LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
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 UNITED STATES OF AMEEICA. 
 
Little 
 Knights and Ladies 
 
 Verses for Young People 
 
 BY 
 
 MARGARET E. SANGSTER 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 "ON THE ROAD HOME" ETC. . 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 ! lYiAY 31 1895 
 
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 VVA 
 
 SV<l»S 
 
 /S-iZ'^-da. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 HARPER AND BROTHERS 
 
 MDCCCXCV 
 
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 Copyright, 1895, by Harper & Brothers. 
 All rights reserved. 
 
TO 
 THE CHILDRErNl'S ORDER 
 
 OF 
 
 "THE ROUND TABLE" 
 
The verses in this collection were nearly 
 all originally written for the several publi- 
 cations of Messrs. Harper & Brothers. A 
 few were first published in The Congrega- 
 tionalist, Ladies' Home Journal, Youths Com- 
 panion, and The Christian Intelligencer. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 MY LADDIE I 
 
 JEANIE'S CHRISTMAS JOURNEY .... 4 
 
 THE BISHOP AND THE BABY . . . . IQ 
 
 MAID OF THE LEGION OF HONOR ... 22 
 
 A GENTLEMAN 25 
 
 A LITTLE PHILOSOPHER 27 
 
 MAKING BELIEVE 29 
 
 THE MAGICAL DOOR 31 
 
 A SKATING SONG 33 
 
 THE WHITE DAYS OF WINTER .... 35 
 
 VOICES 37 
 
 THE CHILD AND THE BIRD 39 
 
 TWO LITTLE GIRLS 40 
 
 THE LITTLE ARM-CHAIR 42 
 
 THE mother's letter 44 
 
 I Wouldn't be cross 48 
 
 SOMETHING NEW 50 
 
 THE DEAR LITTLE HEADS IN THE PEW . 52 
 
 BEADS FOR A NAME 54 
 
 TWO WISHES 58 
 
 vii 
 
Page 
 
 DO ALL THAT YOU CAN 59 
 
 EDITH BAXTER 61 
 
 WATCHING FOR FATHER 64 
 
 CHILDREN, SING ! 65 
 
 MISS FRET AND MISS LAUGH .... 67 
 
 A SONG 68 
 
 THE BOOK OF THE YEAR 70 
 
 MY BRAVE LADDIE 72 
 
 IN BLUEBERRY-TIME 74 
 
 GARDENS 77 
 
 THE AUTUMN WALK 79 
 
 "the RIPENED leaves" 8 1 
 
 VACATION OVER 83 
 
 PUMPKIN PIE . 85 
 
 THE LITTLE SCHOOLMA'aM 87 
 
 PROUD MOTHERS 89 
 
 INDIAN SUMMER 91 
 
 BY THE WAVES 92 
 
 THE FOUR WINDS 94 
 
 THE LITTLE ONES HE BLESSED .... 95 
 
 A DRUMMER 97 
 
 THE poet's VACANT THRONE .... 99 
 
 A mother's BOY lOI 
 
 BEES IN THE MEADOW IO3 
 
 LITTLE HANS I04 
 
 THE CALL OF THE CROW I05 
 
 TWO BOYS 106 
 
 THE MERRY WIND IO7 
 
 viii 
 
A LITTLE FAIRY Io8 
 
 PICKING BERRIES lOQ 
 
 CAUGHT IN A SHOWER IIO 
 
 A LITTLE MARAUDER Ill 
 
 MUD PIES 112 
 
 Elsie's thanksgiving 113 
 
 our little echo ii7 
 
 the company who try ii 8 
 
 work for little followers . . . i20 
 
 A fellow's MOTHER 123 
 
 where the trolls are busy . . . i25 
 
 girls of the period 126 
 
 after the match i28 
 
 JOE 129 
 
 A LOST CHRISTMAS I3I 
 
 A child's PUZZLES .' I34 
 
 AT EASTER I36 
 
 THE LITTLE GREEN BEDS 1 38 
 
 THE SNOW-FLAKE I40 
 
 THE LITTLE " FRESH-AIRS " I42 
 
 TO-DAY 144 
 
 A NEW YEAR I47 
 
LITTLE KNIGHTS AND LADIES 
 
MY LADDIE 
 
 My laddie, my laddie, with the mane of tawny 
 gold, 
 The soft blue eyes, the open brow, the 
 mouth like Cupid's bow — 
 My laddie, my laddie, you are scarcely six 
 years old, 
 But the ages have been garnering the won- 
 ders you shall know. 
 
 For you has Science hoarded her secrets 
 strange and rare ; 
 For you have wise men toiled and delved, 
 for you have brave men fought j 
 To make your pathway beautiful, have sea 
 and earth and air 
 Through centuries of waiting in mystic pa- 
 tience wrought. 
 
 No battle of the hoary past but had its gage 
 for you j 
 No rune of solemn Norn or Fate but sends 
 its thrilling strain 
 
 A I 
 
To you, for whose glad coming all forces, old 
 and new, 
 Are blending in concurrent notes, are sound- 
 ing time's refrain. 
 
 My laddie, O my laddie, I am wistful as I 
 clasp 
 Your little hand within my own, and think 
 how many men, 
 Gone far from earth and memory, beyond our 
 mortal grasp, 
 Are living and are breathing, dear child, in 
 you again : — 
 
 The line of Flemish weavers, who were stout 
 and tough as steel ,• 
 The brave old Holland gentlemen, called 
 " Beggars of the Sea " 5 
 The coifed and wimpled Puritans, sweet 
 maids and matrons leal, — 
 Who poured their weakness and their 
 strength in the blood of you and me. 
 
 My laddie of the golden hair, there stand at 
 God's right hand 
 His saints who went through blood and 
 flame, the yeomen of our line j 
 2 
 
And there are seraphs singing in the glorious 
 better land 
 Whose heart-beats kept, when here on earth, 
 the pace of yours and mine. 
 
 Kneel, little laddie, at my side, there's no de- 
 fence like this, 
 An evening prayer in childish trust, and let 
 him scoif who may, — 
 A daily prayer to God above, a gentle moth- 
 er's kiss, 
 Will keep my little laddie safe, however long 
 the day. 
 
 Those staunch old burghers of the past, these 
 nearer gentlemen. 
 Sans peur et sans reproche^ who look through 
 your sweet eyes of blue. 
 Were honest men, clean-handed, and they told 
 the truth j — what then ? 
 'Tis all I crave, my laddie, when I pray to 
 God with you. 
 
JEANIE'S CHRISTMAS JOURNEY 
 
 Little Jeanie's bright eyes have a look of 
 
 the morn, 
 And her sunny hair shines Hke the gloss of 
 
 the corn. 
 When the eyes shall be dim and the locks 
 
 shall be gray, 
 I think she'll remember a strange Christmas 
 
 day 
 She had in her life when her birthdays were few, 
 And little of danger or sorrow she knew. 
 
 With Father and Mother away at the West, 
 The child was as lone as a bird in the nest, 
 Uncared for, untended, though Aunty was 
 
 there — 
 An Aunty whose kisses were frosty and rare, 
 Who had meetings to go to and people to see, 
 And to all Jeanie's questions would answer 
 
 " Deal' me ! 
 Just do as you please, pet, and keep out of 
 
 harm "j 
 Then, over the work of the letters whose charm 
 
 4 
 
 # 
 
Enchanted her heart, would forget the poor 
 
 child. 
 Who was left very much like a weed to run 
 
 wild. 
 
 It was late in December, and Christmas was 
 
 near. 
 When home should be bubbling with mirth 
 
 and good cheer ; 
 But no one seemed thinking of Christmas a 
 
 bit, 
 And much Jeanie marvelled and puzzled, till it 
 Grew plain to her mind that no Christmas 
 
 could come 
 To a child without father and mother at home. 
 And dear brother Tom — oh, she couldn't tell 
 
 where, 
 Every night she asked God to keep Tom in 
 
 His care, 
 And to let him be found soon j for Aunty had 
 
 said 
 That he had been naughty, and so he had fled. 
 Had Jeanie been naughty, she'd never have 
 
 stayed 
 Away from dear Mother, ashamed and afraid. 
 So, "Jesus, forgive him, and make him be 
 
 Prayed Jeanie, the darling, and did what she 
 could. 
 
 5 
 
The day before Christmas, nor cedar, nor pine, 
 Nor red-berried holly had Jeanie to twine. 
 " You may hang up your stocking," her 
 
 Aunty had said. 
 But not of herself mused the fair drooping 
 
 head. 
 Her swift little fingers w^ere aching to sew 
 On something for Mother j but hours would go, 
 While Aunty thought nothing of presents to 
 
 make. 
 And the fond little heart felt as though it 
 
 would break. 
 "At least," she concluded, " Fll do what I 
 
 can : 
 My Father would say 'twas a beautiful plan : 
 ril give my best things to some child who has 
 
 none, 
 And I'll not even save the prettiest one. 
 I'll go out with my gifts now, and make some 
 
 one glad. 
 And then perhaps Jesus will see that Fm sad. 
 And show me the way to my Father and 
 
 Mother, 
 And help me to find, where he's hidden, my 
 
 brother." 
 
 In her warm Mother Hubbard and cunning 
 
 gray poke, 
 A mite of a thing in the hat and the cloak, 
 6 
 
With a doll in her arm, and a basket quite 
 full, 
 
 She tripped in to Aunty, just home from a 
 school 
 
 Where poor little children were brought from 
 the street, 
 
 And fed, and taught verses, and given a treat 
 
 On the bright Christmas-eve. Now Aunty- 
 was tired ,• 
 
 The day had not been as she planned and de- 
 sired. 
 
 So, scarcely attending to what Jeanie asked, 
 
 In the glow of the grate as she cozily basked. 
 
 "Yes, run away, little one," quickly she said, 
 
 "But be back before tea," and away Jeanie 
 sped. 
 
 She knew where, far up on a steep winding 
 
 stair, 
 A poor crippled Hetty no pleasures could 
 
 share, 
 Save what from her window she caught as 
 
 they passed — 
 Procession or pageant moving too fast. 
 "I never," mused Jeanie, with face growing 
 
 grave, 
 And brown eyes with look burning earnest 
 
 and brave — 
 " I never had ' sperience ' of trouble before, 
 7 
 
And here^s Hetty cannot step out of the door ; 
 ril give her my dolly, my own precious child." 
 At the stair foot she kissed it, then cried, and 
 
 then smiled, 
 Climbed up to the attic — she knew it, you see j 
 For Mother had been there in days that were 
 
 free 
 From the " sperience " of trouble j flashed in 
 
 like a beam 
 Of gay winter sunshine ,• flashed out like a 
 
 dream ^ 
 And Hetty with rapture was clasping a doll 
 That could walk and could laugh and a ditty 
 
 could troll, 
 
 ""Twas gathering dusk, and beginning to snow. 
 And the small Mother Hubbard skipped quick 
 
 to and fro — 
 Skipped over the sidewalk, and tried a blithe 
 
 race — 
 Such fun ! — with the white floating feathers to 
 
 chase. 
 Her basket was heavy, so, one at a time, 
 She dropped little gifts, caring not for th© 
 
 grime 
 Of the poor beggar's hand, thinking only to 
 
 please 
 These children who looked as if ready to 
 
 freeze. 
 
