't ask the old ones 
 
 Where to go or stay ; 
 She said, " I'm not a baby. 
 
100 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 Here I am half -grown ; 
 Surely I am big enough 
 
 To run about alone ! " 
 Off she went, but somebody 
 
 Hiding saw her pass ; 
 Soon like snow her feathers 
 
 Covered all the grass. 
 So she made a supper 
 
 For a sly young mink, 
 'Cause she was so headstrong 
 
 That she wouldn't think. 
 
 Once there was a robin 
 
 Lived outside the door 
 Who granted to go inside 
 
 And hop upon the floor. 
 "No, no/' said the mother, 
 
 " You must stay with me; 
 Little birds are safest 
 
 Sitting in a tree/' 
 ki I do n't care,' 7 said robin, 
 
 And gave his tail a fling, 
 "I don't think the old folks 
 
 Know quite everything." 
 Down he flew, and kitty seized him 
 
 Before he'd time to blink 
 Oh," he cried, "I r m sorry, 
 
 But I didn't think." 
 
 t s. 
 
 Now my little children, 
 
 You who read this song, 
 Don't you see what trouble 
 
 Comes of thinking wrong? 
 And can't you take a warning 
 
 From their dreadful fate 
 Who began their thinking 
 
 When it was too late? 
 Don't think there's always safety 
 
 Where no danger shows, 
 Don't suppose you know more 
 
>XG AND STORY. 10* 
 
 Than anybody knows: 
 But when you're warned of ruin. 
 
 Pause upon the brink. 
 And don't go under headlong. 
 
 "Cause you didn't think. 
 
 Phoebe Cary. 
 
 A MYSTERY. 
 
 Come children, and hear of the wizard Crum 
 
 Crust; 
 In his magical box is some wonderful dust. 
 But keep the great secret, and mind each 
 
 dark rule. 
 Perhaps you may see it before you leave 
 
 schooL 
 This dust is of diamonds with glittering 
 
 grains 
 Of fine golcL and gems from the earth's 
 
 deepest veins. 
 With parts of each insect, and flower, and 
 
 tree. 
 And pearls from the depths of the tropical 
 
 sea: 
 And fragments are there which a likeness 
 
 reveal 
 To all that you fancy and all that you feel ; 
 But this is most strange, if you use it with 
 
 skill 
 Great palaces rise, like Aladdin's, at will. 
 It wafts you to isles where the cocoa palms 
 
 grow, 
 Or lands you 'mid icebergs, and darkness, and 
 
 snow. 
 With .night, if 'tis used, men may spring up 
 
 in arms, 
 'Mid war's lurid gleaming-, and cannon 
 
 alarms; 
 
 i 
 
102 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 Or melt into pity and charity too, 
 
 When sorrow's poor children it brings to their 
 
 view. 
 It's traveling carpets are tables well spread 
 "With this dust. There are mirrors of nations 
 
 long dead, 
 And beautiful visions of gardens of bliss. 
 And life in a world that is better than this. 
 
 "Ha! ha! we have guessed it!" they cried 
 
 with a shout. 
 4 k Tis letters and books you are talking about. n 
 "Well, well,*' he replied, " you have guessed 
 
 very near ; 
 My box is the great dictionary just here. 
 And magical, powerful, sharper than swords, 
 Are wonderful, terrible, beautiful Words." 
 
 Beaf Coral. 
 
 THE SECRET. 
 
 We have a secret, just we three, — 
 The robin, and I, and the sweet cherry-tree ; 
 The bird told the tree, and the tree told me, 
 And nobody knows it but just us three ! 
 
 But of course the robin knows it best, 
 Because he built the — I shan't tell the rest J 
 And laid the four little — somethings in it; 
 — I am afraid I shall tell it every minute ! 
 
 But if the tree and the robin don't peep. 
 Ill try my best the secret to keep ; 
 Though I know when the little birds fly about, 
 Then the whole secret will be out ! 
 Mrs. F. L. Ballard, 
 
 in i; Youth's Companion. ' 
 
SONG AND STORY, 108 
 
 THE COMMON QUESTION. 
 
 Behind us at our evening meal 
 
 The gray bird ate his fill, 
 Swung downward by a single claw, 
 
 And wiped his hooked bill. 
 
 He shook his wings and crimson tail, 
 
 And set his head aslant, 
 And, in his sharp, impatient way, 
 
 Asked, " What does Charlie want? ,? 
 
 " Fie, silly bird ! " I answered, " tuck 
 Your head beneath your wing, 
 And go to sleep ; " — but o'er and o'er 
 He asked the selfsame thing. 
 
 Then, smiling, to myself I said : — 
 How like are men and birds ! 
 
 We all are saying what he says, 
 In action or in words. 
 
 The boy with whip and top and drum, 
 The girl with hoop and doll, 
 
 And men with lands and houses, ask 
 The question of Poor Poll. 
 
 However full, with something more 
 We fain the bag would cram ; 
 
 We sigh above our crowded nets 
 For fish that never swam. 
 
 No bounty of indulgent Heaven 
 
 The vague desire can stay ; 
 Self-love is still a Tartar mill 
 
 For grinding prayers alway. 
 
104 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 The dear God hears and pities all; 
 
 He knoweth all our wants ; 
 And what we blindly ask of him 
 
 His love withholds or grants. 
 
 And so I sometimes think our prayers 
 Might well be merged in one ; 
 
 And nest and perch and hearth and church 
 Repeat, " Thy will be done." 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier. 
 
 FABLE. 
 
 The mountain and the squirrel 
 
 Had a quarrel, 
 
 And the former called the latter 
 
 " Little Prig;" 
 Bun replied, 
 
 'You are doubtless very big; 
 But all sorts of things and weather 
 Must be taken in together, 
 To make up a year 
 And a sphere. 
 And I think it no disgrace 
 To occupy my place. 
 If I'm not so large as you, 
 You are not so small as I, 
 And not half so spry. 
 Ill not deny you make 
 A very pretty squirrel track ; 
 Talents differ ; all is well and wisely put ; 
 If I cannot carry forests on my back, 
 Neither can you crack a nut." 
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson. 
 
SONG AND STORY. 105 
 
 BABY. 
 
 Where did you come froni. baby dear I 
 Out of the everywhere into here. 
 
 Where did you get your eyes so blue I 
 Out of the sky as I came through. 
 
 What makes the light in them sparkle and 
 
 spin \ 
 Some of the starry spikes left in. 
 
 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 1 
 Three angels gave me at once a kiss. 
 
 Where did you get this pearly ear ? 
 God spoke, and it came out to hear. 
 
 Where did you get those arms and hands I 
 Lrove made itself into hooks and bands. 
 
 Feet, whence did you come, you darling 
 
 things I 
 From the same box as the cherubs' wings. 
 
 How did they all just come to be you ? 
 Grod thought about me, and so I grew. 
 
106 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 But how did you come to us, you dear ? 
 God thought about you, and so I am here. 
 
 George MacDonald. 
 
 ROBERT OF LINCOLN. 
 
 Merrily swinging on briar and weed, 
 
 Near to the nest of his little dame ; 
 Over the mountain-side or mead, 
 Robert of Lincoln is telling his name ; 
 Bob-o-link, bob-o-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink; 
 Snug and safe is that nest of ours, 
 Hidden among the summer flowers. 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Robert of Lincoln is gaily dressed, 
 
 Wearing a bright black wedding-coat ; 
 White are his shoulders and white his crest, 
 Hear him call in his merry note : 
 Bob-o-link, bob-o-link, 
 Spink, sp'ank, spink ; 
 Look what a nice new coat is mine, 
 Sure there was never a bird so fine. 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, 
 
 Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, 
 Passing at home a patient life, 
 Broods in the grass while her husband 
 sings; 
 Bob-o-link, bob-o-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink; «» 
 
 Brood kind creature ; you need not fear 
 Thieves and robbers while I am here. 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Modest and shy as a nun is she, 
 
 One weak chirp is her only note, 
 Braggart, and prince of braggarts is he, 
 
W8 AND STORY. 101 
 
 Pouring boa- little throat: 
 
 -iink. bob-o-link, 
 pink, spank, spink: 
 I afraid ol 
 •h me. cowardly knaves, if you can. 
 Ghee, chee, chee 
 
 ggs on a bed of 1. 
 Flecked with purple, a pretty sight ! 
 There as the mother sit- all da; 
 Robert might; 
 
 B :>b-o-link. bob-o-link. 
 Spink, spank, spink; 
 Nice, good wife, that never goes out, 
 Keeping house while I frolic about. 
 -:'-:. chee. chee. 
 
 Soon as the little ones chip the shell 
 
 :•: wide mouths are open for food: 
 Robert of L. ira hirn well, 
 
 atherMg e hungry brood. 
 
 B ob-o-link, bob-o-link. 
 :. -pink: 
 - new life is likely to be 
 Hard for a - -ung fellow like me. 
 
 Chee. chee. chee. 
 
 Robert of LincoL ngth is made 
 
 >ber with work, and silent with care: 
 Off is his holiday garment laid. 
 Half forgotten that merry air. 
 Bob-o-link. bob-o-li: 
 pink, spank, spink: 
 Ay kn< and I 
 
 lie. 
 
 Summer w he children are grown ; 
 
 Fun i 
 Robert n's a b 
 
10S JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 Off he flies, and we sing as he goes : 
 Bob-o-link, bob-o-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink ; 
 "When you can pipe that merry old strain, 
 Robert of Lincoln, come back again. 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 William Cull en Bryant. 
 
 SMALL BEGINNINGS. 
 
 A traveller through a dusty road strewed 
 acorns on the lea ; 
 
 And one took root and sprouted up. and grew 
 into a tree. 
 
 Love sought its shade, at evening time, to 
 breathe its early vows ; 
 
 And age was pleased, in heats of noon, to 
 bask beneath its boughs ; 
 
 The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, the 
 birds sweet music bore; 
 
 It stood a glory in its place, a blessing ever- 
 more. 
 
 A little spring had lost its way amid the grass 
 
 and fern. 
 A passing stranger scooped a well, where 
 
 weary men might turn: 
 He walled it in. and hung with care a ladle 
 
 at the brink; 
 He thought not of the deed he did, but judged 
 
 that toil might drink. 
 He passed again, and lol the well, by 
 
 summers never dried, 
 Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues 
 
 and saved a life beside. 
 
SOXG AND STORY. 109 
 
 A dreamer dropped a random thought, 't was 
 
 old, and yet 't was new ; 
 A simple fancy of the brain, but strong in 
 
 being true. 
 It shone upon a genial mind, and lo ! its light 
 
 became 
 A lamp of life, a beacon ray, a monitory 
 
 flame. 
 The thought was small; its issues great; a 
 
 watch fire on a hill; 
 It sheds its radiance far adown, and cheers 
 
 the valley still ! 
 
 A nameless man, amid a crowd that thronged 
 the daily mart, 
 
 Let fall a word of Hope and Love unstudied 
 from the heart ; 
 
 A whisper on the tumult thrown, — a transi- 
 tory breath, — 
 
 It raised a brother from the dust ; it saved a 
 soul from death. 
 
 O germ ! O fount ! O word of love ! O thought 
 at random cast ! 
 
 Ye were but little at the first, but mighty at 
 the last. 
 
 Charles Mackay. 
 
 A PSALM OF LIFE. 
 
 Tell me not, in mournful numbers. 
 "Life is but an empty dream ! " 
 For the soul is dead that slumbers, 
 And things are not what they seem. 
 
 Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 
 
 And the grave is not its goal; 
 'Dust thou art, to dust returnest, ,T 
 Was not spoken of the soul. 
 
110 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 Not enjoyment, and not sorrow. 
 
 Is our destined end or way ; 
 But to act. that each to-morrow 
 
 Find us farther than to-day. 
 
 Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 
 And our hearts, though stout and brave. 
 
 Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
 Funeral marches to the grave. 
 
 In the world's broad field of battle, 
 
 In the bivouac of Life, 
 Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 
 
 Be a hero in the strife ! 
 
 Trust no Future howe'er pleasant. 
 
 Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
 Act, — act in the living Present! 
 
 Heart within, and God o'erhead ! 
 
 Lives of great men all remind us 
 We can make our lives sublime, 
 
 And, departing, leave behind us 
 Footprints on the sands of Time ;— 
 
 Footprints, that perhaps another, 
 Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 
 
 A forlorn and shipwrecked brother. 
 Seeing, shall take heart again. 
 
 Let us, then, be up and doing, 
 
 With a heart for any fate ; 
 Still achieving, still pursuing, 
 
 Learn to labor and to wait. 
 
 Henry W. Longfellow. 
 
 
 THE FAIEY WEDDING. 
 
 Last night I heard the bluebells ring, 
 
 For a fairy wedding, 
 And then the sound of fairy feet, 
 
 Through my garden treading. 
 
SONG AND STOIC]'. Ill 
 
 A soft and merry pattering. 
 
 As if rain were falling ; 
 And then their voices small and shrill. 
 
 To one another calling. 
 
 And little laughter, like the trill 
 
 Of a baby linnet 
 That tries the song his mother sings. 
 
 And cannot well begin it. 
 
 I pushed aside the trumpet vine 
 
 To my casement clinging. 
 And thus dislodged a fairy man. 
 
 In a blossom swinging. 
 
 And then I saw the bridal train 
 
 Down the pathway going: 
 Six little fairies went before. 
 
 Fresh flowers about them throwing. 
 
 The bridegroom wore a trailing robe 
 
 Made of red carnations. 
 And, as he walked, the air was full 
 
 Of fairy acclamations ; 
 
 And fairy lanterns brightly glowed 
 
 From the bushes hanging ; 
 And honeysuckle trumpets made 
 
 A loud and joyful clanging. 
 
 The bride beside the bridegroom walked 
 
 Beautiful and tender: 
 Her dress, a lily cup. was trimmed 
 
 In height of fairy splendor. 
 
 With bluebirds' down her wrists were 
 
 bound. 
 Caught at early morning: 
 The yellow-girdled wasp had given 
 
 His belt for her adorning. 
 
112 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 Her kerchief was of spider lace. 
 Her shoes were mouse's leather ; 
 
 And, nodding on her head, she wore 
 A golden robin's feather. 
 
 The merry bluebells rang again, 
 
 Ne'er was such a pealing ; 
 And all the fairy lanterns glowed, 
 
 The fairy train revealing. 
 
 And at the crimson rose's foot 
 
 Fays in crowds assembled. 
 And with the weight of fairy men, 
 
 Its leaves and blossoms trembled. 
 
 Some sat within the lily cups, 
 Some swung on the grasses ; 
 
 And some cool dewdrops carried round, 
 In tiny crystal glasses. 
 
 As o'er the window ledge I leaned, 
 
 At the fairies gazing. 
 I quite forgot my face to hide 
 
 The sight was so amazing. 
 
 And suddenly a sharp-eyed fay 
 Saw me — there was a bustle, 
 
 And then the garden walks were still 
 Save for the night wind's rustle. 
 
 The firefly lamps no longer glowed, 
 I heard no fairies treading ; — 
 
 And so I cannot tell you all 
 About a fairy wedding. 
 
 Amelia Daley Alden, 
 
 HIGH-TIDE ON THE COAST OF 
 LINCOLNSHIRE. 
 
 The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, 
 The ringers ran by two, by three ; 
 " Pull ! if ye never pulled before ; 
 
 Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. 
 
SONG AND STORY. 113 
 
 "Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells! 
 
 Ply all your changes, all your swells ! 
 
 Play uppe The Brides of Enderby! V 
 
 Men say it was a " stolen tyde, v — 
 The Lord that sent it, He knows all, 
 
 But in myne ears doth still abide 
 The message that the bells let fall ; 
 
 And there was naught of strange, beside 
 
 The nights of mews and peevits pied, 
 By millions crouched on the old sea-wall. 
 
 I sat and spun within the doore ; 
 
 My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes ; 
 The level sun, like ruddy ore, 
 
 Lay sinking in the barren skies ; 
 And dark against day's golden death 
 She moved where Lindis wandereth !- 
 My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth., 
 
 "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha !" calling. 
 
 Ere the early dews were falling, 
 
 Farre away I heard her song. 
 ' ' Cusha ! Cusha ! ■■ all along ; 
 
 Where the reedy Lindis no wet h, 
 Floweth, floweth. 
 
 From the meads where melick groweth, 
 
 Faintly came her milking-song : 
 
 " Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! " calling, 
 "For the dews will soon be falling. 
 Leave your meadow grasses mellow. 
 
 Mellow, mellow ! 
 Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ! • 
 Come uppe, Whitefoot! come uppe, 
 
 Lightf oot ! 
 Quit the stalks of parsley hollow. 
 
 Hollow, hollow ! 
 Come uppe, Jetty ! rise and follow ; 
 From the clovers lift your head ! 
 Come uppe, Whitefoot! come upps, 
 Lightf oot ! 
 
114 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 Come uppe, Jetty ! rise and follow, 
 Jetty, to the milking-shed." 
 
 If it be long — ay, long ago — 
 When I beginne to think howe long, 
 
 Againe I hear the Lindis flow, 
 Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong ; 
 
 And all the aire, it seemeth mee, 
 
 Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), 
 
 That ring the tune of Enderby. 
 
 Alle fresh the level pasture lay, 
 And not a shadow mote be seene. 
 
 Save where, full fy ve good miles away, 
 The steeple towered from out the greene. 
 
 And lo ! the great bell f aree and wide 
 
 Was heard in all the country-side 
 
 That Saturday at eventide. 
 
 The swanherds where their sedges are, 
 Moved on in sunset's golden breath ; 
 The shepherde lads I heard afarre, 
 # And my Sonne's wife Elizabeth; 
 Till, floating o'er the grassy sea, 
 Came downe that kyndly message free, 
 The Brides of Mavis Enderby. 
 
 Then some looked uppe into the sky, 
 And all along where Lindis flows 
 
 To where the goodly vessels lie, 
 x^nd where the lordly steeple shows. 
 
 They sayde, ' 'And why should this thing be? 
 
 What danger lowers by land or sea ? 
 
 They ring the tune of Enderby. 
 
 '' ' For evil news from Mabelthorpe, 
 
 Of pyrate galleys, warping down, — 
 For ships ashore beyond the scorpe, 
 
 They have not spared to wake the towne ; 
 But while the west bin red to see, 
 And storms be none, and pyrates flee. 
 Why ring The Brides of Enderby f " 
 
SONG AND STORY. 113 
 
 I looked without, and lo ! my sonne 
 
 Came riding downe with might and main ; 
 He raised a shout as he drew on. 
 Till all the welkin rang again : 
 "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" 
 (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 
 Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) 
 
 ki The olde sea-wall, "' he cryed, "is downe! 
 The rising tide comes on apace ; 
 And boats adrift in yonder towne 
 
 Go sailing uppe the market-place ! " 
 He shook as one that looks on death; 
 11 God save you, mother ! " straight he sayth; 
 " Where is my wife. Elizabeth ?" 
 