There was left in her basket one treasure most 
 
 dear : 
 To make it had taken her more than a year, 
 And now it was dark, but the streets were 
 
 ablaze, 
 And crowded with shoppers, and scarce through 
 
 the maze, 
 In the fast-growing gloom, could Jeanie pro- 
 ceed. 
 She must give the bright scrap-book to some 
 
 one in need 
 Of pictures and stories and verses so sweet. 
 The gay dancing measure went out of her 
 
 feet, 
 For Jeanie was weary, and deep was the 
 
 snow. 
 Alas ! tea was over — oh, long, long ago. 
 And Aunty, now frightened, sent this way and 
 
 that 
 For a wee Mother Hubbard and Greenaway 
 
 hat. 
 And neighbors were searching, and soon the 
 
 police 
 Would be hunting a child with a soft golden 
 
 fleece 
 And eager brown eyes, through the cold and 
 
 the storm. 
 Oh ! where could be loitering the dear little 
 
 form ? 
 
Meanwhile little Jeanie. had come to a place 
 Where the yellow lamps flared on full many a 
 
 face 
 With homesickness written in every hard line. 
 There were women with brows that were pa- 
 tient and fine, 
 And rosy-cheeked girls, cheery, honest, and 
 
 true, 
 Who would shrink from no labor their hands 
 
 found to do j 
 There were old men, with beards that hung 
 
 low on the breast. 
 And lads looking forth to the green, ample 
 
 West ; 
 There were flaxen-haired babies, and children 
 
 blue-eyed, 
 In shawls and odd kerchiefs that primly were 
 
 tied, 
 And Jeanie looked round for the one who 
 
 should fold 
 To her bosom the book that was better than 
 
 gold. 
 
 Such a tiny, quaint woman she picked from 
 
 the throng, 
 A child with a face that was gleeful and strong. 
 " Merry Christmas !" cried Jeanie, and gave 
 
 her the book. 
 Then right in her eyes saw so happy a look 
 
 lO 
 
That she pressed through the crowd, lest the 
 
 chance she should miss, 
 And with arms round her neck, gave the 
 
 stranger a kiss. 
 
 "All aboard!" rang the order. With hurry 
 
 and rout 
 Were the travellers marshalled, spectators sent 
 
 out. 
 "All aboard!" rang the shout, then were 
 
 whistles amain, 
 And steamed from the station the emigrant 
 
 train. 
 And somehow, hand clasped in the dear Nor- 
 way girl's. 
 The pretty hat crushed o'er the cloud of her 
 
 curls, 
 Little Jeanie went too, with a heart throbbing 
 
 fast, 
 And a passionate feeling of freedom at last, 
 Quite sure it was Jesus had led her along. 
 And made her a place in this strange-speaking 
 
 throng. 
 " Dear Saviour !" she whispered, with lowly 
 
 bent head — 
 " Please keep me all safe, like a lamb of Thy 
 
 fold; 
 Please think of my name when the names are 
 
 all told, 
 
 II 
 
And take me, I pray, to my Father and Mother 
 To-morrow, and help us find Tom, my dear 
 brother !" 
 
 Then softly and safely — for Jesus would keep 
 The dear trustful child — she fell soundly 
 
 asleep ,• 
 And Gretchen's mamma, seeing some great 
 
 mistake, 
 Such care as she could then decided to take ; 
 And covered her snugly till night wore its way 
 To the dawn of the Christmas — earth's holiest 
 
 day. 
 I think, on this night the bright angels above 
 Recall in their music that errand of love 
 When the hills of Judea were kindled to flame, 
 And heaven taught earth to repeat the blest 
 
 name 
 Of the mighty Redeemer, the conquering One, 
 Divine and eternal, yet Mary's fair Son. 
 
 Little Jean slept all night, and when morning 
 
 had broke, 
 By signs to a uniformed man Gretchen spoke. 
 And Gretchen's mamma ,• and with angry 
 
 surprise 
 He fastened on Jeanie a keen pair of eyes. 
 The dress, the distinction, the bright little face 
 In this rabble of peasants he knew had no place. 
 
Yet tenderly, too (he'd a child of his own), 
 He lifted her up, and with arm round her 
 
 thrown, 
 Said : " Where did you come from ? Who 
 
 are you, my dear ? 
 I see you are lost j but, pray, who brought you 
 
 here ?" 
 " I think it was Jesus," the little one said. 
 " I am going out West " — with a nod of her 
 
 head. 
 " It's Christmas, you know, and Fm going to 
 
 Mother 
 And Father, and maybe to Tom, my big 
 
 brother," 
 
 " Well ! well !" said the man, very crusty and 
 
 cross, 
 But he carried her high on his shoulder ; "a 
 
 loss 
 Like this was enough just to drive her folks 
 
 wild," 
 He muttered. "They should have looked 
 
 after the child." 
 
 The train slackened speed, and went slowly 
 
 and stopped. 
 And here little Jean at a station was dropped. 
 Her friend said " Goad-bye," and a telegram 
 
 sent, 
 
 13 
 
Which erelong gave Aunty a moment's con- 
 tent. 
 
 The people came round, as the train whirled 
 away, 
 
 And Jeanie stood sobbing, the morn was so 
 gray, 
 
 And she was so lonesome and hungry and cold, 
 
 Her hair was so tangled j the bitter tears rolled 
 
 Down her cheeks one by one, a forlorn little 
 waif. 
 
 And still the dear Saviour was keeping her safe. 
 
 For suddenly, swift from an incoming car 
 Rushed a lady whose face was as pure as a star. 
 And caught little Jean, Mother Hubbard and 
 
 all. 
 And kissed her, and wondered, and wrapped a 
 
 great shawl 
 Round the shivering figure. " My daughter ! 
 
 you here ? 
 Where's Aunty ? and where did you come 
 
 from, my dear ?" 
 And Father was there, oh, so strong and so 
 
 tall! 
 And straightway the child forgot terror and all 
 Her sadness and trouble, and laughed out in 
 
 cheer : 
 '* Merry Christmas has come. I'm so glad 
 
 you are here. 
 
 14 
 
I was going to look for you, Father and 
 
 Mother, 
 I thought I could help you to search for my 
 
 brother." 
 
 Ah ! how they had chafed at the weary delay, 
 Which had kept them en route until dawned 
 
 Christmas-day ! 
 And now they thanked God that their steps 
 
 had been led 
 To Jeanie, unhurt in a hair of her head. 
 
 'Twas a change to be whisked to a drawing- 
 room car, 
 Through great sunny windows to gaze out afar, 
 Over white fields of snow, over bridges and 
 
 streams. 
 While people and houses rushed past her like 
 
 dreams 5 
 And Father found somewhere a sweet Paris doll 
 That was almost as lovely as Hetty's 5 and all 
 That she said Mother answered with gentle 
 
 caress, 
 Or a look that made up for a month of distress. 
 And just as the twilight fell murky and gray, 
 They came to the end of this wonderful day. 
 And reaching home, Aunty, as pale as a ghost, 
 Cried : " Jean, of all children, youVe worried 
 me most. 
 
 15 
 
I told you, Fm certain, to stay by the door ; 
 And here youVe been flying the country half 
 o'er," 
 
 Many days onward passed, and from Tom 
 came no word j 
 
 But Jeanie felt sure that her prayers would 
 be heard, 
 
 And that Christ, when He saw that such an- 
 swer was best, 
 
 Would bring home the fugitive lost in the 
 West. 
 
 In a little log-house on a prairie's green rim 
 Death struggled with life for a youth, in 
 
 whose dim 
 Sunken eyes a fierce fever to ashes had burned, 
 And life turned the scale ; and, oh, wildly he 
 
 yearned 
 For a look, for a thought, of the far-away home. 
 Neglected and scorned, he had fled from to 
 
 roam 
 With the vile and the wicked, in sin and in 
 
 shame, 
 Insulting the Saviour, forgetting His name. 
 
 A kind hand had tended him ; motherly care 
 Had given him nursing. A child, grave and 
 fair, 
 
 i6 
 
With patience had sat by his side for long hours, 
 And sometimes she brought him sweet grasses 
 
 and ftowers ^ 
 And one day from folds of soft linen she took 
 Her treasure of treasures, a wonderful book. 
 " You may see it," she said, in her soft broken 
 
 speech, 
 " Be careful ,• don't hurt it. Ach ! why !" 
 
 for a screech. 
 Shrill, frightened — a scream in a sob that was 
 
 lost — 
 Came quick from the bed, and the wan hands 
 
 were crossed, 
 As over a relic of saint at a shrine, 
 On a name written bold o'er a faint pencilled 
 
 line. 
 It was "Jeanie, Tom's sister." Beneath it 
 
 were these 
 Simple words — how they hurt him ! — " Dear 
 
 Lord, if you please. 
 Make Tom to be good ; bring him home to 
 
 our Mother 5 
 And, oh, for Christ's sake, let us love one 
 
 another !" 
 
 This Christmas, if you at our Jeanie should 
 
 peep. 
 You would see in her hands, at her side, a 
 
 bright heap 
 B 17 
 
Of playthings for Hetty, of games and of toys 
 For her pensioners cheery, the small ragged 
 boys. 
 
 A remote cabin home had received a great 
 box. 
 
 Which the key in dear Gretchen's letter un- 
 locks. 
 
 There's a cap for mamma, there are mittens 
 and hood, 
 
 And a wonderful book from the " little one 
 good 
 
 Who travelled that eve on the emigrant train, 
 
 Whom the Christ -child took care of, as all 
 might see plain." 
 
 With hundreds of gay-colored tapers ablaze, 
 Jean's Christmas-tree shines, while they carol 
 
 their praise, 
 Tom, P'ather and Mother, and dear little girl, 
 To Him whose white banner 'tis bliss to un- 
 furl- 
 To Jesus, who came when the Bethlehem star 
 Sent silvery beams to the nations afar ; 
 To Jesus, whom Mary, the mother so sweet, 
 Held close, while the Wise Men were bowed 
 
 at His feet ; 
 To Jesus, the mighty, the conquering One, 
 Divine and eternal, yet Mary's fair Son. 
 
THE BISHOP AND THE BABY 
 
 A POOR little pale-faced baby, 
 
 Lost and hungry and cold, 
 With the chill wind pinching her tear-wet 
 cheeks 
 
 And ruffling her bright hair's gold. 
 
 For just when the busy people 
 Were hurrying here and yon, 
 
 j^Buj'mg their gifts for the Christmas-tree, 
 Her mother was suddenly gone. 
 
 She did not cry, poor midget, 
 
 But lifted pitiful eyes 
 At the crowds of careless strangers. 
 
 At the gray, indifferent skies. 
 
 Jostled and pushed and frightened, 
 
 A tiny waif of the street. 
 With the wintry darkness falling, 
 
 And the snowflakes gathering fleet. 
 19 
 
She was seen by a great kind giant 5 
 With swinging stride he came, 
 
 Even then the angels in heaven 
 Wrote Saint before his name. 
 
 From the height of his splendid stature 
 He stooped to the little maid. 
 
 Lifted her up in tender arms. 
 And bade her not be afraid. 
 
 Against his broad breast nestled, 
 She clung like a soft spring flower 
 
 That a breeze had caught and carried 
 To a strong and sheltering tower. 
 
 In his thick, warm cloak he wrapped her, 
 
 The little shivering child. 
 " ril find your mother, baby," ^ 
 
 The bishop said, and smiled. 
 
 That smile like a flash of the sunrise — 
 
 'Tis but a memory dim. 
 For the years are hastening onward. 
 
 And we are mourning him. 
 
 The white, cold snows are drifting 
 
 Where to-day he lies asleep. 
 After his life's long warfare 
 
 The soldier's rest is deep. 
 20 
 
But of dear things said about him, 
 Of victories that he won, 
 
 No sweeter tale is told than this. 
 Of his grace to a little one. 
 
MAID OF THE LEGION OF HONOR * 
 
 Did you happen to hear the other day 
 
 How France had sent to a little maid 
 Her gift of gifts, .for which brave men pray ; 
 
 A child of ten, who, unafraid. 
 Ready and steady, and full of nerve 
 
 Faced a danger, and did a deed. 
 One day last summer, that well may serve 
 
 As a lesson of valor for all to heed? 
 
 This dear little Jenny was by herself 
 
 Picking the berries that, ripe and sweet. 
 Grew high on the rocks which shelf on shelf 
 
 Made steps for the nimble and fearless feet. 
 Down below were the narrow lines 
 
 That marked a path for the rushing cars. 
 Speeding along, with many a throng. 
 
 Under the sky, by sun and stars. 
 
 * Jenny Creek, of Milford, Ohio, has received from 
 France a gold medal with the insignia of the Legion of 
 Honor, a tribute for her heroism in saving a World's 
 Fair train last summer. Details were published in the 
 New York Tribiuie of May 28, 1894. 
 
Oh ! but the berries were ripe and sweet, 
 
 And the small brown fingers stained and 
 red. 
 She picked them merrily, paused to eat, 
 
 The sun-bonnet slipped from the curly head ,• 
 Something fluttered the little heart, 
 
 A stir, a rustle, a puff of smoke ! 
 The trestle on fire ! With sudden start 
 
 From her holiday pleasure the child awoke. 
 
 It was time for the train, and, far away. 
 
 Its faint, fine whistle her quick ear caught ! 
 There wasn't a second to lose, to stay, 
 
 For the hesitant process of slow -paced 
 thought. 
 The trestle on fire ! the coming train. 
 
 Packed with people, would plunge beneath 
 To the yawning gulf! The child's quick 
 brain 
 
 Leaped to the rescue as sword from sheath. 
 
 Swift as the flash of the fiery death, 
 
 Jenny of Milford took her stand. 
 Tore her petticoat off in a breath, 
 
 A scarlet flag in her sturdy hand. 
 Round the bend, the engineer. 
 
 Eye on the watch, would see it float 5 
 Hers was the chance ! She lifted clear 
 
 Cry on cry from her shrill young throat. 
 
Wei], this is the rest of it : Just in time 
 
 The train was stopped, by the length of 
 itself, 
 And women and men poured out to climb 
 
 To Jenny's perch on the rocky shelf 
 Hugged her, kissed her, paled to the lips, 
 
 As they saw the woe of the might have 
 been. 
 And some went home on the ocean ships, 
 
 And remembered our bit of a heroine. 
 
 The great World's Fair is over and done. 
 
 The pure White City we see no more. 
 But Jenny, taller, a twelvemonth gone. 
 
 Runs to open her father's door. 
 A messenger waits with a packet sealed j 
 
 The medal that, won at the point of the 
 lance 
 Men wear as the lily upon the shield, 
 
 "The Legion of Honor," 'tis hers, from 
 France. 
 
A GENTLEMAN 
 
 I KNEW him for a gentleman 
 
 By signs that never fail j 
 His coat was rough and rather worn, 
 
 His cheeks were thin and pale — 
 A lad who had his way to make, 
 
 With little time for play — 
 I knew him for a gentleman 
 
 By certain signs to-day. 
 
 He met his mother on the street j 
 
 Off came his little cap. 
 My door was shut j he waited there 
 
 Until I heard his rap. 
 He took the bundle from my hand. 
 
 And when I dropped my pen 
 He sprang to pick it up for me, 
 
 This gentleman of ten. 
 
 He does not push and crowd along j 
 His voice is gently pitched j 
 
 He does not fling his books about 
 As if he were bewitched. 
 25 
 
He stands aside to let you pass ,• 
 He always shuts the door j 
 
 He runs on errands willingly 
 To forge and mill and store. 
 
 He thinks of you before himself j 
 
 He serves you if he can j 
 For, in whatever company, 
 
 The manners make the man. 
 At ten or forty 'tis the same, 
 
 The manner tells the tale j 
 And I discern the gentleman 
 
 By signs that never fail. 
 
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 ? 
 27 
 
The snow is deep, there are paths to break ; 
 
 But the little arm is strong 5 
 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. 
 
 The mother's 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. 
 
MAKING BELIEVE 
 
 It was just a little lass, playing house upon 
 the grass, 
 With acorn cups and saucers, and a smooth 
 white stone 
 Spread with bits of broken glass j and she 
 smiled to see me pass 
 Every morning on my walk — she, as I, alone. 
 
 So I said, " My pretty maid ?" — watching as 
 she daily played, 
 Not a doll to help her, crooning to herself — 
 She her work awhile delayed — eggs and sugar 
 to be weighed, 
 And all the funny dishes to be set on the 
 shelf. 
 
 And with brown eyes open wide, as my ask- 
 ing look she spied, 
 " Well, what is it, lady ?" did the darling 
 say. 
 Then, but not to hurt her pride, very honestly 
 I tried 
 To find out the secret of her happy day. 
 29 
 
" Tell me, sweet one, if you know what it is 
 that makes you so 
 Merry and contented in your garden here, 
 Cheeks like roses all aglow. Why, I almost 
 see you grow 
 Brighter in the sunshine, like the flowers, 
 my dear." 
 
 " Mother says," she answered sweet, eyes down 
 dropping to her feet. 
 Bravely lifted then, and fixed upon my face, 
 " That you never must deceive, but that you 
 may make believe y 
 Till you'll build a palace in a very humble 
 place." 
 
 Blessings on the little maid quite contentedly 
 who played, 
 "Making b'lieve" her common things were 
 very rare and finej 
 In the realm of fancy strayed, found the sun- 
 light in the shade. 
 And taught me how to make her pretty 
 secret mine. 
 
THE MAGICAL DOOR 
 
 There's a door in the wall of the ages — 
 
 A door that no man sees ; 
 For the angel who writes in the Book of 
 Time 
 
 Is the keeper of the keys. 
 Once in the year it opens, 
 
 At the solemn midnight hour, 
 When the children sleep, and the old clocks 
 keep 
 
 Awake in the tall church tower. 
 
 And then, as it swings on its hinges. 
 
 Whoever might peer inside 
 Would catch a glimpse of the centuries 
 
 That behind in the silence hide. 
 Egypt and Rome and Tyre, 
 
 All in that mythical place 
 Where the old years rest that were once pos- 
 sessed 
 
 By the wonderful human race. 
 
 The shadowy door swings open, 
 And a pilgrim enters in, 
 31 
 
Bowed with a twelve-months' struggle 
 
 In this world of strife and sin. 
 Waft him a farewell greeting ! 
 
 He will pass no more this way — 
 This weary year who must disappear 
 
 In the haven of yesterday. 
 
 The door still swingeth open. 
 
 And outward another comes, 
 With a stir of banners and bugles 
 
 And the beat of friendly drums j 
 His hands are full of beauty — 
 
 The cluster, the song, the sheaf, 
 The snow-flake's wing, and the budding 
 spring, 
 
 And the foam on the crested reef. 
 
 This is the New Year, darlings, 
 
 Oh ! haste to give him cheer. 
 Only the Father knoweth 
 
 The whole of his errand here. 
 This is the New Year, darlings ; 
 
 A year for work and play. 
 For doing our best, and for trusting the rest 
 
 To the Maker of night and day. 
 
A SKATING SONG 
 
 Hurrah for the wind that is keen and chill, 
 As it skirts the meadows and sweeps the hill ! 
 Hurrah for the pulses of swift delight 
 That tingle and beat in the Winter's night, 
 When over the crystal lake we glide, 
 Flying like birds o'er the frozen tide ! 
 
 Hurrah for the lad with the sparkling eye, 
 For the joyous laugh and the courage high ! 
 Hurrah for the health that is glad and strong. 
 So that life is gay as a merry song, 
 For the motion fearless, smooth, and fleet, 
 When skates are wings to the flying feet ! 
 
 Hurrah for the landscape broad and fair 
 Spread boldly out in the brilliant air ! 
 Hurrah for the folds of the sheeted snow. 
 On the mountains high, in the valleys low ! 
 Hurrah for the track where the skaters glide, 
 Fearless as over a highway tried ! 
 
 Hurrah for the girls who skate so well — 
 Dorothy, Winifred, Kate, and Nell ! 
 c 33 
 
Hurrah for the race we're bound to win, 
 And the curves and figures we mean to spin ! 
 Hurrah for the joy that wings our feet, 
 When, hke dancers gay, we pass and meet ! 
 
 Who chooses may boast of the summer-time, 
 Hurrah ! we cry, for the frost and rime, 
 For the icicles pendent from roof and eaves, 
 For snow that covers the next year's sheaves ! 
 Hurrah for the gleaming, glassy lake 
 Where the skaters bold their pleasures take ! 
 
THE WHITE DAYS OF WINTER 
 
 The white days of winter, darling, 
 
 When softly the snow-flakes fall, 
 Till a royal garment of ermine 
 
 Folds tenderly over all. 
 Field, and hillock, and valley. 
 