 "Good sonne, where Hindis winds away 
 With her two bairns I marked her long ; 
 And ere yon bells beganne to play, 
 Afar I heard her milking-song." 
 
 He looked across the grassy sea. 
 To right, to left. Ho, Enderby! 
 They rang The Brides of Enderby. 
 
 With that he cried and beat his breast : 
 
 For lo ! along the river's bed 
 A mighty eygre reared his crest, 
 
 And uppe the Lindis raging sped. 
 It swept with thunderous noises loud,— 
 Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud. 
 Or like a demon in a shroud. 
 
 And rearing Lindis, backward pressed, 
 Shook all her trembling bankes amaine: 
 
 Then madly at the eygre's breast 
 
 Flung uppe her weltering walls again. 
 
 Then bankes came downe with ruin and 
 rout, — 
 
 Then beaten foam flew round about,— 
 
 Then all the mighty floods were out. 
 
116 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 So farre, so fast, the eygre drave, 
 
 The heart had hardly time to beat 
 Before a shallow seething wave 
 
 Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet ; 
 The feet had hardly time to flee 
 Before it brake against the knee, — 
 And all the world was in the sea. 
 
 Upon the roof e we sate that night ; 
 
 The noise of bells went sweeping by ; 
 I marked the lofty beacon light 
 
 Stream from the church tower, red and 
 high,— 
 A lurid mark, and dread to see ; 
 And awsome bells they were to mee, 
 That in the dark rang Enderby. 
 
 They rang the sailor lads to guide, 
 From roof e to roof e who fearless rowed ; 
 
 And I, — my sonne was at my side, 
 And yet the ruddy beacon glowed ; 
 
 And yet he moaned beneath his breath, 
 " O, come in life, or come in death ! 
 
 O lost ! my love, Elizabeth ! " 
 
 And didst thou visit him no more ? 
 
 Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare ; 
 The waters laid thee at his doore 
 
 Ere yet the early dawn was cleare : 
 Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, 
 The lifted sun shone on thy face, 
 Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. 
 
 That flowe strewed wrecks about the grass, 
 
 That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea, — 
 A fatal ebbe and floive, alas ! 
 
 To manye more than myne and mee ; 
 But each will mourn his own (she saythj 
 And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 
 Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 
 
SOXG AND STORY. 117 
 
 I shall never hear her more 
 
 By the reedy Lindis shore. 
 u Cusha : Cusha : Cusha ! M calling. 
 
 Ere the early dews be falling ; 
 
 I shall never hear her song 
 "Cusha: Cusha:" all 
 
 Where the sunny Lindis floweth, 
 Groeth, floweth, 
 
 From the meads wi^ere melick groweth, 
 
 Where the water, winding down. 
 
 Onward floweth to the town. 
 
 I shall never see her more, 
 
 Where the reeds and rushes quiver. 
 
 Shiver, quiver. 
 Stand beside the sobbing river. — 
 Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling 
 To the sandy, lonesome shore ; 
 I shall never hear her calling, 
 11 Leave your meadow grasses mellow. 
 Mellow, mellow \ 
 Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ! 
 Come uppe. Whitefoot, come uppe, 
 
 Lightfoot ! 
 Quit your pipes of parsley hollow. 
 
 Hollow, hollow : 
 Come uppe. Lightfoot ! rise and follow . 
 
 Lightfoot : Whitefoot ! 
 From your clovers lift the head ; 
 Come uppe. Jetty ! follow, follow, 
 Jetty, to the milking-shed ! " 
 
 Jean Tngelow. 
 
 BUTTERCUPS AN1> DAISIES 
 
 Buttercups and daisies, oh, the pretty 
 flowers 
 
 Coming ere the spring-time u >f sunny 
 
 hours. 
 
118 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 While the trees are leafless, while the fields 
 
 are bare, 
 Buttercups and daisies spring up here and 
 
 there. 
 
 Ere the snow-drop peepeth, ere the crocus 
 
 bold, 
 Ere the early primrose opes its paly gold; 
 Somewhere on a sunny bank buttercups are 
 
 bright ! 
 Somewhere 'mong the frozen grass peeps the 
 
 daisy white. 
 
 Little hardy flowers, like to children poor 
 Playing in their sturdy health by their 
 
 mother's door ; 
 Purple with the north-wind, yet alert and 
 
 bold, 
 Fearing not and caring not, though they be 
 
 a-cold ! 
 
 What to them is weather, what are stormy 
 
 showers ! 
 Buttercups and daisies are these human 
 
 flowers ! 
 He who gave them hardship and a life of 
 
 care, 
 Gave them likewise hardy strength and 
 
 patient hearts to bear. 
 
 Welcome, yellow buttercups ! welcome, daisies 
 
 white ! 
 Ye are in my spirit visioned, a delight ! 
 Coming ere the spring-time, of sunny hours 
 
 to tell— 
 Speaking to our hearts of Him who doeth all 
 
 things well. 
 
 Mary Heivitt. 
 
SONG AND STORY 119 
 
 SONG OF THE BROOK. 
 
 I gome from haunts of coot and hern : 
 
 I niake a sudden sally 
 And sparkle out among the fern, 
 
 To bicker down a valley. 
 
 By thirty hills I hurry down. 
 Or slip between the ridges, 
 
 By twenty thorps, a little town. 
 And half a hundred bridges. 
 
 Till last by Philip's farm I flow 
 To join the brimming river. 
 
 For men may come and men may go, 
 But I go on f ore v e 
 
 I chatter over stony ways, 
 
 In little sharps and trel ! 
 I bubble into eddying bs. § 
 
 I babble on the pebbles. 
 
 With many a curve my banks I fret 
 Bv manv a field and fallow. 
 
 And many a fairy foreland set 
 With wiDow-weed and mallow. 
 
 I chatter, cha:: -: - I flow 
 To join the brimming river: 
 
 For men may come and men may go. 
 But I go on forever. 
 
 I wind about, and in and out. 
 
 With here a blossom sailing. 
 And here and there a lus ut, 
 
 And here and there a grayling. 
 
 And here and there a foamy flake 
 
 Upon me. as I travel 
 With many a silver waterbreak 
 
 Above the golden gravel. 
 
120 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 And draw them all along, and flow 
 To join the brimming river, 
 
 For men may come and men may go, 
 But I go on forever. 
 
 I steal by lawns and grassy plots : 
 
 I slide by hazel covers : 
 I move the sweet forget-me-nots 
 
 That grow for happy lovers. 
 
 I slip, I slide, I gloom. I glance. 
 Among my skimming swallows, 
 
 I make the nettled sunbeams dance 
 Against my sandy shallows. 
 
 I murmur under moon and stars 
 
 In brambly wildernesses ; 
 I linger by my shingly bars ; 
 
 I loiter round my cresses; 
 
 And out again I curve and flow 
 To join the brimming river, 
 
 For men may come and men may go. 
 But I go on forever. 
 
 A If red Term yso n. 
 
 WILD GEESE. 
 
 The wind blows, the sun shines, the birds 
 
 sing loud, 
 The blue, blue sky is flecked with fleecy 
 
 dappled cloud, 
 Over earth's rejoicing fields the children 
 
 dance and sing, 
 And the frogs pipe in chorus. " It is spring ! 
 
 it is spring!" 
 
 The grass comes, the flower laughs where 
 
 lately lay the snow. 
 O'er the breezy hill-top hoarsely calls the 
 
 crow, 
 
SONG AND STORY. 121 
 
 By the flowing river the alder catkins swing, 
 And the sweet song-sparrow cries, " Spring! 
 it is spring! " 
 
 Hark, what a clamor goes winging through 
 
 the sky ! 
 Look, children ! Listen to the sound so wild 
 
 and high ! 
 Like a peal of broken bells, — kling, klang, 
 
 kling,— 
 Far and high the wild geese cry, ' - Spring ! it 
 
 is spring!" 
 
 Bear the winter off with you, O wild geese 
 
 dear ! 
 Carry all the cold away, far away from here ; 
 Chase the snow into the north, O strong of 
 
 heart and wing, 
 While we share the robin's rapture, crying, 
 
 " Spring! it is spring! " 
 
 Celia Thaxter, in "St. Nicholas.'' 
 
 THE TRADESPEOPLE. 
 
 The swallow is a mason ; 
 
 And underneath the eaves 
 He builds a nest, and plasters it 
 
 With mud and hay and leaves. 
 
 The woodpecker is hard at work : 
 
 A carpenter is he ; 
 And you may find him hammering 
 
 His house high up a tree. 
 
 The bullfinch knows and practices 
 The basketmaker's trade : 
 
 See what a cradle for his young 
 The little thing lias made! 
 
122 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 Of all the weavers that I know, 
 The chaffinch is the best ; 
 
 High on the apple-tree he weaves 
 A cosy little nest. 
 
 The goldfinch is a fuller : 
 
 A skilful workman he ! 
 Of wool and threads he makes a nest 
 
 That you would like to see. 
 
 The cuckoo laughs to see them work : 
 44 Not so," he says, " we do: 
 
 My wife and I take others' nests. 
 And live at ease — cuckoo ! " 
 
 Julius Sturm. 
 
 TAKE CARE, 
 
 Little children, you must seek 
 Rather to be good than wise, 
 
 For the thoughts you do not speak 
 Shine out in your cheeks and eyes. 
 
 If you think that you can be 
 Cross or cruel, and look fair, 
 
 Let me tell you how to see 
 You are quite mistaken there. 
 
 Go and stand before the glass, 
 And some ugly thought contrive, 
 
 And my word will come to pass 
 Just as sure as you're alive ! 
 
 What you have and what you lack. 
 
 All the same as what you wear, 
 You will see reflected back, 
 
 So, my little folks, take care ! 
 
SONG AND STORY. 123 
 
 And not only in the glass 
 Will your secrets come to view , 
 
 All beholders, as they pass, 
 Will perceive and know them too. 
 
 Out of sight, my boys and girls, 
 
 Every root of beauty starts ; 
 So think less about your curls, 
 
 More about your minds and hearts. 
 
 Cherish what is good, and drive 
 Evil thoughts and feelings far; 
 
 For, as sure as you're alive, 
 You will show for what you are. 
 
 Alice Cary. 
 
 SIR PATRICK SPENS. 
 
 The king in Dunfermline town. 
 Drinking the blude-red wine ; 
 1 ' O whare will I get a sailor gude, 
 To sail this ship of mine ? " 
 
 O up and spake an eldern knight, 
 Sat at the king's right knee — 
 1 ' Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor 
 That ever sailed the sea." 
 
 Our king has written a braid letter, 
 And sealed it with his hand, 
 
 And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, 
 Was walking on the strand. 
 
 11 To Noroway, to Noroway, 
 To Noroway o'er the faem, 
 The king's daughter of Noroway, 
 'Tis thou man bring her hame." 
 
134 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 The first word that Sir Patrick read, 
 
 Sae loud, loud laughed he, 
 The neist word that Sir Patrick read, 
 
 The tear blinded his e'e. 
 
 " O wha is this has done this deed, 
 And tauld the king o' me, 
 To send us out, at this time o' year — 
 To sail upon the sea ? 
 
 " Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it 
 sleet, 
 Our ship must sail the f aem 
 The king's daughter of Noroway, 
 'Tis we must fetch her hame." 
 
 They hoysed their sails on Mononday 
 morn, 
 WT a' the speed they may ; 
 They hae landed in Noroway ; 
 Upon a Wodensday, 
 
 ' ' Make ready, make ready, my merry 
 men a' ! 
 
 Our gude ship sails the morn," 
 1 ' Now ever alake, my master dear ; 
 
 I fear a deadly storm ! 
 
 " I saw the new moon late yestreen, 
 Wi' the auld moon in her arm ; 
 And, if we gang to sea, master, 
 I fear we'll come to harm." 
 
 They had nae sailed a league, a league, 
 
 A league but barely three, 
 When the lift grew dark and the wind 
 blew loud, 
 
 And gurly grew the sea. 
 
mO AND STORY. 125 
 
 The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, 
 
 It was sic a deadly storm; 
 And the waves earn o'er the broken ship. 
 
 Till a' her sides were torn. 
 
 1 ' O where will I get a gude sailor, 
 To take my helm in hand. 
 Till I get up to the tail topmast; 
 To see if I can spy land \ " 
 
 14 O here am I, a sailor gude, 
 To take this helm in hand. 
 Till you go up to the tall topmast, 
 But I fear you'll ne'er spy land." 
 
 He haclna gane a step, a step. 
 
 A step but barely ane. 
 When a bout flew out of our goodly ship, 
 
 And the salt sea it came in. 
 
 11 G-ae fetch a web o' the silken claith, 
 Another o' the twine: 
 And wap them into our ship's side. 
 But let nae the sea come in." 
 
 They fetched a web o' the silken claith, 
 
 Another o' the twine 
 And they wrapped them round that 
 good ship's side, 
 
 But still the leak came in. 
 
 O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords 
 To weet their shining shoon ! 
 
 But lang ar a' the play was played 
 They wat their hats aboon. 
 
 And mony was the feather bed, 
 That fluttered o'er the faem: 
 
 And mony was the good lord's son. 
 That never mare cam liame. 
 
126 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 The ladyes wrang their fingers white, 
 The maidens tore their hair, 
 
 A' for the sake of their true loves, 
 For them they'll see nae mair. 
 
 O lang, lang, may the ladyes sigh, 
 Wi' their fans int their hand, 
 
 Before they see Sir Patrick Spens 
 Come sailing to the strand ! 
 
 And lang, lang may the maidens sit, 
 With their gold kaims in their hair, 
 
 A' waiting for their ain dear loves ! 
 For them they'll nae see mair. 
 
 It's half way over to Aherdour, 
 
 'Tis fifty fathoms deep, 
 And there Sir Patrick lies for aye, 
 
 Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. 
 
 An Old Ballad. 
 
 THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 
 
 The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the 
 
 fold, 
 And the cohorts were gleaming in purple and 
 
 gold; 
 And the sheen of their spears was like stars 
 
 on the sea, 
 When the blue waves roll nightly on deep 
 
 Galilee. 
 
 Like the leaves of the forest when summer is 
 
 green, 
 That host with their banners at sunset were 
 
 seen ; 
 
SONG AND STORY. 127 
 
 Like the leaves of the forest when autumn 
 
 hath blown, 
 That host on the morrow lay withered and 
 
 strown. 
 
 For the Angel of Death spread his wings on 
 
 the blast, 
 And breathed in the face of the foe as he 
 
 passed; 
 And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly 
 
 and chill, 
 And their hearts but once heaved, and forever 
 
 grew still ! 
 
 And there lay the steed with his nostrils all 
 
 wide, 
 But through it there rolled not the breath of 
 
 his pride : 
 And the foam of his gasping lay white on the 
 
 turf. 
 And cold as the spray of the rock-beating 
 
 surf. 
 
 And there lay the rider, distorted and pale, 
 With the dew on his brow and the rust on 
 
 his mail; 
 And the tents were all silent, the banners 
 
 alone, 
 The lances unlifted, the trumpets unblown. 
 
 And the widows of Ashur are loud in their 
 
 wail, 
 And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
 And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the 
 
 sword, 
 Hath melted like snow in the glance of the 
 
 Lord ! 
 
 Byron, 
 
128 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 THE BETTER LAND. 
 
 4 ' I hear thee speak of the better land, 
 Thou caJl'st its children a happy band; 
 Mother: O where is that radiant shore? 
 Shall we not seek it and weep no more? 
 Is it where the flower of the orange blows, 
 And the fire-flies glance thro' the myrtle 
 
 boughs? n 
 — " Xot there, not there, my child! M 
 
 " Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise. 
 And the date grows ripe under sunny skies? 
 Or midst the green islands of glittering seas, 
 Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, 
 And strange, bright birds, on starry wings, 
 Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?" 
 — " Xot there, not there, my child! " 
 
 " Is it far away in some region old. 
 "Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold ? 
 Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, 
 And the diamond lights up the secret mine, 
 And the pearl gleams forth from the coral 
 
 strand ? 
 Is it there, sweet mother! that better land?" 
 — i; Not there, not there, my child ! " 
 
 ,; Eye hath not seen it. my gentle boy ! 
 Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy; 
 Dreams cannot picture a world so fair — 
 Sorrow and death may not enter there 
 Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, 
 For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, 
 — It is there, it is there, my child ! " 
 
 Felicia Hemans. 
 
SONG AND STORY. 129 
 
 THE KING SPEAKS. 
 
 A BOY'S FANCY. 
 
 My gold is in the sunlight, and my silver in 
 
 the moon, 
 And my jewels are the dew-drops that deck 
 
 the green of June ; 
 My castle is a shady nook within the forest 
 
 glade ; 
 My throne a mound of blue and green of 
 
 blooming myrtle made ; 
 I wear a crown of daisies, and my scepter is a 
 
 reed ; 
 My robe is trimmed with lichens and with 
 
 downy thistle-seed ; 
 And wide as is the woodland is the breadth of 
 
 my domain, — 
 M;y viaducts the forest paths, my aqueducts, 
 
 the rain ; 
 My bridges are the fallen trees that o'er the 
 
 brooklets lie; 
 My monuments the beetling crags that frown 
 
 against the sky. 
 
 The cities in my kingdom are all peopled by 
 
 the birds, 
 By squirrels, and by katy-dids, and soft-eyed, 
 
 browsing herds ; 
 My courtiers are the dragon-flies that in the 
 
 sunlight gleam ; 
 My navies are the fallen leaves that float 
 
 adown the stream ; 
 My color-bearers, butter-flies; the ants, my 
 
 armied men ; 
 The robin is my herald, and my messenger, 
 
 the wren. 
 
 When I give an entertainment, my banquet- 
 board is spread 
 
130 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 With berries of the wintergreen, and nuts, and 
 
 apples red, 
 And dainty cups of acorns, and plates of 
 
 plantain leaves; 
 My curtains are the gauzy webs the giant 
 
 spider weaves. 
 My mirror is the shady pool where water- 
 lilies lie ; 
 My pictures are the hills and vales, the blue 
 
 or stormy sky ; 
 My orchestra the wildwood birds that sing at 
 
 set of sun ; 
 My chandeliers the fire-flies that glow when 
 
 day is done ; 
 To guard my quiet sleep, the night her starry 
 
 sentries gives : 
 In sweet content I know I am the richest king 
 
 that lives. 
 
 Will H. Veith, in Good Cheer, 
 
 CASABIANCA. 
 
 The boy stood on the burning deck, 
 Whence all but him had fled ; 
 
 The flame that lit the battle's 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 proud though child-like 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 be done ?" 
 He knew not that the chieftan lay 
 
 Unconscious of his son. 
 
SONG AND STORY. 133 
 
 His charge is the whirlwind that scatters the 
 foe. 
 
 How grandly and nobly he stands to his 
 
 trust, 
 When, roused at the call of a course that is 
 
 just, 
 He weds his strong will to the Valor of youth, 
 And writes on his banner the watchword of 
 
 Truth ! 
 