 Hushed in the sweetest sleep. 
 For the snow comes down from our Father, 
 
 His loving charge to keep. 
 
 Under the snow-robe, darling. 
 
 There is wonderful brooding heat, 
 That is taking care of the daisies. 
 
 And saving the next year's wheat. 
 And we'd have no flowers, dearest. 
 
 When the spring's green days come back. 
 If the white days did not bring us 
 
 The feathery flakes in their track. 
 
 And the golden days, my darling, 
 
 The days of lily and rose, 
 And the scarlet days of the maple. 
 
 All follow the path of the snows 5 
 35 
 
For the year goes round, my darling, 
 With the sunbeam and the shower. 
 
 And our Father's watch is over 
 Its every passing hour. 
 
 The swift, white day, my darling. 
 
 When the sleigh-bells' merry chime 
 Is echoing o'er the roadway, 
 
 Is the fun and frolic time. 
 But the still white eve, my dearest, 
 
 Is sweeter to you and me, 
 When we have the song and story. 
 
 And the prayer at the mother's knee. 
 
 Our little home, my darling, 
 
 Oh, whatever wind may blow, 
 The south with its quiver of sunbeams, 
 
 The north with its flakes of snow, 
 Our little home, my dearest. 
 
 Is under the dear Lord's care, 
 And we fear no ill nor sorrow, 
 
 Lovingly sheltered there. 
 
VOICES 
 
 What does the brook say, flashing its feet 
 Under the lilies"" blue, brimming bowls, 
 
 Brightening the shades with its tender song, 
 Cheering all drooping and sorrowful souls ? 
 
 It says not " Be merry," but, deep in the wood, 
 
 Rings back, " Little maiden, be good, be good," 
 
 What does the wind say, pushing slow sails 
 Over the great troubled path of the sea ; 
 
 Whirling the mill on the breezy height. 
 Shaking the fruit from the orchard tree ? 
 
 It breathes not "Be happy," but sings loud 
 and long, 
 
 " O bright little maiden, be strong, be strong." 
 
 What says the river, gliding along 
 
 To its home on far-off Ocean's breast j 
 Fretted by rushes, hindered by bars. 
 Ever weary, but singing of rest ? 
 It says not "Be bright," but, in whisperings 
 
 grave, 
 "Dear little maiden, be patient, be brave." 
 37 
 
What do the stars say, keeping their watch 
 
 Over the slumbers the long, lone night, 
 Never closing their bonny bright eyes, 
 
 Though great storms blind them, and tem- 
 pests fright ? 
 They say not " Be splendid," but write on the 
 
 blue. 
 In clear silver letters, " Maiden, be true." 
 
THE CHILD AND THE BIRD 
 
 -" Oh, where are you going, my dear little bird ? 
 
 And why do you hurry away ? 
 Not a leaf on the pretty red maple has stirred, 
 
 In the sweet golden sunshine to-day." 
 
 " I know, little maiden, the sunshine is bright, 
 And the leaves are asleep on the tree. 
 
 But three times the dream of a cold winter's 
 night 
 Has come to my children and me. 
 
 " So, good-bye to you, darling, for off we must 
 
 go, 
 To the land where the oranges bloom, 
 For we birdies would freeze in the storms and 
 
 the snow. 
 And forget how to sing in the gloom." 
 
 " Will you ever come back to your own little 
 nest ?" 
 " Ah, yes, when the blossoms are here, 
 We'll return to the orchard we all love the best^ 
 And then we will sing to you, dear." 
 39 
 
TWO LITTLE GIRLS 
 
 This little girl is very poor ; 
 She has troubles, she finds, she can scarce en- 
 dure J 
 And yet, my dear, she has playthings plenty — 
 Dolls as many as two-and-twenty. 
 Houses and arks and picture-books, 
 Something pretty wherever she looks. 
 But half the time she's puzzled to know 
 What to do with the wonderful show. 
 Tired of dollies two-and-twenty, 
 And bored with her various toys a-plenty. 
 
 That little girl is very rich, 
 With an old doll like a perfect witch, 
 A broken chair and a bit of delf. 
 And a wee cracked cup on the closet shelf. 
 She can play with only a row of pins 5 
 Houses and gardens, arks and inns, 
 She makes with her chubby fingers small, 
 And she never asks for a toy at all. 
 Unseen around her the fairies stray. 
 Giving her bright thoughts every day. 
 40 
 
Poor little girl and rich little girl, 
 How nice it would be if in time's swift whirl 
 You could — perhaps not change your places, 
 But catch a glimpse of each other's faces ,• 
 For each to the other could something give. 
 Which would make the child life sweeter to 
 
 live. 
 For both could give and both could share 
 Something the other had to spare. 
 
THE LITTLE ARM-CHAIR 
 
 Nobody sits in the little arm-chair ; 
 
 It stands in a corner dim ; 
 But a white-haired mother gazing there, 
 
 And yearningly thinking of him, 
 Sees through the dust of the long ago 
 
 The bloom of her boy's sweet face, 
 As he rocks so merrily to and fro, 
 
 With a laugh that cheers the place. 
 
 Sometimes he holds a book in his hand. 
 
 Sometimes a pencil and slate. 
 And the lesson is hard to understand. 
 
 And the figures hard to mate ; 
 But she sees the nod of his father's head. 
 
 So proud of the little son. 
 And she hears the word so often said, 
 
 " No fear for our little one." 
 
 They were wonderful days, the dear sweet 
 days. 
 When a child with sunny hair 
 Was hers to scold, to kiss, and to praise, 
 At her knee in the little chair. 
 42 
 
She lost him back in the busy years, 
 When the great world caught the man, 
 
 And he strode away past hopes and fears. 
 To his place in the battle's van. 
 
 But now and then in a wistful dream, 
 
 Like a picture out of date, 
 She sees a head with a golden gleam 
 
 Bent over a pencil and slate,- 
 And she lives again the happy day, 
 
 The day of her young life's spring, 
 When the small arm-chair stood just in the 
 way. 
 
 The centre of everything. 
 
THE MOTHER'S LETTER 
 
 Oh ! postman on your weary round, what 
 
 have you in your bag ? 
 The tale of death, the tale of birth ; it is not 
 
 strange you lag 
 That last slow mile, as, one by one, you hand 
 
 the letters in — 
 Sweet messengers of love and faith, 'mid strife 
 
 and woe and sin. 
 
 In yonder dingy boarding-house there stands 
 
 a tempted boy — 
 The devil whispers in his ear : " Come, taste 
 
 my brimming joy. 
 Come, sell your soul, what matters it about 
 
 another world ? 
 This world is here : come, drink my wine 
 
 with sparkling zest impearled." 
 
 Oh ! postman, ringing at the door, you're 
 haply just in time j 
 
 You hand his mother's letter in ; its sweet- 
 ness cannot chime 
 44 
 
With siren pleadings from the pit j let's look 
 
 upon the page, 
 And see how mothers meet the foe, when 
 
 souls are thrown for gage. 
 
 "Dear Ned," she writes, "old Ponto fails, the 
 
 dog is growing gray. 
 I think he misses you, my dear j youVe been 
 
 so long away. 
 What rambles o'er the hills you two in other 
 
 days have had ,• 
 I pet old Ponto for your sake, my precious, 
 
 precious lad. 
 
 "The little sister grows apace ; you'd hardly 
 
 know her now ^ 
 She gets to have a look of you about the 
 
 open brow j 
 I tell her : * Polly, study hard, be just like 
 
 brother Ned. 
 Wherever others stood, my dear, he always 
 
 stood up head.' 
 
 " I go to meeting every week, of course j but 
 
 in the pew 
 You wouldn't think, dear boy, how much 
 
 your mother misses you. 
 45 
 
They've got new singers in the choir, a tenor 
 
 and a bass, 
 And little Susie Spaulding, with a voice to 
 
 match her face. 
 
 "She, Susie, is a darling, and she often sits 
 
 with me, 
 And puss, though growing wheezy, climbs 
 
 purring to her knee. 
 The bird is dead — I'm sorry — but he was ten 
 
 in May, 
 One cannot keep canary birds forever and a 
 
 day. 
 
 " Lame Willie always asks for Ned : ' When 
 
 did you hear and what ?' 
 I wish you could write often, dear j but mind, 
 
 I say this not 
 To blame you — men must work in town, 
 
 and mothers understand j 
 I always trust the golden heart behind the 
 
 good right hand ! 
 
 "God bless you, Ned. Vacation time is 
 
 speeding on so fast, 
 ril have you when the daisies bloom, ere 
 
 strawberries are past. 
 46 
 
I love you, love you, darling Ned j this stupid 
 
 letter take, 
 And pardon any errors for your own dear 
 
 mother's sake." 
 
 Oh ! postman, trudging in the dark, an angel 
 
 went before 
 And left a blessing on the note you handed 
 
 in that door. 
 And, skulking outward on the blast, the devil 
 
 left his prey, 
 Apollyon put to flight before a mother's love 
 
 to-day. 
 
 And mother, with your boy away, and so 
 
 much out of sight. 
 Do more than love, and more than pray, to 
 
 shield him in the fight : 
 Write often of the simple things that hold 
 
 him to the farm. 
 And let his childhood round his life weave 
 
 fast its mystic charm. 
 
I WOULDN'T BE CROSS 
 
 I wouldn't be cross, dear, it's never worth 
 
 while J 
 Disarm the vexation by wearing a smile j 
 Let hap a disaster, a trouble, a loss, 
 Just meet the thing boldly, and never be cross. 
 
 I wouldn't be cross, dear, with people at 
 
 home. 
 They love you so fondly, whatever may come. 
 You may count on the kinsfolk, around you 
 
 to stand. 
 Oh, loyally true in a brotherly band ! 
 So, since the fine gold far exceedeth the dross, 
 I wouldn't be cross, dear, I wouldn't be cross. 
 
 I nvouldnt be cross with a stranger, ah no ! 
 To the pilgrims we meet on the life path we 
 
 owe 
 This kindness to give them good cheer as 
 
 they pass, 
 To clear out the flint -stones, and plant the 
 
 soft grass. 
 
No, dear, with a stranger, in trial or loss, 
 I perchance might be silent — I wouldn't be 
 
 No bitterness sweetens, no sharpness may heal 
 The wound which the soul is too proud to 
 
 reveal. 
 No envy hath peace : by a fret and a jar 
 The beautiful work of our hands we may mar. 
 Let happen what may, dear, of trouble and 
 
 loss, 
 I nxjQuldnt be cross, love, I wouldn't be cross. 
 D i 
 
SOMETHING NEW 
 
 There's something new at our house — Fm 
 
 s'prised you didn't know it j 
 It makes papa feel awful proud, although he 
 
 hates to show it. 
 The thing is not so very big, but money 
 
 couldn't buy it; 
 If any fellow thinks it could, I'd like to see 
 
 him try it. 
 
 It's half a dozen things at once — a dove, a 
 
 love, a flower ; 
 Mamma calls it a hundred names, and new 
 
 ones every hour j 
 It is a little music-box, with tunes for every 
 
 minute ; 
 You haven't got one at your house, and so 
 
 you are not in it. 
 
 It puckers up its wee, wee mouth, as if it 
 
 meant to whistle ; 
 A gold mine weighed against it then were 
 
 lighter than a thistle 5 
 
 50 
 
Papa said so the other night — I thought it 
 
 sounded splendid, 
 And said it to myself until I fell asleep, and 
 
 ended. 
 
 Of course you guessed it by this time — our 
 
 gift that came from heaven ; 
 Mamma declares the darling thing was by 
 
 the angels given. 
 But then some folks are very slow, and some 
 
 are stupid ,• maybe 
 I ought to say, right straight and plain, come 
 
 home and see our baby! 
 
THE DEAR LITTLE HEADS IN 
 THE PEW 
 
 In the morn of the holy Sabbath 
 
 I Uke in the church to see 
 The dear little children clustered 
 
 Worshipping there with me. 
 I am sure that the gentle pastor, 
 
 Whose words are like summer dew, 
 Is cheered as he gazes over 
 
 Dear little heads in the pew. 
 
 Faces earnest and thoughtful, 
 
 Innocent, grave, and sweet. 
 They look in the congregation 
 
 Like lilies among the wheat. 
 And I think that the tender Master, 
 
 Whose mercies are ever new. 
 Has a special benediction 
 
 For dear little heads in the pew. 
 
 Clear in the hymns resounding 
 To the organ's swelling chord, 
 
 Mingle the fresh young voices, 
 Eager to praise the Lord. 
 
 52 
 
And to me the rising anthem 
 
 Has a meaning deep and true ; — 
 
 The thought and the music blended, 
 For the dear httle heads in the pew. 
 
 When they hear "The Lord is my Shep- 
 herd," 
 
 Or "Suffer the babes to come," 
 They are glad that the loving Jesus 
 
 Has given the Iambs a home, 
 A place of their own with His people. 
 
 He cares for me and for you ; 
 But close in His arms He gathers 
 
 The dear little heads in the pew. 
 
 So I love in the great assembly, 
 
 On the Sabbath morn, to see 
 The dear little children clustered 
 
 And worshipping there with me ; 
 For I know that the gracious Saviour, 
 
 Whose mercies are ever new. 
 Has a special benediction 
 
 For the dear little heads in the pew. 
 
BEADS FOR A NAME 
 
 Little Ruth Endicott, tripping and airy, 
 Sweet as a snow-drop and wee as a fairy, 
 Found it hard work to sit still as a mouse 
 Through three long hours in the Lord's 
 
 house, 
 Where all the children went gravely, you 
 
 know, 
 This time two hundred Thanksgivings ago. 
 
 Grandmother handed her fennel and dill. 
 Mother frowned often, and whispered "Be 
 
 still !" 
 Parson looked down from the pulpit's high 
 
 perch. 
 Wondering that babies were restless in church ; 
 Sternly the tithing-man shook his gray head. 
 Till little Fidget turned blushingly red, 
 Yet in the whole congregation was not 
 One child so naughty as Ruth Endicott. 
 
 When they came home to the Thanksgiving 
 
 dinner 
 Father called to him the poor little sinner j 
 
 54 
 
Sweet as a snow-drop and wee as a fairy, 
 Never was culprit so dainty and airy, 
 So father thought, as the broad satin vest 
 Made for the gold-tinted ringlets a nest 5 
 Fathers were fathers, like ours, you know. 
 This time two hundred Thanksgivings ago. 
 
 Then he said, soberly, " Dear little maid, 
 I am told that in church you laughed and 
 
 you played. 
 What shall I do with you, Ruth, little woman, 
 Punish or bribe you ? The conduct was 
 
 human. 
 Yet as an Endicott, child, you must learn 
 Courtesy, fitness, the graces that earn 
 Man's approbation, and — " Here he sighed 
 
 deep } 
 Well might he sigh, little Ruth was asleep! 
 
 When she awoke, a great string of bright 
 
 beads, 
 Each carven crisply with flowers and seeds, 
 Hung on the arm of her father's oak chair. 
 "Here, little daughter," he cried, "we'll be 
 
 fair j 
 Bargains are bargains j these beads are your 
 
 own 
 When to church three times in order you've 
 
 gone, 
 
 55 
 
And behaved there, my lass, as an Endicott 
 
 should, 
 Like a small princess, both stately and good." 
 So the Judge bribed her, I happen to know. 
 This time two hundred Thanksgivings ago. 
 
 Little Ruth Endicott grew up as sweet 
 
 As a flower that blooms on the edge of the 
 
 wheat, 
 Married and queened it for many a year. 
 Fame of her beauty was told far and near, 
 Fame of her kindness, too, and her good 
 
 deeds. 
 Came down the centuries with her gold 
 
 beads. 
 Daughters and granddaughters born of her 
 
 line 
 Have the gold hair with the same burnished 
 
 shine. 
 One of them wears the same sweet elfin 
 
 grace. 
 Looks at me now with the same snow-drop 
 
 face 
 Little Ruth Endicott wore in the glow 
 Of the hearthlight two hundred Thanksgiv- 
 ings ago. 
 
 And as I fingered her string of gold beads, 
 
 Curious, and carven with blossoms and seeds, 
 
 56 
 
Gayly she smiled, " I deserve them in truth, 
 Christened so soberly old-fashioned Ruth, 
 After a grandmother ever so great, 
 Once a great lady, who wore them in state, 
 But who was shockingly naughty, I fear. 
 Just on the eve of her own seventh year, 
 When, little darling, she fidgeted so 
 In church-time two hundred Thanksgivings 
 ago." 
 
TWO WISHES 
 
 "I WISH that the teacher had lessons to 
 learn," 
 Said Molly, the wise little elf ^ 
 " She would know they were hard, and be 
 sorry. 
 If she had to do them herself." 
 
 And the teacher, at home, in the gloaming. 
 Sighed gently, '•' I wish that they knew. 
 
 The dear little children, how easy 
 'Tis just to have lessons to do !". 
 
DO ALL THAT YOU CAN 
 
 "I CANNOT do much," said a little star, 
 " To make this dark world bright j 
 
 My silvery beams cannot pierce far 
 Into the gloom of nighty 
 
 Yet I am a part of God's great plan, 
 
 And so I will do the best that I can." 
 
 " What can be the use," said a fleecy cloud, 
 "Of these few drops that I hold? 
 
 They will hardly bend the lily proud, 
 If caught in her chalice of goldj 
 
 But I, too, am part of God's great plan, 
 
 So my treasures Fll give as well as I can." 
 
 A child went merrily forth to play, 
 But a thought, like a silver thread, 
 
 Kept winding in and out all day 
 Through the happy golden head — 
 
 "Mother said: * Darling, do all that you can, 
 
 For you are a part of God's great plan.' " 
 
 She knew no more than the twinkling star, 
 Or the cloud with its rain-cup full, 
 
 59 
 
How, why, or for what all strange things 
 
 are — 
 She was only a child at school, 
 But she thought, " 'Tis a part of God's 
 
 great plan, 
 That even I should do all that I can." 
 
 So she helped another child along 
 
 When the way was rough to his feet. 
 
 And she sang from her heart a little song 
 That we all thought wondrous sweet j 
 
 And her father — a weary, toil-worn man — 
 
 Said, " I, too, will do the best that I can." 
 
EDITH BAXTER 
 
 A BEAUTIFUL day in summer, 
 
 At Bath, beside the sea, 
 Where a bevy of careless children 
 
 Were as gay as gay could be. 
 
 Some with their spades so tiny 
 
 Were turning over the sand, 
 Some were merrily racing 
 
 With the surf that dashed on the strand. 
 
 And others, bold and daring, 
 
 Plunged into the deep green wave, 
 
 At the touch of the grim old ocean 
 They felt so blithe and brave. 
 
 Laughing, leaping, and diving. 
 
 The sturdy, frolicsome crew 
 Had never a thought of danger 
 
 Under the sky's soft blue. 
 
 And nobody noticed Harry, 
 A dear little five-year-old, 
 6i 
 
With just a glimmer of sunshine 
 Tinting his curls of gold. 
 
 Till, after the rest, as swiftly 
 As a flash the darling went 5 
 
 And a cry of sudden terror 
 The giddy gladness rent. 
 
 The billows have caught the baby, 
 They are bearing him far away: 
 
 Alas for Harry's mother 
 
 And her empty arms this day ! 
 
 Some one has darted to save him, 
 Forth from an awe-struck throng, 
 
 A fearless heart to the rescue, 
 Steady and true and strong. 
 
 Buffeting surge and breaker, 
 
 Straight through the curdling foam, 
 On through the angry waters. 
 
 She is toiling to bring him home. 
 
 Only a child, with girlhood's 
 Clear light in her candid eyes j 
 
 Only a girl, but a woman 
 In her glory of sacrifice. 
 62 
 
On the shore they watch and Hsten. 
 
 Spellbound in dumb despair. 
 Ah ! hark to the shout of triumph, 
 
 That ends in a thankful prayer. 
 
 Edith has saved wee Harry. 
 
 'Twas a noble deed was done, 
 At Bath, that day, by the ocean, 
 
 In the light of the summer sune 
 
WATCHING FOR FATHER 
 
 Watching for somebody, wide brown eyes. 
 Waiting to give him a rare surprise? 
 Oh, is it father, whose horse's feet 
 Fall in the distance smooth and fleet — 
 
 Father, whose heart for many a mile, 
 Forward has leaped to the dear old stile ? 
 Oh, how they'll kiss him, and hold him fast. 
 When father is home with his bairns at 
 last! 
 
 "Hist!" cries sister to baby Will j 
 "Listen, darling! he mounts the hill. 
 Oh, how Selim flies over the ground ! 
 Nearer and nearer the hoof-beats sound."" 
 
 Flowers for father, and looks of joy. 
 Sweetest words shall their tongues employ. 
 Somebody's coming — the dear, the wise ; 
 Shine out to greet him, you bright brown 
 
 eyes. 
 
CHILDREN, SING! 
 
 Children, sing to Him whose love 
 Broods your happy hves above j 
 Raise your tuneful voices high 
 To our Father in the sky — 
 
 For the flowers and for the wheat, 
 For the cold and for the heat, 
 For the fruit and for the grain, 
 For the sunshine and the rain. 
 