 Then up and be doing I the day is not long ; 
 Throw fear to the winds, be patient and 
 
 strong I 
 Stand fast in your place, act your part like a 
 
 man, 
 And, when dutv calls, answer promptly. ' ' i 
 
 Can." 
 
 William Allen Butleb* 
 
 BABY BYR 
 
 Baby Bye, 
 
 Here's a fly ; 
 
 Let us watch him you and I. 
 How he crawls 
 Up the walls, 
 Yet he never falls ! 
 
 I believe with six such legs 
 
 You and I could walk on eggs. 
 There he goes 
 On his toes 
 Tickling Baby's not 
 
 Spots of red 
 
 Dot his head; 
 
 Rainbows on his back are spread : 
 
 That small speck. 
 
 Is his neck; 
 
 See him nod and beck. 
 I can show you if you choose, 
 
134 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 Where to look to find his shoes ;— 
 Three small pairs, 
 Made of hairs ; 
 These he always wears. 
 
 Black and brown 
 
 Is his gown ; 
 
 He can wear it upside-down ; 
 It is laced 
 Bound his waist ; 
 I admire his taste. 
 
 Yet though tight his clothes are made, 
 
 He will lose them, I T m afraid. 
 If to-night 
 He gets sight 
 Of the candle-light. 
 
 In the sun 
 
 Webs are spun ; 
 
 What if he gets into one? 
 
 When it rains 
 He complains 
 On the window-panes* 
 
 Tongue to talk have you and I ; 
 
 God has given the little fly 
 
 No such things, 
 
 So he sings 
 
 With his buzzing wings. 
 
 He can eat 
 
 Bread and meat ; 
 
 There's his mouth between his feet. 
 On his back 
 Is a pack 
 Like a peddler's sack. 
 
 Does the baby understand I 
 
 Then the fly shall kiss her hand ; 
 Put a crumb 
 On her thumb, 
 Maybe he will come. 
 
SONG AND STORY. • 131 
 
 " Speak, father !" once again he cried, 
 
 " If I may yet be gone I" 
 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, 
 
 i ' My father ! must I stay ?" 
 While o'er him fast, through sail and 
 shroud, 
 
 The wreathing fires made way. 
 
 They wrapt 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 soimd ; 
 
 The boy, Oh, where was he 2 
 
 Ask of the winds, that far around 
 
 With fragments strewed the sea, — 
 
 With shroud and mast and pennon fair, 
 That well had borne their part, — 
 
 But the noblest thing that perished there 
 Was that young, faithful heart. 
 
 Felicia Hemans. 
 
 GIANT AND DWARF. 
 
 As on through life's journey we go day by 
 
 day, 
 There are two whom we meet, at each turn 
 
 of the way, 
 To help or to hinder, to bless or to ban, — 
 And the names of the two are " I Cant " and 
 
 u ICanr 
 
132 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 " I Can't " is a dwarf, a poor, pale, puny imp, 
 His eyes are half blind, and his walk is a 
 
 limp ; 
 He stumbles and falls, or lies writhing with 
 
 fear. 
 Though dangers, are distant and succor is 
 
 near. 
 
 u I Can " is a giant ; unbending he stands ; 
 There is strength in his arms and skill in his 
 
 hands ; 
 He asks for no favors ; he wants but a share 
 Where labor is honest and wages are fair. 
 
 " I Can't 7J is a sluggard, too lazy to work • 
 From duty he shrinks, every task he will 
 
 shirk ; 
 No bread on his board and no meal in his bag ; 
 His house is a ruin, his coat is a rag. 
 
 ki I Can " is a worker ; he tills the broad fields, 
 And digs from the earth all the wealth which it 
 
 yields ; 
 The hum of his spindles begins with the 
 
 light, 
 And the fires of his forges are blazing all 
 
 night. 
 
 " I Can't' 1 is a coward, half fainting with 
 
 fright ; 
 At the first thought of peril he slinks out of 
 
 sight; 
 Skulks and hides till the noise of the battle is 
 
 past, 
 Or sells his best friend, and turns traitor at 
 
 last. 
 
 u I Can "' is a hero, the first in the field ; 
 Though others may falter, he never will 
 
 yield ; 
 He makes the long marches, he deals the last 
 
 blow. 
 
SOXG AND STORY. 133 
 
 Catch him \ No, 
 
 Let him go, 
 
 Never hurt an insect so ; 
 
 But no doubt 
 
 He flies out 
 
 Just to gad about. 
 
 Now you see his wings of silk 
 
 Drabbled in the baby's milk: 
 Fie, 6 fie, 
 Foolish fly | 
 How will he get dry I 
 
 All wet flies 
 
 Twist their thighs ; 
 
 Thus they wipe their heads and eyes ; 
 
 Cats, you know. 
 
 Wash just so. 
 
 Then their whiskers grow. 
 Flies have hair too short to comb, 
 So they fly bareheaded home ; 
 
 But the gnat 
 
 Wears a hat. 
 
 Do you believe that ? 
 
 Flies can see 
 
 More than we. 
 
 So how bright their eyes must be ! 
 Little fly 
 Ope your eye: 
 Spiders are near by. 
 
 For a secret I can tell, — 
 
 Spiders never use flies well- 
 Then away 
 Do not stay. 
 Little fly, good-day. 
 
 Theodore Tilton. 
 
136 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 KATY. 
 
 Katy on the doorstep sat, 
 
 While her dimpled fingers fat 
 
 Moved industrious to and fro 
 
 O're the gay pink calico ; 
 
 For an apron she was making, 
 
 All herself, with much painstaking. 
 
 Pretty picture made she there. 
 Humming a quaint Celtic air, 
 Blue eyes on the work intent, 
 Cheek where tan and roses blent, 
 Brown hair smoothly brushed and 
 
 braided, 
 Tied at ends with ribbon faded. 
 
 Such a happy little maid, 
 
 Sitting in the porch's shade, 
 
 Tempted me to questioning, 
 
 Till she fell a-gossiping, 
 
 All about her country telling 
 
 And the peasant's mode of dwelling; 
 
 How she came from ' ' f erninst Corrk 
 Tin miles, " how she used to walk 
 There and back without a rest, 
 Only, by the way confessed, 
 That the miles { ' bey ant " u air shorrter " 
 Than they are this side the water; 
 
 How the houses are of clay, 
 And the roofs are green alway — 
 Thatched with turf ; how very sweet 
 The odor of the burning peat, 
 Which warms in winter-time the cottage 
 And cooki the oatmeal or the pottc-wj; 
 
SONG AND STORY. 137 
 
 How now and then a troop passed by, 
 Fox-hunting, riding gallantly — 
 Fair ladies and fine gentlemen, 
 Who dashed through field, and wood, 
 
 and glen — 
 Nor hedge, nor fence, nor stream could 
 
 stay 
 Their fiery steeds upon the way ; 
 
 How on a hill-side near her home 
 There stands a ruin, ivy-grown, 
 Which long, and long, and long gone by 
 Was a grand castle, strong and high ; 
 And now by night the people passing- 
 Make haste, for fear a ghost be chasing. 
 
 Thus and so did Katy chat, 
 As in the shaded porch she sat. 
 The little maiden twelve years old 
 With ready tongue her story told, 
 Better than all the books relate it 
 Or half the travelers can state it. 
 
 Ellen Tracy Alden. 
 
 THE MOTHERLESS TURKEYS. 
 
 The White Turkey was dead ! The White 
 Turkey was dead ! 
 
 How the news through the barn-yard went 
 flying! 
 
 Of a mother bereft, four small turkeys were 
 left, 
 
 And their case for assistance was crying. 
 
 E'en the Peacock respectfully folded his tail, 
 
 As a suitable symbol of sorrow. 
 
 And his plainer wife said, ' ' Now the old bird 
 is dead, 
 
 Who will tend her poor chicks on the mor- 
 row ? 
 
 And when evening around them comes dreary 
 and chill 
 
138 JUVENILE OEMS OF 
 
 Who above them will watchfully hover ?" 
 "Two, each night, I will tuck 'neath my 
 
 wings," said the Duck, 
 Though I've eight of my own I must cover I" 
 " I have so much to do ! For the bugs and the 
 
 worms. 
 In the garden, 't is tiresome pickin' ; 
 I have nothing to spare, — for my own I must 
 
 care," 
 Said the Hen with one chicken. 
 
 "How I wish," said the Goose, " I could be of 
 some use, 
 
 For my heart is with love over-brimming ; 
 
 The next morning that's fine they shall go 
 with my nine 
 
 Little yellow-backed goslings, out swim- 
 ming !" 
 
 "I will do what I can," the old Dorking put 
 
 in, 
 "And for help they may call upon me too, 
 Though I've ten of my own that are only half 
 
 grown, 
 And a great deal of trouble to see to. 
 But those poor little things, they are all heads 
 
 and wings, 
 And their bones through their feathers are 
 
 stickin'!" 
 " Very hard it may be, but, O don't come to 
 
 me!" 
 Said the Hen with one chicken. 
 
 "Half my care, I suppose, there is nobody 
 
 knows, — 
 I'm the most overburdened of mothers ! 
 They must learn, little elves ! how to scratch 
 
 for themselves, 
 And not seek to depend upon others. " 
 She went by with a cluck, and the Goose to 
 
 the Duck 
 
SONG AND STORY. 139 
 
 Exclaimed, in surprise, "Well, I never!" 
 Said the Duck, "I declare, those who have 
 
 the best care, 
 You will find are complaining forever ! 
 And when all things appear to be threatening 
 
 and drear, 
 And when troubles your pathway are thick 
 
 in, 
 For some aid in your woe, O, beware how 
 
 you go 
 To a Hen with one chicken !" 
 
 Marian Douglass. 
 
 TINY TOKENS. 
 
 The murmur of a waterfall 
 
 A mile away, 
 The rustle when a robin lights 
 
 Upon a spray, 
 The lapping of a lowland stream 
 
 On dipping boughs, 
 The sound of grazing from a herd 
 
 Of gentle cows, 
 The echo from a wooded hill 
 
 Of cuckoo's call, 
 The quiver through the meadow grass 
 
 At evening fall : — 
 Too subtle are these harmonies 
 
 For pen and rule ; 
 Such music is not understood 
 
 By any school ; 
 But when the brain is overwrought 
 
 It hath a e^)ell, 
 Beyond all human skill and power 
 
 To make it well. 
 
 The memory of a kindly word 
 
 Far long gone by, 
 The fragrance of a fading flower 
 
 Sent lovingly, 
 
140 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 The gleaming of a sudden smile 
 
 Or sudden tear, 
 The warmer pressure of a hand, 
 
 The tone of cheer, 
 The hush that means, • ' I cannot speak, 
 
 But I have heard!" 
 The note that only bears a verse 
 
 From God's own Word : — 
 Such tiny things we hardly count 
 
 As ministry ; 
 The givers deeming they have shown 
 
 Scant sympathy; 
 But when the heart is overwrought, 
 
 Oh, who can tell 
 The power of such tiny things 
 
 To make it well ? 
 
 Frances Ridley Havergal. 
 
 THE SONG OF STEAM. 
 
 Harness me down with your iron bands, 
 
 Be sure of your curb and rein, 
 For I scorn the strength of your puny hands 
 
 As a tempest scorns a chain. 
 How I laughed as I lay concealed from sight 
 
 For many a countless hour, 
 At the childish boasts of human might, 
 
 And the pride of human power. 
 
 When I saw an army upon the land, 
 
 A navy upon the seas 
 Creeping along, a snail-like band, 
 
 Or waiting a wayward breeze : 
 When I saw the weary peasant reel 
 
 With the toil that he faintly bore, 
 As he turned all day at the tardy wheel, 
 
 Or toiled at the weary oar : 
 
 When I measured the panting courser's speed 
 The flight of the carrier dove, 
 
SOXG AXD STORY. 141 
 
 As they bore a law the King decreed. 
 
 Or the lines of impatient love, 
 I could but think how the world would feel 
 
 As these were outstripped afar, 
 When I should be bound to the rushing keel, 
 
 Or chained to the flying car ! 
 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! They found me at last, 
 
 They invited me forth at length. 
 And I Fiished to my throne with a thunder 
 blast, 
 
 And laughed in my iron strength ! 
 Oh ! there ye saw a wonderous change 
 
 On the earth and ocean wide, 
 Where now my fiery armies range, 
 
 Nor wait for wind nor tide. 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! the waters o're 
 
 The mountain steep decline ; 
 Time — space — have yielded to my power- 
 
 The world ! the world is mine ! 
 The rivers the sun hath earliest b]est, 
 
 Or those where his beams decline ; 
 The giant streams of the queenly West, 
 
 Or the Orient floods divine. 
 
 The ocean gales where'er I sweep 
 
 To hear my strength rejoice, 
 And monsters of the briny deep 
 
 Cower trembling at my voice. 
 I carry the wealth and worth of earth. 
 
 The thought of the God like mind ; 
 The wind lags after my going forth. 
 
 The lightning is left behind. 
 
 In the darksome depths of the fathomless 
 mine. 
 
 My tireless arm doth play. 
 Where the rocks ne'er saw the sun's decline 
 
 Or the dawn of the glorious day ; 
 I bring earth's glittering jewels up 
 
 From the hidden caves below, 
 
142 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 And I make the fountain's granite cup 
 With a crystal gush o'erflow. 
 
 I blow the bellows, I forge the steel 
 
 In all the shops of trade ; 
 I hammer the ore and turn the wheel 
 
 Where my arms of strength are made; 
 I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint- 
 
 I carry, I spin, I weave. 
 And all my doings I put in print 
 
 On every Saturday eve. 
 
 I've no muscles to weary, no breath to decay, 
 
 No bones to be " laid on the shelf, " 
 And soon I intend you may " go and play," 
 
 While I manage the world myself. 
 But harness me down with your iron bands. 
 
 Be sure of your curb and rein, 
 For I scorn the strength of your puny hands 
 
 As the tempest scorns the chain. 
 
 G. W. Cutter. 
 
 THE LAST HYMN. 
 
 The Sabbath day was ending at a village by 
 
 the sea, 
 The uttered benediction touched the people 
 
 tenderly ; 
 And they rose to face the sunlight in the 
 
 glowing, lighted West, 
 And then hastened to their dwellings for 
 
 God's blessed boon of rest. 
 
 But they looked across the waters and a 
 
 storm was raging there ; 
 A fierce spirit moved above them — the wild 
 
 spirit of the air ; 
 And it lashed and shook and tore them, till 
 
 they thundered, groaned and boomed ; 
 And alas! for any vessel in their yawning 
 
 gulfs entombed, 
 
SONG AND STORY. 143 
 
 Very anxious were the people on that rocky 
 
 coast of Wales, 
 Lest the dawns of coming morrows should be 
 
 telling awful tales. 
 When the sea had spent its passion, and 
 
 cast upon the shore 
 Bits of wreck and swollen victims, as it oft 
 
 had done before. 
 
 With the rough winds blowing round her, a 
 brave woman strained her eyes, 
 
 And she saw along the billows the large ves- 
 sel fall and rise. 
 
 Oh ! it did not need a prophet to tell what the 
 end must be. 
 
 For no ship could ride in safety near the 
 shore, on such a sea. 
 
 Then the pitying people hurried from their 
 homes and thronged the beach : 
 
 Oh! for power to cross the waters and the 
 perishing to reach ! 
 
 Helpless hands were wrung for sorrow, ten- 
 der hearts grew cold with dread ; 
 
 And the ship, urged by the tempest, to the 
 fatal rock-shore sped. 
 
 She has parted in the middle ! Oh ! the half of 
 
 her goes down ! 
 God have mercy ! i4 Say, is Heaven far to seek 
 
 for those who drown T 
 Lo ! when next the white shocked faces looked 
 
 with terror on the sea. 
 Only one last clinging figure on the spar was 
 
 seen to be. 
 
 Nearer the trembling watchers came the 
 
 wreck, tossed by the wave. 
 And the man still clung and floated, though 
 
 no power on earth could save. 
 "Could we send him a short message ? Here's 
 
 a trumpet— shout away :" 
 
144 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 'Twas the preacher's hand that took it, and 
 he wondered what to say. 
 
 Any memory of his sermon? Firstly? Sec- 
 ondly? Ah no! 
 
 There was but one thing to utter, in the aw- 
 ful hour of woe ; 
 
 So he shouted through the trumpet, "Look 
 to Jesus! Can you hear?" 
 
 And " Ay, ay, sir," rang the answer o'er the 
 waters loud and clear. 
 
 Then they listened: "He is singing 'Jesus, 
 lover of my soul V " 
 
 And the winds brought back the echo, 
 8 ' While the nearer waters roll. " 
 
 Strange indeed it was to hear him — " Till the 
 storm of life be past — " 
 
 Singing bravely from the waters, "Oh, re- 
 ceive my soul at last/' 
 
 He could have no other refuge — "Hangs my 
 
 helpless soul on Thee:" 
 "Leave, oh leave me not — " the singer 
 
 dropped at last into the sea : 
 And the watchers looking homeward, though 
 
 their eyes with tears made dim, 
 Said, ' ' He passed to be with Jesus, in the 
 
 singing of that hymn." 
 
 Marianne Farmingham. 
 
 DUTIFUL JEM. 
 
 There was a poor widow who lived in a cot, 
 She scarcely a blanket to warm her had got ; 
 Her windows were broken, her walls were 
 
 all bare. 
 And the cold winter- wind often whistled in 
 
 there. 
 
SO.YG AXD STORY. 145 
 
 Poor Susan was old, and too feeble to spin, 
 Her forehead was wrinkled, her hands they 
 
 were thin: 
 And bread she'd have wanted as many have 
 
 done, 
 If she had not been blessed with a good 
 
 little son. 
 
 But he loved her well, like a dutiful lad. 
 And thought her the very best friend that 
 
 he had ; 
 And now to neglect or forsake her, he knew 
 Was the most wicked thing he could 
 
 possibly do. 
 
 For he was quite healthy, and active, and 
 
 stout, 
 While his poor mother hardly could waddle 
 
 about, 
 And he thought it his duty and greatest 
 
 delight. 
 To work for her living from morning till 
 
 night. 
 
 So he started each morning as gay as a lark. 
 And worked all day long in the field till 
 
 'twas dark ; 
 Then came home again to his dear mother's 
 
 cot 
 And cheerfully gave her the wages he got. 
 
 And oh, how she loved him ! how great was 
 
 her joy ! 
 To think her dear Jem was a dutiful boy ; 
 Her arm round his neck she would tenderly 
 
 cast, 
 And kiss his red cheek, while her tears 
 
 trickled fast. 
 
146 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 Oh, then was not little Jem happier far, 
 Than naughty, and idle, and wicked boys are ? 
 For as long as he lived, 'twas his comfort 
 
 and joy, 
 To think he'd not been an undutiful boy. 
 
 Jane Taylor. 
 
 THE BROWN THRUSH. 
 
 There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in 
 
 the tree. 
 " He's singing to me ! He's singing to me !" 
 And what does he say, little girl, little boy? 
 u O, the world's running over with joy ! 
 Don't you hear? Don't you see? Hush! Look! 
 