 Children, sing to Him whose care 
 Makes the land so rich and fair j 
 Raise your tuneful voices high 
 To our Father in the sky — 
 
 For the mother's look of grace, 
 For the baby's little face, 
 For the morning's smile of bliss, 
 For the happy good-night kiss. 
 
 Children, sing to Him whose hand 
 Rules and guards our native land ; 
 E 65 
 
Lift your joyous voices high 
 To our Father in the sky — 
 
 For the cheery bells that swing. 
 And for freedom peal and ring. 
 And for nation's peace and wealth. 
 For our gladness and our health. 
 
 Children, sing to One whose love 
 Broods your merry days above j 
 Lift your tuneful voices high 
 To our Father in the sky. 
 
MISS FRET AND MISS LAUGH 
 
 Cries little Miss Fret, 
 
 In a very great pet : 
 "I hate this warm weather j it's horrid to 
 tan. 
 
 It scorches my nose, 
 
 And it blisters my toes, 
 And wherever I go I must carry a fan." 
 
 Chirps little Miss Laugh : 
 
 "Why, I couldn't tell half 
 The fun I am having this bright summer day. 
 
 I sing through the hours, 
 
 And cull pretty flowers, 
 And ride like a queen in the sweet-smelling 
 hay." 
 
A SONG 
 
 For sowing and reaping, for cold and for 
 
 heat, 
 For sweets of the flowers, and gold of the 
 
 wheat, 
 For ships in the harbors, for sails on the 
 
 sea, 
 O ! Father in heaven, our songs rise to Thee. 
 
 For parents who care for us day after day. 
 For sisters and brothers, for work and for 
 
 play, 
 For dear little babies so helpless and fair, 
 O ! Father, we send Thee our praise and our 
 
 prayer. 
 
 For teachers who guide us so patiently on. 
 For frolics with mates when our lessons are 
 
 done, 
 P^or shelter and clothing, for every day's food. 
 We bless Thee, our Father, the giver of 
 
 good. 
 
 68 
 
For peace and for plenty, for freedom, for 
 
 rest, 
 For joy in the land from the east to the 
 
 west, 
 For the dear starry flag, with its red, white, 
 
 and blue, 
 We thank Thee from hearts that are honest 
 
 and true. 
 
 For waking and sleeping, for blessings to be. 
 We children would offer our praises to Thee j 
 For God is our Father, and bends from above 
 To keep the round world in the smile of 
 His love. 
 
THE BOOK OF THE YEAR 
 
 Of all the beautiful fancies 
 That cluster about the year, 
 
 Tiptoeing over the threshold 
 When its earliest dawn is here, 
 
 The best is the simple legend 
 Of a book for you and me, 
 
 So fair that our guardian angels 
 Desire its lines to see : 
 
 'Tis full of the brightest pictures 
 Of dream and story and rhyme, 
 
 And the whole wide world together 
 Turns only a page at a time. 
 
 Some of the leaves are dazzling 
 
 With the feather-flakes of the snow 
 
 Some of them thrill to the music 
 Of the merriest winds that blow; 
 
 Some of them keep the secrets 
 That made the roses sweet; 
 
 70 
 
Some of them sway and nestle 
 With the golden heads of wheat. 
 
 I cannot begin to tell you 
 
 Of the lovely things to be 
 In the wonderful Year-book waiting, 
 ' A gift for you and me. 
 
 And a thought most strange and solemn 
 
 Is borne upon my mind : 
 On every page a column 
 
 For ourselves we'll surely find. 
 
 Write what we may upon it, 
 
 The record there will stay 
 Till the books of time are opened 
 
 In the Court of the Judgment Day. 
 
 And should we not be careful 
 Lest the words our fingers write 
 
 Shall rise to shame our faces 
 
 When we stand in the dear Lord's sight ? 
 
 And should we not remember 
 To dread no thought of blame. 
 
 If we sign each page that we finish 
 With faith in the dear Lord's name? 
 
 71 
 
MY BRAVE LADDIE 
 
 Tap, tap, along the pavement, tap. 
 
 It came, a little crutch. 
 A pale-faced lad looked up at me j 
 
 " I do not mind it much," 
 He answered to my pitying look. 
 
 " It might be worse, you know j 
 Some fellows have to stay in bed. 
 
 While I quite fast can go. 
 
 " Oh yes 5 I used to run about — 
 Perhaps I may again j 
 
 The doctor says 'tis wonderful 
 I have so little pain. 
 
 It hurts me now and then, of course- 
 Well, ever since the fall j 
 
 But Fm so very glad, you see, 
 That I can walk at all." 
 
 Tap, tap, the little crutch went on ,• 
 
 I saw the golden hair. 
 The brown eyes wide and all aglow, 
 
 The noble, manly air ^ 
 
And somehow tears a moment came, 
 
 And made my vision dim, 
 While still the laddie's cheerful words 
 
 Were sweet as sweetest hymn. 
 
 " I am so very glad, you see, 
 
 That I can walk at all," 
 Why, that's the way for us to feel 
 
 Whatever griefs befall. 
 I learned a lesson from the boy, 
 
 Who bore with knightly grace, 
 The pain that could not drive the smiles 
 
 From his heroic face. 
 
IN BLUEBERRY-TIME 
 
 A QUIVER of heat on the upland, 
 
 And white lies the dust on the plain, 
 And dark in the west is the beauty 
 
 Of the low cloud that bringeth the rain. 
 Swift home to the nest fly the robins, 
 
 And fleet to the hive wing the bees, 
 And straight to the mother the children 
 
 Rim down the long path through the trees. 
 
 By the farm gate the mother is waiting, 
 
 Her hand hollowed over her eyes: 
 She wants the dear children about her 
 
 When tempests are black in the skies. 
 And safe is the gray little farm-house, 
 
 Though storms may be raving aloof. 
 And the tramp of the rain-host as steady 
 
 As hoof-beats upon the old roof, 
 
 'Tis blueberry-time, and the pasture 
 High up on the hill-side is sweet 
 
 With the fragrance of hay, and the incense 
 Of flowers you crush 'neath your feet, 
 74 
 
The stone-wall is crimsoned with briers, 
 The clematis tangles its spray, 
 
 The deep wine-red plume of the sumac 
 Uplifts like a soldier's at bay. 
 
 With banners all bright for the autumn 
 
 Ere yet the long summer has fled, 
 The grace of the golden-rod swayeth, 
 
 The fair aster raiseth her head. 
 And countless green grasses are waving, 
 
 And ripples the brook as if rhyme 
 Were the syllabled music of Nature, 
 
 In beautiful blueberry-time. 
 
 " Bob White," with his silvery whistle. 
 
 Sings shrill from the heart of the corn. 
 And clear over fir-top and elm-top 
 
 The caw of the black crow is borne j 
 And night falls in shadow and silence. 
 
 Save only the katydid's strain. 
 And the hoot of the owl from the thicket, 
 
 Or the whippoorwill's plaintive refrain. 
 
 'Tis blueberry-time in the mountains. 
 The time of the quiver of heat. 
 
 The time of the sudden down-plashing 
 Of rain that is welcome and sweet. 
 
 The barefooted, brown, dimpled children 
 Troop out with their baskets and pails j 
 75 
 
The rabbits are scared at their laughter, 
 And, startled, forth flutter the quails. 
 
 'Tis blueberry-time, and the mother 
 
 Remembers how she, in her day, 
 Tripped up the steep path by the pasture, 
 
 The path of her laddies to-day ,• 
 And some one was waiting to greet her. 
 
 Up there by the old meadow bars, 
 And they loitered and lingered together 
 
 Till evening had lighted the stars. 
 
 Ah, well ! time has passed j she is older. 
 
 "Wake, dear! It is bedtime," she says 
 To father, who peacefully drowses, 
 
 Tired out after long working-days. 
 The rain dies away in soft patter j 
 
 The children up-stairs are asleep. 
 God guards them ; the dear little family 
 
 His angels are ordered to keep. 
 
GARDENS 
 
 The wide fair gardens, the rich lush gardens, 
 Which no man planted, and no man tills, 
 Their strong seeds drifted, their brave bloom 
 lifted, 
 Near and far o'er the vales and hills ; 
 Sip the bees from their cups of sweetness. 
 
 Poises above them the wild free wing. 
 And night and morn from their doors are 
 borne 
 The dreams of the tunes that blithe hearts 
 sing. 
 
 The waving gardens, the fragrant gardens 
 
 That toss in the sun by the broad high- 
 way, 
 Growing together, gorse and heather. 
 
 Aster and golden-rod all the day. 
 Poppies dark with the wine of slumber. 
 
 Daisies bright with the look of dawn. 
 The gentian blue, and the long year through 
 
 The flowers that carry the seasons on. 
 11 
 
And the dear old gardens, the pleasant gar- 
 dens 
 Where mother used to potter about, 
 Tying and pulling, and sparingly culling, 
 And watching each bud as its flower 
 laughed out j 
 Hollyhocks here, and the prince's feather. 
 Larkspur and primrose, and lilies white. 
 Sweet were the dear old-fashioned gardens 
 Where we kissed the mother, and said 
 "Good-night." 
 
THE AUTUMN WALK 
 
 In the sweet woodland ways, and by 
 The brook that mirrors dear the sky, 
 I find the last dear flowers growing, 
 The last blue asters bravely blowing 5 
 And, floating in a silver mist 
 In opal, rose, and amethyst, 
 A golden cloud of incense drifts 
 And in the soft air wafts and lifts. 
 
 Balsamic scent of pine and fir 
 
 Salutes the forest breeze, astir 
 
 With birds which leave the empty nest 
 
 And sail away in eager quest 
 
 Of summer in some land afar 
 
 Where yet the glowing roses are. 
 
 Through branches dropping amber leaves, 
 
 Past fields and meadows shorn of sheaves. 
 
 O'er uplands fair, in valleys deep, 
 
 The spicy breaths of autumn creep. 
 
 The vines are bent with purple bloom 
 Of clusters dusky in the gloom, 
 79 
 
And giving back the noontide's sheen 
 In fiery lustre through the green 
 And tangled foliage of the grape. 
 O perfume rare, and perfect shape, 
 Swing wide and free, ye censers fair, 
 The year's best wealth is garnered there. 
 
 Erelong the blue-fringed gentian's flower 
 Will light for us a waning hour ^ 
 The pink marsh-mallow's torch will shine 
 Upon the swamp-lands' glimmering line ; 
 The common path will wave with gold, 
 Superb and lavish, bright and bold, 
 And wayside hard and fading sod 
 Laugh out ere pales the golden-rod. 
 
 From spring to autumn every mile 
 Hath known the bliss of Nature's smile j 
 From spring to autumn, day by day, 
 Who would, 'neath Nature's roof might pray. 
 