 In my tree 
 I'm as happy as happy can be !''• 
 
 And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A 
 
 nest do you see, 
 And nve eggs, hid by me in the juniper -tree? 
 Don't meddle! don't touch! little girl, little 
 
 boy, 
 Or the world will lose some of its joy ! 
 Now I'm glad ! now I'm free ! 
 And I always shall be, 
 If you never bring sorrow to me." 
 
 So the merry brown thrush sings away in the 
 
 tree, 
 To you and to me, to you and to me : 
 And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy, 
 " O, the world's running over with joy ! 
 But long it won't be, 
 Don't you know? don't you see? 
 Unless we are as good as can be? 1 ' 
 
 Lucy Larcom. 
 
SONG AND STORY. 147 
 
 SEVEN TIMES ONE. 
 
 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 times one. 
 
 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 G-od has hidden your face ? 
 
 1 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 marsh Mary buds, rich and yellow. 
 Give me your money to hold ! 
 
 O Columbine ! open your folded wrapper, 
 Where two twin turtle-doves dwell! 
 
 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 : 
 
 1 am old ! you may trust me, linnet, linnet ! 
 I am seven times one to-day. 
 
 Jean Ingelow. 
 
148 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 THE HEAVENLY FBIEND. 
 
 I have a Friend ! a precious Friend, unchang- 
 ing, wise, and true, 
 
 The chief among ten thousand ! O, I wish you 
 knew him too ! 
 
 Encompassed by a host of foes, weary in 
 heart and limb, 
 
 I know who waits to soothe my woe : have 
 you a Friend like him? 
 
 He comforts me, he strengthens me; how 
 can I then repine? 
 
 He loveth me! This faithful Friend in life 
 and death is mine. 
 
 I have a Father, true and fond ! He cares for 
 
 all my needs ; 
 His patience bore my faithless ways, my mad 
 
 and foolish deeds ; 
 To me he sends sweet messages ; he waiteth 
 
 but to bless ; 
 Have you a Father like to mine, with such 
 
 deep tenderness? 
 For me a kingdom doth he keep, for me a 
 
 crown is won ; 
 I was a rebel once. He calls the rebel child 
 
 his son. 
 
 I have a proved, unerring Guide! whose love I 
 
 often grieve. 
 He brings me golden promises my heart can 
 
 scarce receive ; 
 He leadeth me, and hope and cheer doth for 
 
 my path provide, 
 For dreary nights and days of drought ; have 
 
 you so sure a Guide? 
 Quench not the faintest whisper that the 
 
 heavenly Dove may bring, 
 He seeks with holy love to lure the wanderer 
 
 'neath his wing. 
 
SONG AND STORY. 149 
 
 I have a home, a home so bright, its beauties 
 
 none can know ; 
 Its sapphire pavements, and such palms — 
 
 none ever saw below ; 
 Its golden streets resound with joy, its pearly 
 
 gates with praise ; 
 A temple standeth in the midst no human 
 
 hands could raise ; 
 And there unfailing fountains flow, and 
 
 pleasures never end. 
 Who makes that home so glorious ! It is my 
 
 loving Friend ! 
 
 My Friend, my Father, and my Guide, and 
 
 this our radiant home. 
 Are offered you. Turn not away! to-day, I 
 
 pray you, u come." 
 My Father yearns to welcome you. Ins heart, 
 
 his house, his share ; 
 My Friend is yours, my home is yours ; my 
 
 Guide will lead you there ; 
 Behold one altogether fair, the Faithful and 
 
 the True? 
 He pleadeth with you for your love, he gave 
 
 his life for you. 
 
 O, leave the worthless things you seek ; they 
 
 perish in a day. 
 Serve now the true and living God; from 
 
 idols turn away ; 
 Watch for the Lord, who comes to reign; 
 
 enter the open door ; 
 Give him thy heart, thy broken heart : thoult 
 
 ask it back no more. 
 Trust him for grace, and strength, and love, 
 
 and all thy troubles end ; 
 O, come to Jesus! and behold in him my 
 
 loving Friend ! 
 
 Anna Shjpton. 
 
150 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 THE SIGNS OF THE SEASON. 
 
 What does it mean when the bluebird flies 
 Over the hills, singing sweet and clear ? 
 
 When violets peep through the blades of 
 grass ? — 
 These are the signs that spring is here. 
 
 What does it mean when the berries are ripe? 
 
 When butterflies flit and honey-bees hum? 
 When cattle stand under the shady trees? — 
 
 These are the signs that summer has come. 
 
 What does it mean when the crickets chirp, 
 And away to the south-land the wild-geese 
 steer ? 
 
 When apples are falling and nuts are brown? — 
 These are the signs that autumn is here. 
 
 What does it mean when the days are short ? 
 When leaves are gone and the brooks are 
 dumb ? 
 When the fields are white with the drifting 
 snows ? 
 These are the signs that winter has come. 
 
 The old stars set, and the new ones rise, 
 And skies that were stormy grow bright 
 and clear; 
 And so the beautiful, wonderful signs 
 Go round and round with the changing 
 year. 
 M. E. N. Hathaway, in Oar Little Ones. 
 
SOXG AND STORY. 151 
 
 THE FIRST TANGLE. 
 
 Once in an eastern palace wide 
 
 A little child sat weaving; 
 So patiently her task she plied 
 The men and women at her side 
 
 Flocked round her, almost grieving. 
 
 "How is it, little one." they said. 
 
 ' ' You always work so cheerly \ 
 You never seem to break your thread 
 Or snarl or tangle it. instead 
 
 Of working smooth and clearly. 
 
 1 ' Our weaving gets so worn and soiled. 
 
 Our silk so frayed and broken, 
 For all we've fretted, wept, and toiled, 
 We know the lovely pattern's spoiled 
 Before the King has spoken." 
 
 The little child looked in their eves. 
 
 So full of care and trouble ; 
 And pity chased the sweet surprise 
 That filled her own, as sometimes flies 
 
 The rainbow in a bubble. 
 
 " I only go and tell the King," 
 
 She said, abashed and meekly, 
 "You know he said in everything" — 
 "Why, so do we !" they cried, "we bring 
 Him all our troubles weeklv :" 
 
 She turned her little head aside; 
 
 A moment let them wrangle: 
 "Ah, but," she softly then replied, 
 " I go and get the knot untied 
 
 At the first little tangle :" 
 
 O little children— weavers all! 
 
 Our broidery we spangle 
 With many a tear that need not fall. 
 
152 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 If on our King we would but call 
 At the first little tangle ! 
 Anna F. Burnham, in Congvegationalist. 
 
 A BUILDER'S LESSON. 
 
 "How shall I a habit break?" 
 
 As you did that habit make. 
 
 As you gathered, you must lose ; 
 
 As you yielded, now refuse. 
 
 Thread by thread the strands we twist 
 
 Till they bind us, neck and wrist; 
 
 Thread by thread the patient hand 
 
 Must untwine, ere free we stand. 
 
 As we builded, stone by stone, 
 
 We must toil, unhelped, alone. 
 
 Till the wall is overthrown. 
 
 But remember, as we try, 
 Lighter every test goes by : 
 Wading in, the stream grows deep 
 Toward the centre's downward sweep ; 
 Backward turn, each step ashore 
 Shallower is than that before. 
 
 Ah, the precious years we waste 
 Levelling what we raised in haste : 
 Doing what must be undone 
 Ere content or love be won ! 
 First, across the gulf we cast 
 Kite-borne threads, till lines are passed, 
 And habit builds the bridge at last ! 
 John Boyle O'Reilly, in Wide Awake, 
 
SONG AND STOR\ 153 
 
 THE FAIRY ISLE. 
 
 A Highland Tradition. 
 
 A Highland lassie strayed alone, 
 
 By lonely Loch Maree, 
 When o'er the waters came a strain 
 
 Of fairy minstrelsie. 
 
 All things erewhile so solemn still 
 
 Below the sailing moon, 
 Seemed now to wake, and throb, and 
 thrill 
 
 To fairy time and tune. 
 
 Beside the burnie whimpering low 
 And through the darkening wood, 
 
 The lass had strayed without a fear 
 To this deep solitude. 
 
 But now she holds her breath to hear 
 
 The fairy bugles play, 
 While comes to her a legend heard 
 
 In childhood's careless day. 
 
 On yon lone isle in Loch Maree, 
 
 As ancient grandames tell, 
 The birk trees girdle round an isle 
 
 Where Fairy people dwell. 
 
 And in that isle another loch 
 
 Enfolds an isle more fair, 
 And underneath a wondrous tree 
 
 The queen is throned there. 
 
 But, ah ! most fearsome phantom forms 
 
 Would mortal steps pursue, 
 If any heedless soul should dare 
 
 To cross those waters blue. 
 
154 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 Now when a gleaming fairy boat 
 Comes shimmering down the tide, 
 
 Touching the rock wheron she stood, 
 How could the lassie bide ? 
 
 How could the lassie shrink or fear? 
 How could she dream of ill? 
 
 Sure the " good people" are her friends- 
 She hears the music still. — 
 
 She stepped within, and o'er the flood 
 
 The fairy shallop sped, 
 And lightly touched the island beach 
 
 Where elfin lights gleam red ; 
 
 Through all the woodland flashed the 
 flame, 
 
 While onward to the shore 
 Of the clear inland lake she pressed, 
 
 And sailed its waters o'er; 
 
 And reached the isle whereon the queen 
 
 Beneath the wondrous tree 
 Sat on her throne ; the lassie looked. 
 
 The sight was sad to see ! 
 
 O'er the queen's face and o'er the throne 
 
 A woesome shadow fell, 
 The fairy music seemed to die 
 
 O'er heath and vale and dell. 
 
 The Highland lassie felt as one 
 
 Awakened from the dead, 
 But, pity stirred her gentle heart, 
 
 And to the queen she said : 
 
 "Oh, Ruler of the Fairy folk ! 
 Why falls a shadow here? 
 Tell one who came in perfect love, 
 A love that knew no fear:'' 
 
SONG AND STORY. 156 
 
 The queen made answer, with a sigh, 
 
 ' ' Oh, lassie with a soul, 
 Condole with me, the Evil One 
 
 Of me requireth toll. 
 
 4 ' And from my happiest garden ground, 
 And from my field most gay, 
 Of sweetest honey, finest fruit, 
 A tithe to him I pay ; 
 
 " And have no choice, who have no soul; 
 But thou, oh, lassie sweet ! 
 Mayest love the Lord on earth, in Heaven 
 May est worship at his feet." 
 
 And deep she moaned, the Fairy Queen, 
 
 Beneath the wondrous tree ; 
 The lassie swooned, but waking heard 
 
 No fairy minstrelsie. 
 
 Finding herself all, all alone, 
 
 By lonely Loch Maree, 
 The fair moon sailing in the sky, 
 
 Looked on her tenderly. 
 
 Ah ! when her tale was told, who heard 
 
 In sad and silent awe, 
 They never sought the isle, to see 
 
 The sight the lassie saw. 
 
 But Highlanders this lesson kept : — 
 ' ' Who owneth not God's name, 
 
 Nor yields to him obedience, 
 The Evil One may claim." 
 
 Louise V. Boyd. 
 
156 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS STEED. 
 
 My beautiful ! my beautiful ! 
 
 That standest meekly by, 
 With thy proudly arched and glossy 
 neck, 
 
 Thy dark and fiery eye — 
 Fret not to roam the desert now 
 
 With all thy winged speed, 
 I may not mount on thee again 
 
 Thou 'rt sold, my Arab steed ! 
 
 Fret not with that impatient hoof, 
 
 Snuff not the breezy wind ; 
 The farther that thou fliest now. 
 
 So far am I behind. 
 The stranger hath thy bridle-rein, 
 
 Thy master hath his gold : 
 Fleet-winged and beautiful, farewell ! 
 
 Thou 'rt sold, my steed, thou 'rt sold ! 
 
 Farewell ! those free untired limbs 
 
 Full many miles must roam, 
 To reach the chill and wintry sky 
 
 Which clouds the stranger's home ; 
 Some other hand, less fond, must now 
 
 Thy corn and bread prepare ; 
 Thy silken mane, I braided once. 
 
 Must be another's care. 
 
 The morning sun shall dawn again, 
 
 But never more with thee 
 Shall I go through the desert paths 
 
 Where we were wont to be. 
 Evening shall darken on the earth, 
 
 And o'er the sandy plain 
 Some other steed with slower step, 
 
 Shall bear me home again. 
 
SONG AND STORY. II* 
 
 Yes, thou must go ! the wild free breeze 
 
 The brilliant sun and sky, 
 Thy master's house, from all of these 
 
 My exiled one must fly. 
 The proud, dark eye will grow less proudo 
 
 Thy step become less fleet, 
 And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, 
 
 Thy master's hand to meet. 
 
 Only in sleep shall I behold 
 
 That dark eye glancing bright ; 
 Only in sleep shall hear again 
 
 That step so firm and light ; 
 And when I raise my dreaming arm 
 
 To check or cheer thy speed, 
 Then must I, starting, wake to feel 
 
 Thou 'rt sold, my Arab steed ! 
 
 Ah, rudely then, unseen by me, 
 
 Some cruel hand may chide, 
 Till foam wreaths lie, like crested waves, 
 
 Along thy panting side ; 
 And the rich blood that's in thee swells 
 
 In thy indignant pain, 
 Till careless eyes which rest on thee 
 
 May count each starting vein. 
 
 Will they ill-use thee ? if I thought— 
 
 But no, it cannot be — 
 Thou art so swift yet easy curbed, 
 
 So gentle, yet so free. 
 And yet, if haply when thou 'rt gone, 
 
 Thy lonely heart should yearn, 
 Can the same hand which casts thee off 
 
 Command thee to return ? 
 
 Return ? Alas, my Arab steed, 
 
 What shall thy master do, 
 When thou who wert his all of joy 
 
 Hast vanished from his view I 
 
158 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 When the dim distance cheats mine eyes, 
 And through the gathering tears. 
 
 Thy bright form for a moment like 
 The false mirage appears. 
 
 Slow and unmounted will I roam 
 
 With weary foot alone. 
 Where with fleet step and joyous bound 
 
 Thou oft hast borne me on ; 
 And sitting down by that green well 
 
 Will pause and sadly think. 
 Twas here he bow'd his glossy neck, 
 
 When last I saw him drink. 
 
 When last I saw him drink : Away ! 
 
 The fever'd dream is o'er, 
 I could not live a day. and know 
 
 That we should meet no more. 
 They tempted me, my beautiful ! 
 
 For hunger's power is strong ; 
 They tempted me. my beautiful ! 
 
 But I have loved too long. 
 
 Who said that I had given thee up? 
 
 Who said that thou wert sold ? 
 'Tis false, 'tis false ! my Arab steed ! 
 
 I fling them back their gold. 
 Thus, thus I leap upon thy back. 
 
 And scour the distant plains ; 
 Away ! Who overtakes us now 
 
 Shall claim thee for his pains ! 
 
 Mrs. Norton, 
 
SONG AND STORY. 161 
 
 DREAM OF THE GOLDEN AGE. 
 
 'Twas in the Golden Age ; 
 
 Turnips and trees could talk, 
 And roasted pigs and geese 
 
 Could leave the plate and walk ; 
 And apples on the trees, 
 
 In North, or Sunny South, 
 Called to the lazy man: 
 
 "I'll drop; just ope your mouth." 
 
 Folks did not rack their brains, 
 
 For bread to eat, as now ; 
 Or toil, with weary hands, 
 
 And wrinkled moistened brow. 
 The farmer, when he wished, 
 
 His corn and beans were planted, 
 Would sleep awhile, then wake 
 
 To find his wishes granted. 
 
 The women of that day 
 
 Ne'er browned their hands and faces, 
 By washing, baking bread, 
 
 Or ironing shirts and laces. 
 No little chubby boys 
 
 Were tumbled out of bed, 
 To chop, or feed the caloes ; 
 
 They slept till noon instead. 
 
 The girls were never called, 
 
 To sweep, or wash the dishes : 
 They'd eat, then run and swing, 
 
 Or idly watch the fishes. 
 No schools for boys or girls, 
 
 No tasks, their plans o'ertipping ; 
 No matter what they did, 
 
 There was no fear of whipping 
 
162 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 Brisk elfins, dressed in green, 
 
 Or fairies robed in rose, 
 Were near, to soothe the child 
 
 Who fell and bumped his nose. 
 And cups of bread and milk, 
 
 And rolls of sugar candy, 
 If toddling urchins cried, 
 
 Were always sitting handy. 
 
 Hats grew on stalks, like corn, 
 
 Shoes ripened, like potatoes ; 
 And stockings, gold and red, 
 
 Were plenty, as tomatoes. 
 And all the soiled, torn clothes, 
 
 Well patched, and washed and dried; 
 Hung gay, like autumn flowers, 
 
 At morn or eventide. 
 
 No one need help his friend, 
 
 His father, or his mother : 
 In time, there were no friends, 
 
 No one who loved another. 
 And so the years rolled on; 
 
 Most people, grew too lazy 
 Almost, to think, or eat ; 
 
 And some, grew cracked and crazy. 
 
 The children grew too dull 
 
 And fat to run and play ; 
 They'd sleep from morn till night, 
 
 Or gape the time away. 
 At length the silver moon 
 
 Rolled through the silent air, 
 So near the careless earth, 
 
 That giants living there, 
 Threw nets, and caught them all ; — 
 
 Then the great moon sailed on, 
 With all the lazy folks, 
 
 And the Golden Age was gone. 
 
 Persie Vere. 
 
S XG AM Ifid 
 
 THE BATTLZ : / BLENHEIM. 
 
 It was sn mm- - : _ 
 
 Old K: - - : -done. 
 
 And be before his cottage door 
 
 Was sitting in the sun : 
 And by him sported on the gr 
 His little grandchild Wilhelniine. 
 
 She saw her brother Peterkin 
 Roll something large and round 
 
 Which he beside the rivul- 
 In playing there, had found. 
 
 He came to ask what he had found. 
 
 That was so large, and smooth, and 
 r: •.;::::. 
 
 Old Kaspar took it from the I 
 Who stood expectant I 
 nd then the old man shook his head, 
 
 ;d. with a natural sigh. 
 :s some poor fellow's skull/ said he. 
 •'Who fell in the great vict 
 
 " I find them in the gard-rii 
 
 ¥ there's many hereabout ; 
 And often, when I go to pi 
 The plowshare turns them out ; 
 r many ; usand men.** said he. 
 Were slain in that great vie: 
 
 
 N : w tell us what 'twas all ab 
 
 ling Peterkin he erk - 
 And little Wilhelmine looks up 
 
 With wonder-waiting 
 Now tell us all abov.: ar. 
 
 nd what they killed each t»the: 
 
 "It was th BngKsh t % * Kaspar cried, 
 
 * Who put the French to rout ; 
 
160 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 But what they killed each other for 
 
 I could not well make out. 
 But everybody said," quoth he, 
 " That 'twas a famous victory ! 
 
 i ' My father lived at Blenheim then. 
 Yon little stream hard by ; 
 They burned his dwelling to the ground, 
 
 And: he was forced to fly ; v 
 So with his wife and child he fled, 
 Nor had he where to rest his head. 
 
 " With fire and sword the country round 
 Was wasted far and wide; 
 
 And many a childing mother then 
 And new born baby died. 
 
 But things like that, you know, must be 
 
 At every famous victory. 
 
 " They say it was a shocking sight, 
 
 After the field was won ; 
 For many thousand bodies here 
 
 Lay rotting in the sun. 
 But things like that, you know, must be 
 After a famous victory. 
 
 i ' Great praise the Duke of Marlborough 
 won. 
 
 And our good Prince Eugene." 
 " Why, 'twas a very wicked thing! " 
 
 Said little Wilhelmine. 
 " Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth lie, 
 ' 'It was a famous victory ! 
 
 " And everybody praised the duke 
 Who this great fight did win. ,, 
 
 ;i But what good came of it at last? 
 Quoth little Peterkin. 
 
 " Why, that I cannot tell." said he, 
 
 44 But 'twas a famous victory] " 
 
 Robert Southey. 
 
SONG AND STORY. 16b 
 
 GKANDMA'S COKNER. 
 
 We'll make " a corner," but not in wheat — 
 A corner for grandma, a cosy seat, 
 Away from all doors and winds that blow, 
 Giving dear grandma the headache so. 
 
 We will have it warm, we will have it bright — 
 Eyes dim with years need unclouded light ; 
 Of access easy to all, but where 
 The household rush shall not jar her chair. 
 
 We would let her choose where the spot 
 
 shall be, 
 But too unselfish and meek is she ; 
 I really believe she would choose bare floor, 
 And crowd herself back by the cellar door. 
 
 No, no, Miss Grandma, 'twill never do 
 To leave your comforts and rights to you : 
 Your chair shall be covered and soft ; your feet 
 Shall rest on a "cricket," all bright and neat. 
 
 You shall sit, and out of the window gaze, 
 Or on us as we work by the hearth-fire's blaze ; 
 You shall work or be idle, do just as you will — 
 Hold baby, or not, when he's gentle and still. 
 The place in this house that is snuggest and 
 
 best 
 Is the place we have chosen for dear grandma's 
 
 rest. 
 
 "Why?" Grandma dear, don't you ask us 
 
 why: 
 Look at our mother with tearful eye, 
 Smiling upon you in love untold, 
 And gratitude not to be purchased with gold 
 
164 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 Where had we been, I would like to know. 
 If grandmother had not so long ago — 
 When grandpa was far on the stormy main- 
 Feeble and lonely and often in pain, 
 So faithfully tended our mother dear 
 Through years of hardship and little cheer? 
 
 You dear old diamond I We understand 
 The knots and kinks in this little hand : 
 Indoors and outdoors, and earlv and late. 
 You toiled for the sake of your toiling mate — 
 For the sake of the children you loved so 
 
 well— 
 And now, like a queen r you shall with them 
 
 dwell. 
 
 We all are your subjects, with reverent love T 
 Delighted to serve you our homage to prove: 
 Your corner the throne-room, your chair is 
 
 the throne ; 
 Your court is a gay one ; your children your 
 
 own. 
 And your children's children, who round your 
 
 chair 
 All bless you, and honor your silver hair. 
 
 Augusta Moore, in The Evangelist 
 
 THE LITTLE YELLOW BEE. 
 
 The sun was getting- up, and all the hive 
 
 was humming, 
 There were so many little bees who must be 
 
 taught to roam, 
 To gather sweetness everywhere, from all the 
 
 blossoms blooming, 
 And bring their little honey-bags brimful at 
 
 r^ening home. 
 
SONG AND STORY. 165 
 
 Wake up. wake up. young yellow bee! Be 
 
 off, the dew is drying ; 
 You must rifle the red clovers, and be early 
 
 home to tea ; 
 Now show your graceful swiftness, and your 
 
 pretty ways of flying. 
 For the queen is at the window, and she is 
 
 sure to see. 
 
 Off flew the little, yellow bee. the fields and 
 meadows over. 
 
 And all the birds* songs in the trees seemed 
 calling him to play-. 
 
 There were honeysuckles plenty, and the red 
 and the white clover: 
 
 But he could not tarry toiling such a glad- 
 s'") me summer day. 
 
 So he tilted on the grass-blades, and climbed 
 
 the tall ferns lightly: 
 Went swinging in the fox-gloves, and in the 
 
 lilies hid; 
 Played hide and seek with butterflies, and 
 
 passed the hours so brightly 
 That the evening dews were dropping ere he 
 
 thought what he was bid 
 
 Oh! the stern queen, and the hive of bees! 
 
 how could he ever meet them § 
 But it was late, and he was tired, and home 
 
 ward he must turn . 
 Xow if. he thought, my honey-bags were lull. 
 
 then I could greet them 
 With a low bow. and pardon beg. and thus 
 
 my supper earn. 
 
 So in the dew and darkness he sought the 
 
 sweet white clover. 
 And filled his little bags so full that he could 
 
 hardlv fly. 
 
166 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 " Who conies so late I " the warder bees cried 
 
 to the weary rover. 
 " Are you the little loitering drone our queen 
 
 condemns to die ? " 
 
 He was dragged before her trembling, but 
 when he told his story. 
 
 Of the bright ecstatic day among the butter- 
 flies and birds, 
 
 And how he swung on grasses, and kissed a 
 morning-glory. 
 
 She laughed a merry little laugh, and spoke 
 in kindest words. 
 
 She wished, she said, her crown were lost, that 
 she, too, might go roaming. 
 
 Along with bright blue dragon flies, sweet 
 gardens down and up ; 
 
 And then she bade her hive to stop their mur- 
 muring and humming. 
 
 And ordered bread and honey that the little 
 bee might sup. 
 
 Mary L. Bolles Branch. 
 
 in Youth's Companion. 
 
 WINSOME MAGGIE. 
 
 When winsome little Maggie 
 Comes dancing down the street, 
 
 The people smile upon her. 
 And pause, and kindly greet. 
 
 The white-haired parson gently 
 Lays hand upon her head. 
 
 The roguish doctor pinches 
 Her cheek so round and red. 
 
 The grim old judge's visage. 
 
 Forever in a frown. 
 Relaxes for an instant. 
 
 As, passing, he looks down. 
 
SOXG AXD STORY. 167 
 
 The matrons stoop to kiss her, 
 
 The children, at their play. 
 Call out. as little Maggie 
 
 Goes tripping on her way. 
 
 Not e'en the dreaded gossip. 
 
 Who tli rough her ha If -closed blind 
 Peeps forth, with little Maggie 
 
 Has any fault to find. 
 
 When winsome little Maggie, 
 
 With basket on her arm. 
 In which her father's luncheon 
 
 Is wrapped so nice and warm — 
 
 When she enters the long workshop 
 
 And pauses at his side, 
 Quick down he lays his hammer 
 
 And turns in love and pride. 
 
 To look into her limpid eyes. 
 
 And stroke her sunny hair, 
 And jest and frolic with her — 
 
 Forgetting toil and care — 
 
 For the music of her laughter 
 And the mirth of her replies, 
 
 The while there's not a happier man, 
 Or richer, 'neath the skies. 
 
 Ah, well, it is a blessing 
 
 To have a heart so gay 
 That it keeps your feet a-dancmg 
 
 Your face alight alway. 
 
 And that, like winsome Maggie, 
 
 It seems, where'er you go. 
 As if the clouds had parted 
 
 To let a sunbeam thro'. 
 
 Ellen Tracy Alden. 
 
m JUVEXILE GEMS OF 
 
 " SOMEBODY'S MOTHER" 
 
 The woman was old and ragged and gray, 
 And bent with the chill of a winter's day ; 
 
 The street was wet with the winter's snow. 
 And the woman's feet were aged and slow. 
 
 She stood at the crossing and waited long, 
 Alone, uncared for amid a throng 
 
 Of human beings, who passed her by. 
 Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye. 
 
 Down the street, with laughter and shout, 
 G-lad in the freedom of school let out, 
 
 Came the boys, like a flock of sheep, 
 Hailing the snow, piled white and deep. 
 
 Past the woman, so old and gray, 
 Hastened the children on their way, 
 
 Nor offered a helping hand to her. 
 So meek, so timid, afraid to stir. 
 
 Lest the carriage wheels or horse's feet 
 Should crowd her down in the slippery street. 
 
 At last came one of the merry troop, 
 The gayest laddie of all the group. 
 
 He paused beside her, and whispered low : 
 ki 111 help you across if you wish to go." 
 
 Her aged hand on his strong young arm 
 She placed, and without hurt or harm 
 
 He guided the trembling feet along, 
 Proud that his own were firm and strong. 
 
 Then back again to his friends he went. 
 His young heart happy and well content. 
 
 "She's somebody's mother, boys, you know, 
 For all she's old and poor and slow , 
 
SONG AND STORY. l&J 
 
 1 ' And I hope some fellow will lend a hand 
 To help my mother, you understand, 
 
 "If ever she's old and poor and gray ; 
 When her own dear boy is far away." 
 
 And ' 'somebody's mother" bowed low her head 
 In her home that night, and the prayer she said 
 
 Was, ' ' God, be kind to the noble boy 
 
 Who is somebody's son and pride and joy ! " 
 
 Home Journal. 
 
 WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. 
 
 Woodman, spare that tree ! 
 
 Touch not a single bough ! 
 In youth it sheltered me, 
 
 And I'll protect it now. 
 Twas my forefather's hand 
 
 That placed it near his cot ; 
 There, woodman, let it stand, 
 
 Thy axe shall harm it not ! 
 
 That old familiar tree, 
 
 Whose glory and renown 
 Are spread o'er land and sea, 
 
 And wouldst thou hew it down \ 
 Woodman, forebear thy stroke ! 
 
 Cut not its earth-bound ties ; 
 O, spare that aged oak, 
 
 Now towering to the skies ! 
 
 When but an idle boy 
 
 I sought its grateful shade ; 
 In all their gushing joy 
 
 Here too my sisters played. 
 My mother kissed me here ; 
 
 My father pressed my hand-- 
 Forgive this foolish tear, 
 
 But let that old oak stand ! 
 
170 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 My heart-strings round thee cling, 
 
 Close as thy bark, old friend ! 
 Here shall the wild-bird sing, 
 
 And still thy branches bend, 
 Old tree ! the storm still brave ! 
 
 And, vv^oodnian, leave that spot ; 
 While I've a hand to save, 
 
 Thy axe shall hurt it not. 
 
 George P. Morris* 
 
 BE HONEST AND TRUE. 
 
 Be honest and true, 
 
 O eyes that are blue ! 
 In all that you say 
 
 And all that you do, 
 If evil you'd shun, 
 
 And good you'd pursue, 
 If friends you'd have many, 
 
 And foes you'd have few — 
 Be honest and true 
 
 In all that you say 
 And all that you do, 
 
 O eyes that are blue ! 
 
 Be honest and true, 
 
 O eyes that are grey ! 
 In all that you do 
 
 And all that you say 
 At home or abroad, 
 
 At work or at play, 
 As you laugh with your friend, 
 
 Or run by the way, 
 Be honest and true, 
 
 By night and by day, 
 In all that you do 
 
 And all that you say, 
 O eyes that are gray ! 
 
SONO AND STOEY. 171 
 
 Be honest and true. 
 
 O eyes that are brown ! 
 On sincerity smile; 
 
 On falsity frown ; 
 All goodness exalt. 
 
 All meanness put down. 
 As you muse by the fire. 
 
 Or roam through the town, 
 Remember that honor 
 
 Is manhood's chief crown. 
 And wear it as yours, 
 
 O eyes that are brown ! 
 
 Be honest and true, 
 
 eyes of each hue ! — 
 Brown, black, gray, and blue, 
 
 In all that you say 
 And all that you do. 
 
 O eyes in which mothers 
 Look down with delight, 
 
 That sparkle with joy 
 At things good and bright. 
 
 Do never a thing 
 You would hide from their sight ! 
 
 Stand up for the right 
 Like a chivalrous knight ; 
 
 For the conqueror still. 
 When the battle is through 
 
 Is he who has ever 
 Been loyal and true. 
 
 Make the victory sure, 
 O eyes of each hue ! 
 
 OXE SATURDAY. 
 
 I never had a happier time. 
 And I am forty-three. 
 Than one midsummer afternoon. 
 When it was May with me: 
 
172 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 Life's fragrant May, 
 
 And Saturday, 
 
 And you came up with me to play ; 
 
 And up and down the garden walks, 
 
 Amid the flowering beans, 
 
 We proudly walked and tossed our 
 
 heads, 
 And played that we were queens ! 
 
 Thrice prudent sovereigns, we made 
 
 The diadems we wore. 
 
 And fashioned with our royal hands 
 
 The sceptres which they bore. 
 
 But good Queen Bess 
 
 Had surely less 
 
 Than we of proud self-consciousness, 
 
 While wreaths of honeysuckle hung 
 
 Around your rosy neck. 
 
 And tufts of marigolds looped up 
 
 My gown. — a '"gingham check." 
 
 Our chosen land was parcelled out. 
 
 Like Israel's, by lot. 
 
 My kingdom from the garden wall 
 
 Reached to the strawberry plot ; 
 
 The onion bed. 
 
 The beet-tops red, 
 
 The corn that waved above my head, 
 
 The gooseberry-bushes hung with fruit, 
 
 The spreading melon- vine, 
 
 The carrots and the cabbages, — 
 
 All, all of them were mine! 
 
 Beneath the cherry-tree was placed 
 
 Your throne, — a broken chair; 
 
 Your realm was narrower than mine, 
 
 But it was twice as fair. 
 
 Tall hollyhocks 
 
 And purple phlox, 
 
 And time-observin2* ' ' four-o'clocks. " 
 
SONG AND STORY. 173 
 
 Blue lavender and candy-tuft, 
 And pink and white sweet-peas. 
 Your loyal subjects, waved their heads 
 In every passing breeze. 
 
 O, gayly, prosperously we reigned 
 
 Till we were called to tea ! 
 
 But years, since then, have come and 
 
 gone, 
 And I am forty -three ! 
 Yet journeying 
 On restless wing, 
 
 Time has not brought, and can not bring, 
 To you or me a happier hour 
 Than when, amid the beans, 
 We proudly walked and tossed our 
 
 heads, 
 And played that we were queens ! 
 
 Marian Douglas. 
 
 THE SEA 
 
 The sea, the sea, the open sea, 
 
 The blue, the fresh, the ever free ; 
 
 Without a mark, without a bound, 
 
 It runneth the earth's wide regions round, 
 
 It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies. 
 
 Or like a cradled creature lies. 
 
 I'm on the sea, I'm on the sea, 
 
 I am. where I would ever be, 
 
 With the blue above and the blue below, 
 
 And silence whereso'er I go, 
 
 If a storm should come and awake the deep. 
 
 What matter? I shall ride and sleep. 
 
 I love, O, how I love to ride 
 On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, 
 Where every mad wave drowns the moon, 
 And whistles aloft its tempest tune. 
 
174 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 And tells how goeth the world below, 
 And why the southwest wind doth blow ! 
 I never was on the dull, tame shore 
 But I loved the great sea more and more, 
 And backward flew to her billowy breast, 
 Like a bird that seeketh her mother's nest, 
 And a mother she was and is to me, 
 For I was born on the open sea. 
 
 The waves were white, and red the morn, 
 
 In the noisy hour when I was born ; 
 
 The whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, 
 
 And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; 
 
 And never was heard such an outcry wild, 
 
 As welcomed to life the ocean child. 
 
 I have lived since then, in calm and strife, 
 
 Full fifty summers a rover's life, 
 
 With wealth to spend, and a power to range, 
 
 But never have sought or sighed for change ; 
 
 And death, whenever he comes to me, 
 
 Shall come on the wide, unbounded sea ! 
 
 Barry Cornwall. 
 
 THE BROWN THRUSH. 
 
 " There's a merry brown thrush sitting up 
 
 in a tree ; 
 He's singing to me ! he's singing to me ! " 
 "And what does he say, little girl, little boy ? " 
 " 'Oh, the world's running over with joy! 1 
 sings he, 
 ' Don't you hear? Don't you see? 
 Hush ! look in my tree, 
 I'm as happy as happy can be ! ' ' 
 
 "And the brown thrush keeps singing, 'A 
 
 nest do vou see, 
 And five eggs hid by me in the juniper-tree? 
 Don't meddle, don't touch! little girl, little boy, 
 
SONG AND STORY. 175 
 
 Or the world will lose some of its joy : 
 Now I'm glad ! now I'm free ! 
 And I always shall be, 
 If you never bring sorrow to me.' ' 
 
 8 i the merry brown thrush sings away in 
 the tree. 
 To you and to me ; to you and to me ; 
 And he sings all the day. little girl, little boy. 
 1 Oh. the world's running over with joy ! 
 But long it won't be. 
 Don't you know; don't you see? 
 Unless we're as good as good can be." 
 
 Lucy La r com. 
 
 THE LITTLE CAVALIER. 
 
 He walks beside his mother. 
 
 And looks up in her face ; 
 He wears a glow of boyish pride 
 
 With such a royal grace ! 
 He proudly waits upon her; 
 
 Would shield her without fear — 
 The boy who loves his mother well. 
 
 Her little cavalier. 
 
 To see no tears of sorrow 
 
 Upon her loving cheek, 
 To gain her sweet approving smile. 
 
 To her to softly speak — 
 Ah ! what in all this wide world 
 
 Could be to him so dear? — 
 The boy who loves his mother well. 
 
 Her little cavalier. 
 
 k for him in the future 
 Among the good, the true: 
 All blessings on the upward way 
 
 His little feet pun ue. 
 
176 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 Of robed and crowned and sceptered 
 kings 
 He stands the royal peer — 
 The boy who loves his mother well, 
 Her little cavalier. 
 
 George Cooper, in The Nursery. 
 
 THE WIND BLOWS! 
 
 Hark! 
 
 The wind blows, and sleet and hail 
 Fast follow on the eddying gale — 
 
 The winter seething in the snows; 
 The sweeping storm, from height to 
 
 height 
 Beats back the huge, devouring night ; 
 The watchdogs bark 
 
 And the wind blows. 
 
 Hark ! 
 
 The wind blows, the hills grow brown, 
 The snow melts and the rain comes down, 
 
 The swollen current dips and flows ; 
 The water foams, the bridge gives way ; 
 By night the horseman drinks the spray ; 
 The watchdogs bark 
 
 And the wind blows. 
 
 Hark ! 
 
 The wind blows, the nights grow brief, 
 The savage forests burst in leaf, 
 
 The time of planting comes and goes ; 
 The waters fall, and the sand drifts down; 
 Suns pass and no man thinks thereon ; 
 The watchdogs bark 
 
 And the wind blows. 
 Dora Bead Gooolale, in Independent. 
 