 The earth is but a splendid shrine 
 For worship of the One Divine, 
 And every plant its censer lifts, 
 And every tree its incense drifts, 
 Where stream and wood and hill and road 
 Thrill to one chord, the praise of God. 
 80 
 
"THE RIPENED LEAVES" 
 
 Said the leaves upon the branches 
 
 One sunny autumn day : 
 " We've finished all our work, and now 
 
 We can no longer stay. 
 So our gowns of red and yellow, 
 
 And our cloaks of sober brown, 
 Must be worn before the frost comes 
 
 And we go rustling down, 
 
 "WeVe had a jolly summer, 
 
 With the birds that built their nests 
 Beneath our green umbrellas, 
 
 And the squirrels that were our quests. 
 But we cannot wait for winter, 
 
 And we do not care for snow ; 
 When we hear the wild northwesters 
 
 We loose our clasp and go. 
 
 " But we hold our heads up bravely 
 
 Unto the very last. 
 And shine in pomp and splendor 
 
 As away we flutter fast. 
 F 8i 
 
In the mellow autumn noontide 
 We kiss and say good-by, 
 
 And through the naked branches 
 Then may children see the sky. 
 
VACATION OVER 
 
 Back again to school, dears, 
 
 Vacation days are done ; 
 You've had your share of frolic, 
 
 And lots of play and fun. 
 YouVe fished in many a brook, dears, 
 
 And climbed up many a hill ; 
 Now back again to school, dears. 
 
 To study with a will. 
 
 We all can work the better 
 
 For having holiday. 
 For playing ball and tennis. 
 
 And riding on the hay. 
 The great old book of Nature 
 
 Prepares us plain to see 
 How very well worth learning 
 
 All other books may be. 
 
 So back again to school, dears. 
 
 Vacation-time is done j 
 YouVe had a merry recess, 
 
 With lots and lots of fun. 
 
 83 
 
YouVe been like colts in pasture, 
 
 Unused to bit and rein j 
 Now steady, ready, children. 
 
 It's time to march and train. 
 
 'Tis only dunces loiter 
 
 When sounds the school-beH's call 
 So fall in ranks, my boys and girls. 
 
 And troop in, one and all. 
 For school is very pleasant 
 
 When, after lots of fun. 
 Vacation days are over, 
 
 And real work's begun. 
 
PUMPKIN PIE 
 
 Through sun and shower the pumpkin 
 
 grew, 
 When the days were long and the skies were 
 
 blue. 
 
 And it felt quite vain when its giant size 
 Was such that it carried away the prize 
 
 At the County Fair, when the people came ; 
 And it wore a ticket and bore a name. 
 
 Alas for the pumpkin's pride ! One day 
 A boy and his mother took it away. 
 
 It was pared and sliced, and pounded and 
 
 stewed, 
 And the way it was treated was harsh and 
 
 rude. 
 
 It was sprinkled with sugar and seasoned 
 
 with spice ; 
 The boy and his mother pronounced it nice. 
 
 85 
 
It was served in a paste, It was baked and 
 
 browned, ' 
 
 And at last on a pantry shelf was found. 
 
 And on Thursday John and Mary and Mabel 
 Will see it on aunty's laden table. 
 
 For the pumpkin grew 'neath a Summer sky 
 Just to turn at Thanksgiving into pie. 
 
THE LITTLE SCHOOLMA'AM 
 
 Speak of queen and empress, 
 
 Or of other ladies royal, 
 Not one of them has half the power 
 
 Or subjects half so loyal 
 As she, the little schoolma'am, 
 
 Who trips along the way 
 To take the chair she makes a throne 
 
 At nine o'clock each day. 
 
 Her rule is ever gentle ,• 
 
 Her tones are low and sweet 
 She is very trim and tidy 
 
 From her head unto her feet 
 And it matters very little 
 
 If her eyes be brown or blue 
 They simply read your inmost heart 
 
 Whene'er she looks at you. 
 
 The children bring her presents, 
 
 Red apples, flowers galore. 
 For all the merry girls and boys 
 
 This queen of theirs adore. 
 
 87 
 
The darling little schoolma'am, 
 Who reigns without a peer 
 
 In a hundred thousand class-rooms 
 This gayly flying year. 
 
PROUD MOTHERS 
 
 '^ There never, no, never, were babies like 
 mine !" 
 Clucks proud Mother Hen, as she leads 
 them about, 
 Her fluffy and puffy and plump little nine. 
 Oh, sweet little chicks from the shell's 
 prison out ! 
 
 "Talk not of your beauties," cries vain 
 Mother Mare j 
 "Just look at my colt, with his rough coat 
 of frieze. 
 And his dear little feet, that are glad to go 
 bare. 
 Dressed up in white stockings half-way to 
 the knees." 
 
 "If you want a King's treasure, come peep 
 in the crib — 
 My baby is here !" says the Queen, with a 
 laucrh. 
 
" I might sing you his wonderful charms, 
 dear, full glib, 
 But a year would go by, and I could not 
 tell half." 
 
INDIAN SUMMER 
 
 A FLICKER of flame in the hollow, 
 
 Gold-threaded and amber the air ; 
 Loose leaflets, and others to follow, 
 
 Till oak bough and maple are bare. 
 Sweet, sweet the last sigh of the summer. 
 
 When gathered and bound are the sheaves j 
 And a lorn empty nest, that was blithe with 
 the best. 
 
 Clings close to the wind-shaken eaves. 
 
BY THE WAVES 
 
 Crisp and curling, soft unfurling 
 
 Caps of silver foam. 
 Haste the breakers, frolic-makers. 
 
 Chasing playmates home. 
 Tripping, skipping, slipping, dripping, 
 
 Fast the children fly 
 Up the shingle, toes a-tingle — 
 
 So the day goes by. 
 
 Wavelets creaming, sunshine gleaming 5 
 
 In the shining sands. 
 Gay and merry, bold and cheery, 
 
 Delve the small brown hands. 
 Drifting, lifting, rifting, sifting, 
 
 'Neath the smiling sky j 
 On the shingle pleasures mingle, 
 
 And the day goes by. 
 
 Great clouds glowing, wild winds blowing, 
 
 Night draws on apace ,• 
 Eyes deep yearning see the burning 
 
 Lamps in starry space. 
 92 
 
Flying, sighing, low replying. 
 Thoughts salute the sky ; 
 
 Home we gather, oh ! our Father, 
 And the day goes by. 
 
THE FOUR WINDS 
 
 The wind o' the West 
 I love it best. 
 The wind o' the East 
 I love it least. 
 
 The wind o' the South 
 Has sweet in its mouth. 
 The wind o' the North 
 Sends great storms forth. 
 
 Taken together, all sorts or weather 
 
 The four old fellows are sure to bring — 
 Hurry and flurry, rush and scurry, 
 Sighing and dying, and flitting and flying, 
 Through summer and autumn and winter 
 and spring. 
 
THE LITTLE ONES HE BLESSED 
 
 I WONDER if ever the children 
 
 Who were blessed by the Master of old 
 Forgot he had made them his treasures, 
 
 The dear little lambs of His fold. 
 I wonder if, angry and wilful, 
 
 They wandered afar and astray. 
 The children whose feet had been guided 
 
 So safe and so soon in the way. 
 
 One would think that the mothers at evening 
 
 Soft smoothing the silk-tangled hair. 
 And low leaning down to the murmur 
 
 Of sweet childish voices in prayer, 
 Oft bade the small pleaders to listen, 
 
 If haply again they might hear 
 The words of the gentle Redeemer 
 
 Borne swift to the reverent ear. 
 
 And my heart cannot cherish the fancy 
 That ever those children went wrong 
 
 And were lost from the peace and the shelter, 
 
 Shut out from the feast and the song. 
 
 95 
 
To the days of gray hairs they remembered, 
 I think, how the hands that were riven 
 
 Were laid on their heads when Christ uttered, 
 " Of such is the kingdom of heaven." 
 
 He has said it to you, little darling, 
 
 Who spell it in God's Word to-day j 
 You, too, may be sorry for sinning, 
 
 You also believe and obey j 
 And 'twill grieve the dear Saviour in heaven 
 
 If one little child shall go wrong, 
 Be lost from the fold and the shelter. 
 
 Shut out from the feast and the song. 
 
[Page 4 
 
 JEANIE's CHRISTMAS JOURNEY 
 
A DRUMMER 
 
 I'm only a drummer j IVe nothing to do 
 But to beat my brave drum and make music 
 for you. 
 
 I'm only a drummer, not quite twelve years 
 
 old, 
 But I hope that my heart is full twenty years 
 
 bold. 
 
 I do not give orders, IVe just to obey, 
 As quick as a flash, what my officers say. 
 
 There are fellows who think that my task 
 
 must be light, 
 Just beating a drum with a merry boy's 
 
 might. 
 
 Yet drummers no taller than I am are found 
 In low little beds in the land's holy ground. 
 
 They followed the flag, in the days long ago. 
 When it waved its defiance, whoe'er was the 
 
 foe. 
 G 97 
 
They timed to the bugles, so shrill and so 
 
 sweet, 
 And they faltered alone when the call was 
 
 retreat. 
 
 Oh, brave drummer boys ! though you lived 
 
 or you died, 
 I look at your record and stand by your side, 
 
 And beat my brave drum with the gladness 
 
 of love — 
 'Tis the flag of our Union that's flying above ! 
 
THE POET'S VACANT THRONE 
 
 From the chair the children gave him, where 
 he sat as on a throne, 
 
 While they clustered round him fondly, claim- 
 ing him as all their own, 
 
 He has gone, the poet stately, aureoled with 
 snowy hair j 
 
 If we looked, we could not find him in this 
 wide world anywhere. 
 
 If we called, he would not answer — he, so 
 
 swift to smile and bless 
 Every little child who sought him with a 
 
 gracious tenderness j 
 Though we wept, he would not hear us : he 
 
 has gone too far away, 
 And the children's chair in Cambridge is a 
 
 vacant throne to-day. 
 
 But we'll hie to fair Mount Auburn, hand in 
 
 hand with April days. 
 There to wreathe the children's garland, 'mid 
 
 the green immortal bays ,• 
 99 
 
Shy arbutus, valley-lilies, violets breaking into 
 
 bloom. 
 Sparkling with the children's tear-drops, shall 
 
 adorn the poet's tomb. 
 
 There he slumbers, oh, so deeply ! all his 
 
 earthly labors done, 
 Never more a care to vex him 'neath the 
 
 ever-circling sun. 
 Ages hence, of tender memories, this shall 
 
 farthest fragrance send, 
 That the poet, sage, and scholar was the 
 
 children's steadfast friend. 
 