. 
 
 A DANISH LEGEND 
 
 M He skippe d the sea shore ! 
 Make ready boat and crew . 
 Be -morrow midnight. 
 
 And you'll h da." 
 
 The voice was 
 
 Hie skipper looked ar 
 And saw a little Troll-man 
 
 me down fror. Kll -rioi mound. 
 
 I have no boat, good Troll-man. 
 
 Or monev one to buv : 
 My sailors all have left mn — 
 luckless man am L" 
 
 3me hithe: 
 -lid ran along the - 
 where, on rocks uplifted, 
 
 A ud- 
 
 "" To-morrow nig hi : midnight 
 me. bring a sailo: 
 essel shall be rea 
 You ha ire no cause for :-;ir. 
 
 "he miller in the villa_ 
 
 Z -turbs us night and d 
 He ploughs above our h 
 
 stay. 
 
 ae church -bells ring so often, 
 cannot bear their d 
 They make us think of h 
 Which we can never win." 
 
 The little Troll-man vanished ; 
 The skipper went to ask 
 
178 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 A sailor, strong and fearless, 
 To help him in the task. 
 
 Some laughed at him, some shuddered; 
 
 At last a neighbor's lad 
 Said, " Take me with you, skipper, 
 
 And I'll fear nothing bad." 
 
 At midnight, boy and skipper 
 All anchored found the wreck ; 
 
 For sails, old rags were flapping; 
 The Troll was on the deck. 
 
 4 'The wind is fair! " he shouted; 
 Make haste to Noroway." 
 The skipper heaved the anchor; 
 The wreck moved down the bay. 
 
 The skipper sought the cabin ; 
 Of rats and mice 'twas full. 
 " Take this," outspoke the Troll-man, 
 And off his hat did pull. 
 
 Oh wondrous change ! The skipper 
 Saw gray-clad, red-capped Trolls, 
 
 Who bore upon their shoulders 
 Full many a sack of coals. 
 
 The wreck was swiftly nearing 
 A pine-encircled fiord ; 
 " Go, sailors," said the Troll-man; 
 At midnight come on board. 
 
 6 ' In three days more be ready 
 
 Just where you found the wreck. 
 Another cargo waits you ; 
 You'll find me on the deck." 
 
 The skipper took the Troll-folk 
 Once more to Noroway. 
 " Now," said the little Troll-man, 
 u You will have earned your pay." 
 
SONG AND STORY. 179 
 
 M A sack of coals for master, 
 Of shavings for his man ; 
 These are the Troll-folk's presents ; 
 They give you all they can." 
 
 Next morning when the skipper 
 
 Looked down into the hold, 
 The shavings were all silver — 
 
 The coals were turned to gold. 
 
 The skipper's fine new vessel 
 
 Had for its figure-head 
 A little withered Troll-man, 
 
 Gray-clad, with cap of red. 
 
 Caroline M. Hewins. 
 
 THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN. 
 
 Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, 
 
 By famous Hanover city ; 
 The river Weser, deep and wide, 
 Washes its wall on the southern side, 
 A pleasanter spot you never spied ; 
 
 But when begins my ditty, 
 Almost five hundred years ago, 
 To see the townsfolk suffer so 
 
 From vermin was a pity. 
 
 Eats! 
 
 They fought the dogs, and killed the cats, 
 
 And bit the babies in their cradles, 
 And ate the cheeses out of the vats, 
 
 And licked the soup from the cook's own 
 ladle, 
 Split open the kegs of salted sprats, 
 Made nests inside men's Sunday hats. 
 And even spoiled the women's chats, 
 
 By drowning their speaking 
 
 With shrieking and squeaking 
 In fifty different sharps and flats. 
 
180 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 At last the people in a body 
 
 To the Town Hall came flocking : 
 "Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a 
 noddy ; 
 And as for our Corporation, — shocking 
 To think we buy gowns lined with ermine 
 For dolts that can't or won't determine 
 What's best to rid us of our vermin!" 
 At this the Mayor and Corporation 
 Quaked with a mighty consternation. 
 
 An hour they sat in counsel, — 
 
 At length the Mayor broke silence : 
 ' ' For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell ; 
 
 I wish I were a mile hence! 
 It's easy to bid one rack one's brain, — 
 I'm sure my poor head aches again 
 I've scratched it so and all in vain. 
 
 O for a trap, a trap, a trap! v 
 Just as he said this, what should hap 
 At the chamber door but a gentle tap ! 
 "Bless us," cried the Mayor, " what's that?" 
 " Come in!" the Mayor cried looking bigger, 
 And in did come the strangest figure ; 
 He advanced to the council-table 
 And, "Please your honors," said he, "I'm 
 
 able, 
 By means of a secret charm, to draw 
 All creatures living beneath the sun, 
 That creep or swim or fly or run, 
 After me so as you never saw ! 
 "Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am, 
 In Tartary I freed the Cham, 
 Last June, from his huge swarm of gnats ; 
 I eased in Asia the Nizam 
 Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats ; — 
 And as for what your brain bewilders, — 
 If I can rid your town of rats, 
 Will you give me a thousand guilders?" 
 ''One? fifty thousand!" — was the exclamation 
 Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. 
 
SOXG AXD STORY. 181 
 
 Into the street the piper stept 
 
 Smiling first a little smile, 
 As if he knew what magic slept 
 
 In his quiet pipe the while ; 
 Then, like a musical adept, 
 To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, 
 And green and blue his sharp eves twinkled, 
 Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled ; 
 And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered. 
 You heard as if an army muttered : 
 And the muttering grew to a grumbling: 
 And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling ; 
 And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. 
 Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats. 
 Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats, 
 Grave old plodders, gay young friskers. 
 
 Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, 
 Cocking tails and pricking whiskers ; 
 
 Families by tens and dozens. 
 Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, — 
 Followed the piper for their lives. 
 From street to street he piped advancing, 
 And step for step they followed dancing, 
 Until they came to the river Weser, 
 Wherein all plunged and perished 
 Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar, 
 Swam across and lived to carry 
 (As he the manuscript he cherished) 
 To Rat-land home his commentary, 
 Which was : " At the first shrill notes of the 
 
 pipe, 
 I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, 
 And putting apples, wondrous ripe, 
 Into a cider-press's gripe, — 
 And a moving away of pickle-tub boards. 
 And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards. 
 And a drawing the corks of train-oil flasks. 
 And a breaking the hoops of butter-cask- . 
 And it seemed as if a voice 
 (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery 
 
182 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 Is breathed) called out, O rats, rejoice! 
 The world is grown to one vast drysaltery ! 
 So munch on, crunch on, take your muncheon, 
 Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon! 
 And just as a bulky sugar puncheon, 
 All ready staved, like a great sun shone 
 Glorious scarce an inch before me, 
 Just as methought it said, Come bore me ! 
 I found the Weser rolling o'er me." 
 
 You should have heard the Hamelin people 
 Kinging the bells till they rocked the steeple ; 
 u Go," cried the Mayor, " and get long poles! 
 Poke out the nests and block up the holes ! 
 Consult with carpenters and builders 
 And leave in our town not even a trace 
 Of the rats!"— when suddenly, up the face 
 Of the piper perked in the market-place, 
 With a %i First if you please, my thousand 
 guilders!" 
 
 A thousand guilders ! the Mayor looked blue ; 
 So did the Corporation too. 
 For council-dinners made rare havock 
 With Claret, Moselle, Yin-de-Grave, Hock ; 
 And half the money would replenish 
 Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish, 
 To pay this sum to a wandering fellow 
 With a gypsy coat of red and yellow! 
 "Beside," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing 
 
 wink, 
 " Our business was done at the river's brink; 
 We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, 
 And what's dead can't come to life I think, 
 So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink 
 From the duty of giving you something for 
 
 drink, 
 And a matter of money to put in you poke ; 
 But as for the guilders, what we spoke 
 Of tlfem, as you very well know, was in joke. 
 
SONG AXD STORY. 183 
 
 Besides, our losses have made us thrifty ; 
 A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty." 
 
 The piper's face fell, and he cried, 
 " No trifling! I can't wait! beside, 
 I've promised to visit by dinner time 
 Bagdat, and accept the prime 
 Of the head-cook's pottage, all he's rich in, 
 For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, 
 Of a nest of scorpions no survivor, — 
 With him I proved no bargain-driver ; 
 With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver ! 
 And folks who put me in a passion 
 May find me pipe another fashion." 
 
 "How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I'll 
 
 brook 
 Being worse treated than a cook? 
 Insulted by a lazy ribald 
 With idle pipe and vesture piebald ? 
 You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, 
 Blow your pipe there till you burst !" 
 
 Once more he stept into the street ; 
 
 And to his lips again 
 Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane ; 
 And ere he blew three notes (such sweet 
 Soft notes as yet musician's cunning 
 
 Never gave the enraptured air) 
 There was a rustling that seemed like a 
 
 bustling 
 Of merry crowds justling at pitching and 
 
 hustling ; 
 Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes 
 
 clattering, 
 Little hands clapping, and little tongues 
 
 chattering ; 
 And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is 
 
 scattering, 
 Out came the children running ; 
 
184 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 All the little boys and girls, 
 With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, 
 And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, 
 Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after 
 The wonderful music with shouting and 
 laughter. 
 
 The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood 
 
 As if they were changed into blocks of wood; 
 
 Unable to move a step, or cry 
 
 To. the children merrily skipping by,— 
 
 And could only follow with the eye 
 
 That joyous crowd at the piper's beck. 
 
 But how the Mayor was on the rack, 
 
 And the wretched Council's bosoms beat. 
 
 As the piper turned from the High Street 
 
 To where the Weser rolled its waters 
 
 Right in the way of their sons and daughters ! 
 
 However, he turned from south to west, 
 
 And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, 
 
 And after him the children pressed ; 
 
 Great was the joy in every breast. 
 
 6 ' He never can cross that mighty top ! 
 
 He's forced to let the piping drop, 
 
 And we shall see our children stop ! " 
 
 When, lo, as they reached the mountain's side, 
 
 A wondrous portal opened wide. 
 
 As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed ; 
 
 And the piper advanced and the children 
 
 followed ; 
 And when all were in, to the very last. 
 The door in the mountain-side shut fast. 
 Did I say all? No! One was lame, 
 And could not dance the whole of the way ; 
 And in after years, if you would blame 
 His sadness, he was used to say, — 
 1 k It's dull in our town since my playmates left ! 
 I can't forget that I'm bereft 
 Of all the pleasant sights they see. 
 
SONQ AND STORY. 185 
 
 Which the piper also promised me ; 
 
 For he led us, he said, to a joyous land. 
 
 Joining the town, and just at hand. 
 
 Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew. 
 
 And flowers put forth a fairer hue, 
 
 And everything was strange and new : 
 
 The sparrows were brighter than peacocks 
 
 here. 
 And their dogs outran their fallow deer. 
 And honey-bees had lost their stir. 
 And horses were born with eagle's wings ; 
 And just as I became assured 
 My lame foot would be speedily cured. 
 The music stopped and I stood still, 
 And found myself outside the Hill. 
 Left alone against my will. 
 To go now limping as before. 
 And never hear of that country more: " 
 
 Robert Broirning. 
 
 THE SPIDEE AXD THE FLY. 
 
 ■• Will you walk into my parlor j ** 
 
 Said a spider to a fly ; 
 " Tig 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 you when you're there." 
 '•Oh no. no ! " said the little fly ; 
 11 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 >• i high ; 
 Will you rest upon my little h 
 to tin- fly. 
 
186 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 i t There are pretty curtains drawn around, 
 The sheets are fine and thin, 
 And if you like to rest awhile. 
 I'll snugly tuck you in." 
 " Oh no, no ! " said the little fly, 
 1 l 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 your 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." 
 6 • 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 thread 
 
Iff 
 
 In a li rner si 
 
 And set hifi U ady 
 
 To dine upon the fly. 
 
 at to bis door again. 
 An ng, 
 
 oher. pretty fly. 
 With pearl and ogl 
 
 Your robes gr ai and purple 
 Thri r jst upon your head! 
 
 r eyes are like the diamonds bright. 
 But mine are dull \:-. lea 3 
 
 1 
 -is silly little fly, 
 : ring his vriiy, i o; 
 
 With buzzing v.-i-^s shelly aloft. 
 
 Then near and neai r drew— 
 Th ught only of her brilliant eyes 
 
 Poor :: ;-l:sh thing A: 
 Uj jumped the winning spidei 
 And fiercely held her fast. 
 
 He dragged her up his winding stair, 
 Into his lismal den 
 
 Within hi - parlor — but 
 
 She 117 ae out again ! 
 
 r little .-hi. 
 
 silly, flatt wing 
 I pray you ne'er give heed. 
 
 Unto an evil counsellor 
 
 ear. and - 
 And learn a lesson from this tale 
 Of the spider and the fly. 
 
 Mary Hoiciti. 
 
188 
 
 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 THE WISE FAIRY. 
 
 Once, in a rough, wild country, 
 On the other side of the sea, 
 
 There lived a dear little fairy, 
 And her home was in a tree. 
 
 A dear little queer little fairy, 
 And as rich as she could be. 
 
 To northward and to southward. 
 
 She could overlook the land, 
 And that was why she had her house 
 
 In a tree, you understand. 
 For she was the friend of the friendless 
 
 And her heart was in her hand. 
 
 And when she saw poor women 
 
 Patiently, day by day. 
 Spinning, spinning, and spinning 
 
 Their lonesome lives away. 
 She would hide in the flax of their distaffs 
 
 A lump of golfl. they say. 
 
 And when she saw poor ditchers 
 Knee- deep in some wet dyke. 
 
 Digging, digging, and digging. 
 To their very graves, belike. 
 
 She would hide a shining lump of gold 
 Where their spades would be sure to 
 strike. 
 
 And when she saw poor children 
 Their goats from the pastures take. 
 
 Or saw them milking and milking. 
 Till their arms were ready to break. 
 
 What a plashing in their milking-pails 
 Her gifts of gold would make: 
 
SONG AND STORY. 189 
 
 Sometimes in the night, a fisher 
 Would hear her sweet low call, 
 
 And all at once a salmon of gold 
 Right out of his net would fall ; 
 
 But what I have to tell you 
 Is the strangest thing of all. 
 
 If any ditcher, or fisher, 
 
 Or child, or spinner old, 
 Bought shoes for his feet, or bread to eat, 
 
 Or a coat to keep from the cold, 
 The gift of the good old fairy 
 
 Was always trusty gold. 
 
 But if a ditcher, or fisher. 
 
 Or spinner, or child so gay. 
 Bought jewels, or wine, or silks so fine, 
 
 Or staked his pleasure at play, 
 The fairy's gold in his very hold 
 
 Would turn to a lump of clay. 
 
 So, by and by the people 
 
 Got open their stupid eyes : 
 We must learn to spend to some good 
 end." 
 They said, ' • if we are wise ; 
 Tis not in the gold we waste or hold. 
 That a golden blessing lies." 
 
 Alice Cary. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWEKS. 
 
 The melancholy days are come, the saddest 
 
 of the year. 
 Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and 
 
 meadows brown and sere. 
 Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the 
 
 autumn leaves lie dead ; 
 
190 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the 
 
 rabbit's tread ; 
 The robin and the wren are flown, and from 
 
 the shrubs the jay, 
 And from the wood-top calls the crow, 
 
 through all the gloomy day. 
 
 Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, 
 
 that lately sprung and stood 
 In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous 
 
 sisterhood ? 
 Alas ! they all are in their graves, the gentle 
 
 race of flowers 
 Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair 
 
 and good of ours. 
 The rain is falling where they lie; but the 
 
 cold November rain 
 Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the 
 
 lovely ones again. 
 
 The wind-flower and the violet, they perished 
 
 long ago, 
 And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid 
 
 the summer's glow ; 
 But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster 
 
 in the wood. 
 And the yellow sunflower by the brook in 
 
 autumn beauty stood. 
 Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, 
 
 as falls the plague on men. 
 And the brightness of their smile was gone 
 
 from upland, glade and glen. 
 
 And now when comes the calm, mild day, as 
 
 still such days will come. 
 To call the squirrel and the bee from out their 
 
 winter home. 
 When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, 
 
 though all the trees are still, 
 And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of 
 
 the rill, 
 
SONG AND STORY. 191 
 
 The south-wind searches for the flowers whose 
 
 fragrance late he bore, 
 And sighs to find them in the wood and by 
 
 the stream no more. 
 
 And then I think of one who in her youthful 
 
 beauty died, 
 The fair, meek blossom that grew up and. 
 
 faded by my side : 
 In the cold moist earth we laid her when the 
 
 forest cast the leaf, 
 And we wept that one so lovely should have 
 
 a life so brief ; 
 Yet not unmeet it was, that one, like that 
 
 young friend of ours 
 So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with 
 
 the flowers. 
 
 William Cullen Bryant. 
 
 THE SECRET OF A HAPPY DAY. 
 
 Just to let thy father do 
 
 What He will; 
 Just to know that He is true 
 
 And be still. 
 Just to follow hour by hour 
 
 As He leadeth ; 
 Just to draw the moment's power 
 
 As it needeth. 
 Just to trust Him, this is all ! 
 Then the day will surely be 
 Peaceful, whatsoe'er befall, 
 Bright and blessed, calm and free. 
 
 Just to let Him speak to thee 
 Through His Word, 
 
 Watching, that His voice may be 
 Clearly heard. 
 
 Just to tell Him every thing: 
 
192 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 As it rises, 
 And at once to Him to bring 
 
 All surprises. 
 Just to listen, and to stay 
 
 Where you cannot miss His voice. 
 This is all ! and thus to-day, 
 Communing, you shall rejoice. 
 
 Just to trust, and yet to ask 
 
 Guidance still ; 
 Take the training or the task, 
 
 As He will. 
 Just to take the loss or gain, 
 
 As He sends it ; 
 Just to take the joy or pain, 
 
 As He lends it. 
 He who formed thee for His praise 
 Will not miss the gracious aim ; 
 So to-day and all thy days 
 Shall be moulded for the same. 
 
 Just to leave in His dear hand 
 
 Little things 
 All we cannot understand, 
 
 All that stings. 
 Just to let Him take the care 
 
 Sorely pressing, 
 Finding all we let Him bear 
 Changed to blessing. 
 This is all ! and yet the way 
 Marked by Him who loves thee 
 best; 
 Secret of a happy day, 
 Secret of His promised rest. 
 
 Frances Ridley HavergaL 
 
SONG AND STORY. 193 
 
 THE COLOR BEARER. 
 
 'Twas a fortress to be stormed ; 
 
 Boldly right in view they formed, 
 All as quiet as a regiment parading : 
 
 Then in front a line of flame ! 
 
 Then at left and right the same ! 
 Two platoons received a furious enfilading 
 
 To their places still they filed. 
 
 And they smiled at the wild 
 Cannonading. 
 
 <k 'Twill be over in an hour! 
 'Twill not be much of a shower ! 
 Never mind, my boys," said he, " a little 
 drizzling ! " 
 Then to cross that fatal plain. 
 Through the whirring, hustling rain 
 Of the grape-shot, and the mime-bullets' 
 whistling. 
 But he nothing heeds nor shuns, 
 As he runs with the guns 
 Brightly bristling ! 
 
 Over tangled branches crashing, 
 'Mid the plunging volleys thunderipg 
 ever louder! 
 There he clambers, there he stands. 
 With the ensign in his hands. — 
 O, was ever hero handsomer or prouder ? 
 Streaked with battle-sweat and slime, 
 And sublime in the grime 
 Of the powder ! 
 
 'Twas six minutes, at the least, 
 Ere the closing combat ceased, — 
 Near as we the mighty moments then 
 could measure, — 
 
194 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 And we held our souls with awe, 
 Till his haughty flag we saw 
 On the lifting vapors drifting o'er the 
 embrasure ! 
 Saw it glimmer in our tears, 
 While our ears heard the cheers 
 Eend the azure ! 
 
 Through the abatis they broLe, 
 Leaving trails of dead and dying 
 In their track, yet forward flying 
 Like a breaker where the gale of conflict 
 
 rolled them, 
 With a foam of flashing light 
 Borne before them on their bright 
 Burnished barrels, — O, 't was fearful to 
 
 behold them! 
 While from ramparts roaring loud 
 Swept a cloud like a shroud 
 
 To enfold them ! 
 
 O, his color was the first ! 
 Through the burying cloud he burst, 
 With the standard to the battle forward 
 
 slanted ! 
 Through the belching, blinding breath 
 Of the flaming jaws of Death, 
 Till his banner on the bastion he had 
 
 planted ! 
 By the screaming shot that fell, 
 Arid the yell of the shell, 
 
 Nothing daunted. 
 
 Eight against the bulwark dashing, 
 Through the surging cannon-smoke, 
 And they drove the foe before like 
 frightened cattle ! 
 O, but never woimd was his, 
 For in other wars than this 
 When the volleys of Life's conflict roar 
 and rattle, 
 
SONG AND STORY. 195 
 
 He must still, as he was wont, 
 In the front bear the brunt 
 Of the battle. 
 
 He shall guide the van of Truth ! 
 And in manhood, as in youth, 
 Be her fearless, be her peerless Color- 
 Bearer ! 
 With his high and bright example, 
 Like a banner brave and ample, 
 Ever leading through receding clouds of 
 Error, 
 To the empire of the Strong, 
 And to Wrong he shall long 
 Be a terror ! 
 
 J. T. Troicbridge. 
 
 DAY-DREAMS. 
 
 While the slighted grammar unopened lay, 
 The little maid dreamed of a fairy clue, 
 
 A magic thread that led far and away 
 The deep, tangled maze of the forest through ; 
 
 " O ! I wish there were things to do to-day, 
 Queer riddles to solve, great prizes to gain, 
 
 Enchantments to break, magicians to slay, 
 And that I, a queen, on a throne might 
 reign ! 
 
 "But the puzzles are lost, the queens are 
 dead, 
 And there's nothing to do," she sighed 
 and said. 
 
 A little lad leaned on his hoe that morn, 
 And longed for a horse and a burnished 
 shield, 
 
 To ride away from the pumpkins and corn, 
 To the tourney's lists on the tented field;— 
 
196 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 " O I I wish there were things to do to-day, 
 Great dragons to kill and battles to fight-, 
 
 I would break a lance in the fiercest fray, 
 I would fling a glove at the proudest knight. 
 
 ' v But honor is lost, and glory has fled, 
 And there's nothing to do," he sighed anc( 
 said. 
 
 And the poor little maiden never knew 
 That Knowledge was ready to crown her 
 queen. 
 
 And the clue that led his labyrinth through 
 Lay hidden the leaves of her book between, 
 
 And the little lad never even guessed 
 That the dragon Sloth conquered him that 
 day. 
 
 While he lightly dreamed of some idle quest, 
 And his unused hoe in the young corn lay. 
 
 But honor and fame passed the dreamers 
 
 by, 
 
 And crowned brave Toil, who found no 
 time to sigh. 
 
 Annie M. Libby, in S. S, Times. 
 
 THE BROOK THAT RAN INTO THE SEA. 
 
 " O little brook," the children said, 
 The sea has waves enough; 
 Why hurry down your mossy bed 
 To meet his welcome rough ? 
 
 " The Hudson or the Oregon 
 May help his tides to swell ; 
 But when your few bright drops are 
 gone, 
 What has he gained, pray tell ? " 
 
SONG AND STORY. 197 
 
 " 1 run for pleasure," said the brook^ 
 Still running, running fast-. 
 
 "I love to see you bend and look. 
 As I go bubbling past. 
 
 "I love to feel the wild weeds dip-, 
 I love your fingers light, 
 That dimpling from my eddies drip, 
 Filled with my pebbles bright, 
 
 " My little life I dearly love. 
 Its shadow and its shine ; 
 And all sweet voices that above 
 Make melody with mine. 
 
 * ' But most I love the mighty voice 
 Which calls me, draws me so, 
 That every ripple lisps. * Rejoice J ' 
 As with a laugh I go. 
 
 Si My drop of freshness to the sea 
 In music trickles on ; 
 Nor grander could my welcome be 
 Were I an Amazon. 
 
 " And if his moaning wave can feel 
 My sweetness near the shore, 
 E'en to his heart the thrill may steal; — - 
 What could I wish for. more ? 
 
 "The largest soul to take love in 
 Knows how to give love best; 
 So peacefully my tinkling din 
 Dies on the great sea's brea 
 
 u One heart encircles all that live. 
 And blesses great and small : 
 And meet it is that each should give 
 His little to the All/ 
 
 Laicy Larcorn. 
 
198 JUYEXILE GEMS OF 
 
 WORK. 
 
 Sweet wind, fair wind, where have you been? 
 1 ' I've been sweeping the cobwebs out of the 
 
 sky; 
 IVe been grinding a grist in the mill hard by ; 
 I've been laughing at work while others sigh ; 
 Let those laugh who win I" 
 
 Sweet rain, soft rain, what are you doing? 
 " I'm urging the corn to fill out its cells; 
 I'm helping the lily to fashion its bells ; 
 I'm swelling the torrent and brimming the 
 wells ; 
 
 Is that worth pursuing? " 
 
 Redbreast, redbreast, what have you done? 
 "I've been watching the nest where my 
 
 fledglings lie ; 
 I've sung them to sleep with a lullaby ; 
 By and by I shall teach them to fly, 
 Up and away every one !" 
 
 Honey-bee, honey-bee, where are you going? 
 4 ' To fill my basket with precious pelf ; 
 To toil for my neighbor as well as myself ; 
 To find out the sweetest flower that grows, 
 Be it a thistle or be it a rose, — 
 
 A secret worth the knowing!" 
 
 Each content with the work to be done. 
 
 Ever the same from sun to sun : 
 
 Shall you and I be taught to work 
 
 By the bee and the bird that scorn to shirk? 
 
 Wind and rain fulfilling His word ! 
 Tell me, was ever a legend heard 
 Where the wind, commanded to blow deferred ; 
 Or the rain, that was bidden to fall demurred? 
 
 Mary N. Prescott. 
 
SONG AND STORY. 199 
 
 BEFORE SNOW-TIME. 
 
 The buttercups out of the meadows go, 
 
 Hippity, hippity, hop! 
 The chicory-flowers no longer blow, 
 For away way off do they smell the snow 
 That will bury them deeply if they stop, 
 
 So hippity, hippity, hop ! 
 
 The cattle come up to the shed right soon, 
 
 Hippity, hippity, hop! 
 For well do they know 'tis a rainy moon, 
 And they hear no longer the bull-frog's croon, 
 So in they come to the barn-stored crop ; 
 
 Hippity, hippity, hop! 
 
 Now two little children so blithe and so good, 
 
 Hippity, hippity, hop! 
 Drawn close 'round the fire of hickory wood, 
 (While mother sits knitting a pretty blue 
 
 hood,) 
 With apples for roasting and red corn to pop, 
 
 Hippity, hippity, hop ! 
 
 Then laugh and be merry though summer has 
 fled, 
 Hippity, hippity, hop! 
 And tree leaves are brown that were golden 
 
 and red, 
 And even the asters have crept into bed : — 
 O let us laugh loud as we hear the rain drop, 
 Hippity, hippity, hop! 
 James Berry Bensel, 
 
 in Our Little Men and Women. 
 
200 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 LIGHT FOE ALL. 
 
 Jesus bids us shine 
 
 With a clear pure light, 
 Like a little candle 
 
 Burning in the night. 
 All the world is dark, 
 
 So we must shine ; 
 You in your small corner, 
 
 And I in mine. 
 
 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. 
 
 Jesus bids us shine ! 
 
 When we look around, 
 Oh, what depths of darkness 
 
 In the world are found. 
 There's sin, there's want, there's 
 sorrow, 
 
 So we must shine ; 
 You in your small corner, 
 
 And I in mine. 
 
 8. S. Advocate. 
 
SONG AND STORY. 201 
 
 A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. 
 
 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all 
 
 through the house, 
 Not a creature was stirring, not even a 
 
 mouse ; 
 The stockings were hung by the chimney 
 
 with care, 
 In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be 
 
 there ; 
 The children were nestled all snug in their 
 
 beds, 
 While visions of sugar-plums danced in their 
 
 heads ; 
 And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my 
 
 cap, 
 Had just settled our brains for along winter's 
 
 nap, 
 When out on the lawn there arose such a 
 
 clatter 
 I sprang from my bed to see what was the 
 
 matter. 
 Away to the window I flew like a flash, 
 Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. 
 The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen 
 
 snow 
 Gave a lustre of midday to objects below. 
 When what to my wondering eyes should 
 
 appear 
 But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, 
 With a little old driver, so lively and quick, 
 I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 
 More rapid than eagles his coursers they 
 
 came, 
 And he whistled, and shouted, and called 
 
 them by name : 
 
202 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer, 
 
 and Vixen ! 
 On, Comet ! on, Cupid ! on Donder and Blitzen ! 
 To the top of the porch ! to the top of the wall ! 
 Now dash away ! dash away ! dash away all ! 
 As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane 
 
 fly, 
 
 When they meet with an obstacle mount to the 
 
 sky, 
 So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, 
 With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas 
 
 too. 
 And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof 
 The prancing and pawing of each little hoof ; 
 As I drew in my head and was turning 
 
 around, 
 Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a 
 
 bound. 
 He was dressed all in fur from his head to his 
 
 foot, 
 And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes 
 
 and soot; 
 A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, 
 And he looked like a peddler just opening his 
 
 pack. 
 His eyes — how they twinkled! his dimples 
 
 how merry ! 
 His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a 
 
 cherry ! 
 His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, 
 And the beard on his chin was as white as the 
 
 snow ; 
 The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, 
 And the smoke it encircled his head like a 
 
 wreath. 
 He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old 
 
 elf; 
 And I laughed when I saw him in spite of 
 
 myself ; 
 A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head. 
 
SONG AND STORY. 203 
 
 Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. 
 
 He spoke not a word, but went straight to his 
 work, 
 
 And filled all the stockings ; then turned with 
 a jerk, 
 
 And laying his finger aside of his nose, 
 
 And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. 
 
 He sprung to his sleigh, to his team gave a 
 whistle, 
 
 And away they all flew like the down of a 
 thistle. 
 
 But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of 
 sight, 
 
 ' ' Merry Christmas to all ! and to all a good- 
 night!" 
 
 Clement C. Moore. 
 
 A DINNER AND A KISS. 
 
 "I have brought your dinner, father/ 1 
 The blacksmith's daughter said, 
 As she took from her arm the kettle, 
 And lifted its steaming lid. 
 " There is not any pie or pudding; 
 So I will give you this; " 
 And upon his toil-worn forehead 
 She left a childish kiss. 
 
 The blacksmith took off his apron, 
 
 And dined in a happy mood, 
 Wondering much at the savor 
 
 Hid in his humble food, 
 While all about him were visions 
 
 Full of prophetic bliss ; 
 But he never thought of the magic 
 
 In his little daughter's kiss. 
 
 While she, with her kettle swinging. 
 Merrily trudged away. 
 
304 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 Stopping at sight of a squirrel, 
 Catching some wild bird's lay. 
 
 O, I thought, how many a shadow 
 Of life and fate we would miss, 
 
 If always our frugal dinners 
 Were seasoned with a kiss ! 
 
 THE ANGEL'S BLESSING. 
 
 A ministering Angel 
 
 Just at the edge of even, 
 Was flying slowly earthward 
 
 With messages from Heaven. 
 A peaceful golden sunset 
 
 Was brightening the west 
 And happy little children 
 
 Were going to their rest. 
 
 The Angel paused and listened 
 
 As on the evening air, 
 Rose mingled mother-blessing 
 
 And childhood's guileless prayer 
 And softly from his pinions 
 
 He wafted slumbers deep 
 Upon their happy eyelids, 
 
 And gave them dreamless sleep. 
 
 But then almost a shadow 
 
 Across his brightness swept, 
 As rose the mournful voices 
 
 Of little ones who wept ; 
 Pale babes of want and sorrow, 
 
 Bereft of mother-care, 
 Who, orphaned or forsaken, 
 
 Had only tears for prayer. 
 
 The ministering Angel 
 
 No longer stayed his flight. 
 But to the weeping children 
 
SOXG AXD STORY. 
 
 He sped on wings of light. 
 And while they thought his glorie< 
 
 Were but the sunset gleams. 
 He kissed their tearful eyelids. 
 
 And gave them happy dreams. 
 
 Atn&Ha Daley Aid en. 
 
 THE ANGEL'S SONG 
 
 It came upon the midnight clear. 
 
 That glorious song of old, 
 From angels bending near the earth 
 
 To touch their harps of gold. 
 "Peace on the earth, good-will to men." 
 
 From Heaven's all gracious king; 
 The world in solemn stillness lay 
 
 To hear the angels sing. 
 
 Still through the cloven skies they came 
 
 With peaceful wings unfurled ; 
 And still their heavenly music floats 
 
 O'er all the weary world : 
 Above its sad and lowly plains 
 
 They bend on hovering wing, 
 And ever o'er its Babel Bounds 
 
 The blessed angels sing 
 
 But with the wc » sin and strife 
 
 The world has sufit 
 Beneath the angel-strain have rolled 
 
 Two thousand years of wrong 
 And man at war with man. hears r 
 
 The I >ve-song which they brii g 
 Oh : hush the noif men of strife. 
 
 And hear the ai - 
 
 And ye. beneath life's crushing 
 
 Whose Conns are bending I 
 Who toil along the climbing way 
 
 With | 
 
206 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 Look now ! for glad and golden hours 
 
 Come swiftly on the wing ; 
 Oh ! rest beside the weary road, 
 
 And hear the angels sing ! 
 
 For lo ! the days are hastening on, 
 
 By prophet bards foretold ; 
 When with the ever-circling years 
 
 Comes round the age of gold ; 
 When peace shall over all the earth 
 
 Its ancient splendors fling, 
 And the whole w T orld send back the song 
 
 Which now the angels sing. 
 
 Edmund H. Sears. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 I. 
 
 Come forth, ye wandering children all, 
 Come forth from wood and wild, 
 
 And let us sing the days of Christ, 
 When .He was but a child. 
 
 When He was but a little child, 
 
 As tender as might be ; 
 That blessed night pale Mary came 
 
 From distant Galilee. 
 
 That night, when 'mid the cattle herd, 
 
 Pure as the snow that falls, 
 The voice that breathed our Father's love, 
 
 Was hushed among the stalls. 
 
 It was the dreary winter-tide, 
 
 And dark the hour He came ; 
 But such a brightness round him burned, 
 
 The east was all a-flame. 
 
SONG AND STORY. 307 
 
 He niade a wonder where He lay : 
 Quickened with love and fear. 
 
 The barren straw did swell with grain 
 Kipe in the fruitful ear. 
 
 All round this shed the frozen bees 
 Went singing, singing sweet;, 
 
 The lowly herd, bowed down with fear, 
 Fell kneeling at His feet. 
 
 And Mary, on her sleeping Son. 
 
 In solemn gladness smiled ; 
 Remember ! 'twas the sacred time 
 
 When Christ was but a child. 
 
 II. 
 
 He came to *hew the waters pure 
 Where thirsting souls might sip ; 
 
 The bread of life was on His tongue, 
 Its wine upon His lip. 
 
 The sages cast before His feet 
 
 Their jewels, costly -rare ; 
 Those feet which late had trod the skies. 
 
 Where all His riches were. 
 
 They held a crown above His head, 
 
 With gems all bristled o'er; 
 It might have been a crown of thorns 
 
 That pressed and pierced Him sore. 
 
 It stirred Him from His slumbers calm ; 
 
 A change passed o'er His sleep •• 
 Though yet no healing word He spoke, 
 
 His sighs came long and deep. 
 
 And ever on His heaving breast. 
 
 By troubled visions tossed. 
 Still folded in a mystic sign. 
 
 His tender arms II • d. 
 
308 JUVENILE GE3IS OF 
 
 Though Mary -mother undid the clasp, 
 
 Her care it was but loss; 
 For still the silent sleeper's arms 
 
 Would form that mystic cross. 
 
 It might not be a thing of chance, 
 
 Nor empty vision wild ; 
 Remember ! "twas the wonderous time 
 
 When Christ was but a child. 
 
 III. 
 
 The daylight dawned, and Jesus woke, 
 And gazed upon His mother ; 
 
 Then, searching wide with anxious eyes. 
 He seemed to seek Another. 
 
 He might not weep as children weep. 
 
 But. on her bosom leaning. 
 With speaking looks He clung to her. 
 
 With looks of mournful meaning. 
 
 His lips, at her half -uttered prayer, 
 Were moved, but made no moan ; 
 
 Her holy eyes, upturned to heaven. 
 He followed with His own. 
 
 And steps came in, and steps went out, 
 That passed not by the door ; 
 
 And a dreary shadow stole along. 
 And fell upon the floor. 
 
 And a voice, like that on Calvary, 
 Rang through the frozen air, 
 
 In the anguish of the crucified: 
 The passion, and the prayer. 
 
 Then slow the wintry winds died down. 
 Hushed was the herd's low bleating; 
 
 Xo sound was heard in that lone shed, 
 Only their two hearts beating. 
 
SONG AND STORY. 2<)9 
 
 So found He safety on the breast 
 
 Of Mary-mother mild ; 
 Remember ! 'twas the hallowed time 
 
 When Christ was but a child. 
 
 Mrs. J. K. Hervey. 
 
 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 How shall I tell of the ages, 
 
 When Christmas was never kept ; 
 When the earth, in dark revolution, 
 
 Bided her time — and slept i 
 How speak of the tardy unfolding 
 
 Of morn in the crimson East— 
 When lo ! for the heavenly infant 
 There waited the solemn feast? 
 The Shepherds sing 
 In slow accord, 
 " Is born our King, 
 The blessed Lord. 11 
 
 A quiver — as if down the ages 
 Mortality's cry echoed still ; 
 So long had it voiced every heart-beat, 
 
 It lingered the daybreak to fill ; 
 Each bitter, discordant, low earth-waii 
 
 Shocked heavenly air as it rang ; 
 The Babe breathed ; Divinity woke, 
 And the Angels in rapture sang. 
 The Shepherds say, 
 
 4i We seek Him, all. 
 Look at the Star 
 O'er Bethlehem's stall. " 
 
 The Babe enwrapped in the manger, 
 
 His tiny hand folded soft ; 
 That hand, to be put forth for others 
 
 In loving strength, so oft; 
 To be, even in willing submission, 
 
210 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 Extended from Calvary, 
 Now rests on the Mother's bosom, 
 In beautiful infancy. 
 
 The Shepherds whisper, 
 On each knee, 
 ' ' We bring otir gifts, 
 OLord, to Thee." 
 
 That head on its pillow so tender. 
 
 Must wear a thorny crown, 
 Before, the earth-life ended, 
 
 Its sacrifice lays down; 
 But now, oh ! gracious promise 
 
 Of kingly power and ntight, 
 It sends out from the little brow 
 Rays of divinest light. 
 
 The Shepherds veil 
 Their faces now ; 
 " To thee, OLord, 
 We humbly bow/ 1 
 
 Oh ! now the paeans rolling, 
 The anthems meet and blend ; 
 " Give praises, oh ! give praises, 
 
 Forever, without end/' 
 "The Christchild ne'er shall leave us,* 1 
 
 The angels soft do sing ; 
 " But always folded in our hearts, 
 The Christmas joy shall bring." 
 The Shepherds then 
 Stole soft away, 
 " The night has flown. 
 Look! break of day." 
 
 What does it mean, this Christmas, 
 Down from the ages sent i 
 
 Out of the lips of a little child, 
 What is the message meant ? 
 
 Into one word it is prisoned, 
 Struck into life and light : 
 
-TORY. 211 
 
 Love is the Christmas-tide mese - - 
 Of heavenly power and might. 
 The Shepherds far 
 
 Upon the plain. 
 Adore the Lord 
 Of Love again. 
 
 Sing it in heavenly chorus 
 Sing:: in : fcbl; -:rain. 
 Wake the I - ithmu-: 
 
 7 sal] the L again. 
 
 Sing it 'mid Christm; - jangle 
 
 1 :':.:'. : ' 
 And s T - ofusi ::. sing it : 
 
 E 
 The Chris:::: iS ".-lis 
 :r hill and plain. 
 rake ol| the Shephea 
 Sweet refrain: 
 • • The child is born 
 1 : " ring us 1 : ve 
 
 Light and Pea - 
 From Gk - 
 
 zt Sid :. in ft 
 
 LITTLE BY LITTLE. 
 
 Little by Uttle the time goes by — 
 
 Bb :: U _:. it - ' sigh 
 
 Little by little — an hour, a d 
 
 r \ ■—- : h the : have vanished a 
 
 tie by little the race is run, 
 
 Q€ ! 
 oy little the v g . ~- . ;g ? 
 
 Fighting 1 ghtandwroi:- 
 
 _ _:ves way. 
 Little by little right : - b 
 Little by little all 1 
 SI aggie up nearer the shining goals. 
 
 Po mpan icn. 
 
212 JUVENILE GEKS OF 
 
 OLD CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Now he who knows old Christmas, 
 He knows a carle of worth ; 
 
 For he is as good a fellow 
 As any upon earth. 
 
 He comes warm cloaked and coated, 
 And buttoned up to the chin, 
 
 And soon as he comes anigh the door 
 We open and let him in. 
 
 We know that he will not fail us, 
 So we sweep the hearth up clean ; 
 
 We set him in the old arm-chair, 
 And a cushion whereon to lean ; 
 
 And with sprigs of holly and ivy 
 We make the house look gay, 
 
 Just out of an old regard for him, 
 For it was his ancient way. 
 
 We broach the strong ale-barrel, 
 And bring out wine and meat ; 
 
 And thus have all things ready 
 Our dear old friend to greet. 
 
 And soon the time wears round ; 
 
 The good old carle we see 
 Coming anear, for a creditor 
 
 Less punctual is than he. 
 
 He comes with a cordial voice, 
 That does one good to hear ; 
 
 He shakes one heartily by the hand, 
 As he hath done many a year. 
 
 And after the little children 
 He asks in a cheerful tone — 
 
SONG AND STORY. 213 
 
 Jack, Kate, and little Annie ; 
 He remembers every one. 
 
 What a fine old fellow he is, 
 With his faculties all as clear, 
 
 And his heart as warm and light, 
 As a man in his fortieth year ! 
 
 What a fine old fellow, in troth ! 
 
 Not one of your griping elves, 
 Who, with plenty of money to spare, 
 
 Think only about themselves. 
 
 Not he ! for he loveth the children, 
 
 And holiday begs for all ; 
 And comes with his pockets full of gifts 
 
 For the great ones and the small. 
 
 And he tells us witty old stories. 
 And singeth with might and main ; 
 
 And we talk of the old man's visit 
 Till the day that he comes again. 
 
 Oh, he is a kind old fellow, 
 For, though the beef is dear, 
 
 He giveth the parish paupers 
 A good dinner once a year. 
 
 And all the workhouse children 
 He sets them down in a row, 
 
 And giveth them rare plum-pudding, 
 And twopence apiece also. 
 
 Oh, could you have seen those paupers, 
 Have heard those children young, 
 
 You would wish with them that Christ- 
 mas 
 Came oft and tarried long. 
 
 He must be a rich old fellow ; 
 What money he gives away ! 
 
214 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 There's not a lord in England 
 Could equal him any day. 
 
 Good luck unto Old Christmas, 
 
 And long life, let us sing ! 
 For he doth more good unto the poor 
 
 Than many a crowned king 
 
 Mary Howitt. 
 
 AN OLD LEGEND. 
 
 The snow came falling fast and fair 
 Down through the dreary night ; 
 
 The Christmas lights shone everywhere, 
 The city streets were bright ; 
 
 And loud the sweet cathedral bells 
 Chimed praises and delight. 
 
 But out amid the falling snow, 
 
 Forsaken and alone, 
 A little child went wandering slow 
 
 And making piteous moan ; 
 For his father and his mother dear 
 
 Up into heaven were gone. 
 
 He saw the fruitful Christmas-trees 
 Spread out their gracious boughs ; 
 
 He saw between the curtains red 
 The children's shining brows, 
 
 And the little Christ-child sitting high 
 To hear their thankful vows. 
 
 Then loud he cried, and sobbed full sore; 
 
 No mother dear had he 
 To fill his apron from her store, 
 
 And take him on her knee. 
 He cried till a rich woman heard, 
 
 And came outside to see. 
 
l< 
 
 SONG AND STORY. 215 
 
 lady ! give me fire and food, 
 I am so starved and cold, 
 
 Please do the little orphan good, 
 
 For God has sent you gold ! " 
 But she said, ' ' Begone, thou beggar boy ! 
 
 My house no more can hold." 
 
 She shut him out into the night, 
 
 And went among her own ; 
 She sat upon a cushion bright, 
 
 He on the stepping stone, 
 And his tears made little drops of ice 
 
 As he sat there alone. 
 
 But down the wide and snowy street 
 
 He saw another child, 
 With silver sandals on his feet, 
 
 Float through the tempest wild, 
 His snow-white garments shining fair, 
 
 As if a sunbeam smiled. 
 
 Bight onward to the orphan lad 
 Down the wide street he came, 
 
 And in a voice full sweet and glad 
 He called him by his name, 
 
 And the little weary child grew warm, 
 Forgetting pain and shame. 
 
 Thou hast no home, thou little one, 
 But thou shalt go with me ; 
 
 1 saw thee sitting all alone, 
 And I came after thee. 
 
 Now look up to the heavens above, 
 Behold thy Christmas tree ! " 
 
 The boy looked up to heaven above, 
 
 His tears forgot to flow ; 
 For the Christ-child with his looks of love 
 
 Had charmed away the snow, 
 And on a tree all set with stars 
 
 Angels went to and fro. 
 
216 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 " Come up ! come up, thou little boy 1 
 Come up to heaven on high ! 
 Thy Christmas-tide shall dawn in joy.*' 
 
 He clasped him lovingly. 
 And the Christ-child and the orphan lad 
 Kept Christmas in the sky. 
 
 Rose Terry, in Our Young Folks. 
 
 THE THREE KINGS. 
 
 Three kings came riding from far away, 
 
 Melchior and Gasper and Baltazar ; 
 Three Wise Men out of the East were they. 
 And they traveled by night and they slept 
 by day, 
 For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful 
 star. 
 
 The star was so beautiful, large and clear. 
 
 That all the other stars of the sky 
 Became a white mist in the atmosphere. 
 And the Wise Men knew that the coming 
 was nigh, 
 Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy. 
 
 Three caskets they bore on their saddle bows. 
 
 Three caskets of gold with golden keys, 
 Their robes were of crimson silk, with rows 
 Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows, 
 Their turbans like blossoming almond trees. 
 
 And so the Three Kings rode into the West, 
 Through the dusk of night over hills and 
 
 dells, 
 And sometimes they nodded with beard on 
 
 breast, 
 
SONG A ND STOR V. 217 
 
 And sometimes they talked, as they paused 
 to rest, 
 With the people they met at the way-side 
 wells. 
 
 "Of the Child that is born," said Baltazar, 
 
 " Good people, I pray you, tell us the news, 
 For we in the East have seen His star, 
 And have ridden fast, and have ridden far, 
 To find and to worship the King of the 
 Jews." 
 
 And the people answered, ' ' You ask in vain : 
 
 We know of no king but Herod the Great ! " 
 
 They thought the Wise Men were men insane, 
 
 As they spurred their horses across the 
 
 plain, 
 
 Like riders in haste who cannot wait. 
 
 And when they came to Jerusalem, 
 Herod the Great, who had heard this thing; 
 
 Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them ; 
 
 And said: " Go down into Bethlehem, 
 And bring me tidings of this new King. 
 
 So they rode away ; and the star stood still, 
 The only one in the grey of morn : 
 
 Yes, it stopped ; it stood still with its own free 
 will, 
 
 Right over Bethlehem on the hill, 
 The city of David, where Christ was born. 
 
 And the Three Kings rode through the gate 
 and the guard, 
 Through the silent street till their ho/ses 
 turned 
 And neighed as they entered the great inn- 
 yard ; 
 But the windows were closed and the door was 
 barred 
 Only a light in the stable burned. 
 
218 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 And cradled there in the scented hay, 
 
 In the air made sweet by the breath of kine, 
 The little Child in the manger lay — 
 The Child that would be King one day 
 Of a kingdom not human but Divine. 
 
 His mother, Mary of Nazareth, 
 
 Sat watchiDg beside His place of rest, 
 Watching the even flow of His breath, 
 For the joy of life and the terror of death 
 Were mingled together in her breast. 
 
 They laid their offerings at His feet ; 
 
 The gold was their tribute to a King ; 
 The frankincense, with its odor sweet. 
 Was for the priest the Paraclete, 
 
 The myrrh for the body's burying. 
 
 And the mother wondered and bowed her 
 head, 
 
 And sat as still as a statue of stone ; 
 Her heart was troubled, yet comforted, 
 Remembering what the angel had said 
 
 Of an endless reign and of David's throne. 
 
 Then the kings rode out of the city gate, 
 
 With the clatter of hoofs, in proud array, 
 
 But they sent not back to Herod the Great, 
 
 For they knew his malice and feared his hate. 
 
 And returned to their homes by another way. 
 
 H. W. Longfellow in St. Nicholas. 
 
 CHRISTMAS TIME. 
 
 Heap on more wood ! — the wind is chill. 
 But let it whistle as it will, 
 We '11 keep our Christmas merry still. 
 Each age has deemed the new-born year 
 The fittest time for festal cheer : 
 
SONG AND STORY. Ztt 
 
 Even heathen yet,' the savage Dane 
 At Iol more deep the mead did drain ; 
 High on the beach his galleys drew, 
 And feasted all his pirate crew. 
 
 And well our Christian sires of old 
 Loved when the year its course had rolled, 
 And brought blithe Christmas back again, 
 With all his hospitable train. 
 Domestic and religious rite 
 Gave honor to the holy night : 
 On Christmas eve the bells were rung ; 
 On Christmas eve the mass was sung : 
 That only night, in all the year, 
 Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. 
 The damsel donned her kirtle sheen ; 
 The hall was dressed with holly green ; 
 
 Forth to the wood did merry men go, 
 
 To gather in the mistletoe, 
 
 Then opened wide the baron's hall, 
 
 To vassal, tenant, serf, and all ; 
 
 Power laid his rod of rule aside. 
 
 And Ceremony doffed his pride. 
 
 The heir, with roses in his shoes, 
 
 That night might village partner choose; 
 
 The lord, under ogating, share 
 
 The vulgar game of "post and pair." 
 
 All hailed, with uncontrolled delight 
 
 And general voice, the happy night 
 
 That to the cottage, as the crown, 
 
 Brought tidings of salvation down. 
 
 The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, 
 Went roaring up the chimney wide; 
 The huge hall-table's oaken face, 
 Scrubbed till it shone the day to grace, 
 Bore then upon its massive board 
 No mark to part the squire and lord. 
 Then was brought in the lusty brawn. 
 By old blue-coated serving-man; 
 
220 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 Then the grim boar's head frowned on 
 
 high, 
 Crusted with bays and rosemary. 
 Well can the green-garbed ranger tell 
 How, when and where the monster fell ; 
 What dogs before his death he tore, 
 And all the baiting of the boar. 
 The wassail round, in good brown bowls, 
 Garnished with ribbons blithelv trowls. 
 There the huge sirloin reeked ; hard by 
 Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie; 
 Nor failed old Scotland to produce, 
 At such high-tide, her savory goose. 
 Then came the merry maskers in, 
 And carols roared with blithesome din ; 
 If unmelodious was the song. 
 It was a hearty note and strong. 
 Who lists may in their mumming see 
 Traces of ancient mystery ; 
 White skirts supplied the masquerade, 
 And smutted cheeks the visors made ; 
 But, O, what maskers richly dight 
 Can boast of bosoms half so light ! 
 England was merry England, when 
 Old Christmas brought his sports again. 
 'Twas Christmas broached the mightiest 
 
 ale ; 
 Twas Christmas told the merriest tale : 
 A Christmas gambol oft could cheer 
 The poor man's heart through half the 
 
 year. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS STORY. 
 
 While shepherds watched their flocks by 
 night 
 
 All seated on the ground, 
 The angel of the Lord came down. 
 
 And glory shone around. 
 
SONQ AND STORY. 221 
 
 " Fear not," said he, for mighty dread 
 Had seized their troubled raind ; 
 
 ''Glad tidings of great joy I bring 
 To you. and all mankind. 
 
 4i To you, in David's town, this day 
 Is born of David's line. 
 The 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 wrapped in swaddling bands, 
 And in a manger laid.*" 
 
 Thus spake the seraph; and forthwith 
 
 Appeared a shining throng 
 Of angels, praising God, who 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. 
 
 Xahum Tate. 
 
 JACKY'S SOCK AND JENNIE'S 
 STOCKING. 
 
 Twas Christmas eve — and from a chair 
 Near which sat mamma softly rocking ; 
 
 Suspended hung, ill-mated pair. 
 Dear Jacky's sock, and Jennie's stocking. 
 
 The wee sma' sock, home-made and gray. 
 
 Was suited to the sturdy boot. 
 Which kept the winter's storms at bay. 
 
 And safely housed the dimpled foot. 
 
222 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 The lassie's stocking, fine and new, 
 
 Came o'er the waves from sunny France ; 
 
 Around the stripes of varied hue 
 A prisoned rainbow seemed to dance. 
 
 The mother gazes at the twain, 
 As she still sits there softly rocking — 
 
 A mist of tears, like summer rain, 
 Hides Jacky's sock — and Jennie's stocking. 
 
 u O Father dear ! " she softly prays, 
 "My darling children's feet e'er guide, 
 
 O lead them through the pleasant ways, 
 And keep them ever near thy side ! 
 
 Another prayer, as fervent quite, 
 
 Was wafted from the little bed, 
 Where, side by side, that self -same night, 
 
 With folded hands and upraised heads. 
 
 The children asked their Dearest Friend, 
 (While 'neath their room mamma was 
 rocking), 
 
 u Dear Jesus ! please Kriss Kringle send. 
 To fill up both our sock and stocking." 
 
 As if in answer to their prayer, 
 Mamma has ceased her steady rocking. 
 
 And lo ! what curious changes are 
 In Jacky's sock — and Jennies stocking. 
 
 From top to toe they're both swelled out 
 With queer-shaped bunches, odd and funny, 
 
 They surely cannot hold the gout, — 
 It must be bon-bons sweet as honey. 
 
 The tiny sock, so short and small, 
 Is queerly pieced out from the toe, 
 
 Below which swings a rubber ball. 
 And top that's warranted to go. 
 
SONG AND STORY. 283 
 
 Above the leg a whip sticks out — 
 And wooly dog looks calmly down, 
 
 Conjecturing what it's all about. 
 
 And whether he should bark or frown. 
 
 From out the stocking's top— see ! peep 
 That joyous, beaming little face — 
 
 A lovely doll ! whose ringlets sweep 
 Far downward, with unconscious grace. 
 
 She's fenced around with little toys, 
 That glance out brightly here and there — 
 
 Gay tokens of the Christmas joys 
 Which good old Santa Claus doth bear. 
 
 The mother sits again to think — 
 
 Once more the chair in gently rocking — 
 
 The dog and dolly seem to wink 
 'Cross Jacky's sock and Jennie's stocking. 
 
 Helen Stannard. 
 
 BRIGHTEST AND BEST. 
 
 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 dew-drops 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. 
 
 Say, shall we yield Him. in costly devotion. 
 Odors of Edom and offerings divine \ 
 
224 JUVENILE GEMS OF 
 
 Gems of the mountain, and pearls of the 
 ocean, 
 Myrrh from the forest, or gold from the 
 mine ? 
 
 Vainly we offer each ample oblation ; 
 
 Vainly with gifts would His favor secure ; 
 Richer by far is the heart's adoration ; 
 
 Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Reginald Heber. 
 
 CONTENTMENT. 
 
 "I wish I had yon golden star, 
 I'd wreathe it in my hair; 
 Look, sister, how it shines afar! 
 'Tis like a jewel rare ! " 
 
 * * Yes, love ; but see ! you might have had 
 A treasure far more sweet ; 
 In gazing on that star, you've crushed 
 The Heavfs-ease at your feet ! " 
 
 Frances S. Osgood. 
 
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