 Like his Master, he would suffer tiny hands 
 to pluck his gown j 
 
 Fearlessly the small feet thronged him, unre- 
 buked by word or frown. 
 
 Surely he was met in heaven by a white- 
 robed shining band, 
 
 Since before our Father alway do the chil- 
 dren's angels stand. 
 
A MOTHER'S BOY 
 
 His cap is old, but his hair is gold, 
 
 And his face is clear as the sky ; 
 And whoever he meets, on lanes or streets, 
 
 He looks him straight in the eye. 
 With a fearless pride that has naught to 
 hide. 
 
 Though he bows like a little knight. 
 Quite debonair, to a lady fair. 
 
 With a smile that is swift as light. 
 
 Does his mother call ? Not kite, or ball, 
 
 Or the prettiest game, can stay 
 His eager feet as he hastes to greet 
 
 Whatever she means to say. 
 And the teachers depend on the little friend 
 
 At school in his place at nine. 
 With his lessons learned and his good marks 
 earned, 
 
 All ready to toe the line. 
 
 I wonder if you have seen him too, 
 This boy, who is not too big 
 
 lOI 
 
For a morning kiss from mother and Sis, 
 
 Who isn't a bit of a prig, 
 But gentle and strong, and the whole day 
 long 
 
 As merry as boy can be. 
 A gentleman, dears, in the coming years, 
 
 And at present the boy for me. 
 
BEES IN THE MEADOW 
 
 Bees in the meadow, 
 Birds on the bough, 
 
 Bloom on the hillside — 
 Play-time is now. 
 
 Stones in the pasture, 
 Weeds in the bed j 
 
 Haying and harvest. 
 Hard work ahead. 
 
 Loud sings the robin, 
 
 " IF you'd be gay, 
 Take to the work, lad, 
 
 The heart of the play." 
 
LITTLE HANS 
 
 Little Hans was helping mother 
 
 Carry home the lady's basket,- 
 Chubby hands of course were lifting 
 
 One great handle — can you ask it ? 
 As he tugged away beside her, 
 
 Feeling oh! so brave and strong, 
 Little Hans was softly singing 
 
 To himself a little song : 
 
 " Some time Fll be tall as father, 
 
 Though I think it's very funny. 
 And I'll work and build big houses, 
 
 And give mother all the money. 
 For," and little Hans stopped singing, 
 
 Feeling oh ! so strong and grand, 
 " I have got the sweetest mother 
 
 You can find in all the land." 
 
THE CALL OF THE CROW 
 
 Caw ! caw ! caw ! 
 
 Over the standing corn 
 
 The cheery cry is borne — 
 Caw ! caw ! caw ! 
 
 Caw ! caw ! caw ! 
 
 Into the school-room door, 
 Over the clean-swept floor — 
 
 Caw ! caw ! caw ! 
 
 Caw ! caw ! caw ! 
 
 The crow he is free to fly, 
 But the boy must cipher and sigh- 
 Caw ! caw ! caw ! 
 
 Caw ! caw ! caw ! 
 
 And I wish I could go with him 
 Where the woods are wild and dim- 
 Caw ! caw ! caw ! 
 
TWO BOYS 
 
 "A FELLOW can't have any fun," 
 
 Says Harry at the pane ; 
 " I wish the tiresome day were done — 
 
 I hate the horrid rain. 
 That boy looks jolly over there j 
 
 His clothes are nice and old j 
 I'm sure his mother doesn't care 
 
 How often he takes cold." 
 
 " Some fellows do have lots of fun," 
 
 Sighs Jimmy in the street j 
 " Up at the window there is one 
 
 Who has enough to eat. 
 And books to read and clothes to wear, 
 
 And pleasant things to see j 
 I don't believe that boy would care 
 
 To change awhile with me." 
 
THE MERRY WIND 
 
 The merry wind came racing 
 
 Adown the hills one day, 
 In gleeful frolic chasing 
 
 The rustling leaves away. 
 In clouds of red and yellow 
 
 He whirled the leaves along, 
 And then, the jolly fellow, 
 
 He sang a cheery song. 
 
 The merry wind was weary 
 
 At last of fun and play ; 
 His voice grew faint and eerie, 
 
 And softly died away. 
 Far off a crow was calling. 
 
 And in the mellow sun 
 The painted leaves kept falling, 
 
 And fading, one by one. 
 
A LITTLE FAIRY 
 
 We have a little fairy, 
 
 Who flits about the house, 
 As gleeful as a cricket, 
 
 As quiet as a mouse. 
 She brings papa his slippers, 
 
 She runs up-stairs and down. 
 The dearest little fairy 
 
 In all the busy town. 
 
PICKING BERRIES 
 
 Away to the hillside on swift little feet, 
 Trot quick through the meadows in shad- 
 ow and sun j 
 Broad brims and deep crowns over brows 
 that are sweet, 
 And round rosy cheeks that are dimpling 
 with fiin. 
 
 And home from the hillside on slow little 
 feet. 
 With baskets as heavy as faces are bright ; 
 And who will be first the dear mother to 
 greet, 
 And see her surprise and her look of de- 
 light ? 
 
 But she never will dream, by the berries they 
 bring, 
 Of the millions they left where the sweet 
 berries grow, 
 Away on the hills where the merry birds sing. 
 And the brook dances down to the valley 
 below. 
 
 109 
 
CAUGHT IN A SHOWER 
 
 Oh, where did it come from, I wonder ? 
 
 T'here wasn't a cloud in the sky, 
 And the first thing I heard was the thunder, 
 
 The first thing I did was to cry. 
 
 There goes a bright flash ! there's another ! 
 
 I never was caught this way before. 
 I wish I was home with my mother, 
 
 And out of this terrible pour. 
 
A LITTLE MARAUDER 
 
 Oh, .Robin, my Robin, so clever and merry, 
 Pray, why do you never peck twice at a 
 
 cherry ? 
 You fly at the daintiest one you can see. 
 Eat a morsel yourself, and just spoil it for me. 
 
 Oh, Robin, sweet Robin, you dear little war- 
 den. 
 
 You're welcome to feast on the fruit in my 
 garden : 
 
 I know what invaders you're driving away 
 
 From flower and tree through the long sum- 
 mer day. 
 
 But, Robin, bright Robin, please listen to 
 
 reason : 
 You waste lots of cherries, my pet, every 
 
 season. 
 I fiinish my cake to the very last crumb — 
 Why cannot you finish your cherry or plum ? 
 
MUD PIES 
 
 Sweetened with sugar, and sprinkled with 
 
 spice, 
 Apple turn-overs are really nice j 
 But make-believe pies are a great deal more 
 
 fun, 
 When little cooks bake them out here in 
 
 the sun. 
 
 With soft coaxing touches they mix up the 
 
 dough — 
 Brown flour is said to be wholesome, you 
 
 know ; 
 And though little fingers may gather a stain. 
 Why, water and soap will soon wash them 
 
 again. 
 
 And after the wonderful baking is done — 
 The merriest baking out here in the sun — 
 The sweet little cooks will be happy to take. 
 If some one will give it, a true slice of cake. 
 
ELSIE'S THANKSGIVING 
 
 Dolly, it's almost Thanksgiving. Do you 
 
 know what I mean, my dear ? 
 No ? Well, I couldn't expect it : you haven't 
 
 been with us a year. 
 And you came with my auntie from Paris, 
 
 far over the wide, blue sea, 
 And you'll keep your first Thanksgiving, my 
 
 beautiful Dolly, with me. 
 
 I'll tell you about it, my darling, for grand- 
 ma's explained it all. 
 
 So that I understand why Thanksgiving al- 
 ways comes late in the fall, 
 
 When the nuts and the apples are gathered, 
 and the work in the fields is done. 
 
 And the fields, all reaped and silent, are 
 asleep in the autumn sun. 
 
 It is then that we praise our Father, who 
 
 sends the rain and the dew. 
 Whose wonderful loving -kindness is every 
 
 morning new ; 
 H 113 
 
Unless we'd be heathen, Dolly, or worse, we 
 
 must sing and pray, 
 And think about good things, Dolly, when 
 
 we keep Thanksgiving-day. 
 
 But I like it very much better when from 
 
 church we all go home, 
 And the married brothers and sisters and 
 
 the troops of cousins come, 
 And we're ever so long at the table, and 
 
 dance and shout and play. 
 In the merry evening, Dolly, that ends 
 
 Thanksgiving-day. 
 
 Now let me whisper a secret : Fve had a 
 
 trouble to bearj 
 It has made me feel quite old, dear, and 
 
 perfectly crushed with care 5 
 'Twas about my prettiest kitten, the white 
 
 one with spots of black — 
 I loved her devotedly, Dolly. IVe been 
 
 anvfully angry ivith Jaok ; 
 
 So mad that I couldn't forgive him 5 and I 
 wouldn't kiss him good-night. 
 
 For he lost my kitty on purpose, shut up in 
 a bag so tight j 
 
 114 
 
He carried her miles and miles, dear, and 
 dropped her down in the dark j 
 
 I would not wonder a bit, dear, if he took 
 her to Central Park. 
 
 And then he came home to supper, as proud 
 
 as a boy could be. 
 I wonder, Dolly, this minute how he dared 
 
 to be looking at me, 
 When I called my Kitty and called her, 
 
 and of course she didn't come, 
 And Jack pored over his Latin as if he 
 
 were deaf and dumb. 
 
 When I found out what he had done, dear, 
 
 it was just like lead in my heart ; 
 Though mamma is as kind as an angel, I 
 
 knew she would take his part. 
 Suppose Kitty did chase the chickens ? — they 
 
 might have kept out of her way. 
 Fve been so sorrowful, Dolly, IVe dreaded 
 
 Thanksgiving-day. 
 
 For ril never pretend to be good, dear, when 
 I feel all wrong in my mind ,• 
 
 And as for giving up Kitty, Fm not in the 
 least resigned. 
 
 1^5 
 
And IVe known with deep grief, Dolly — 
 known it a long time back — 
 
 That I couldn't keep Thanksgiving while I 
 hated my brother Jack. 
 
 For you cannot love God and praise Him 
 
 when you're cherishing anger this way 5 
 IVe tried hard to conquer it, Dolly — I gave 
 
 Jack two pears to-day ; 
 I've mended his mittens for him — Why, 
 
 who is this creeping in ? 
 Why, it's surely my own white kitten, so 
 
 tired and grimed and thin ! 
 
 And now we nvill keep Thanksgiving — Dolly 
 
 and Kitty and I j 
 I'll go to church in the morning. I'm so 
 
 glad, I'm afraid I'll cry. 
 Oh, Kitty ! my lost, my treasure, you have 
 
 found your own way back, 
 And now I'll forget my troubles, and be 
 
 friends again with Jack. 
 
OUR LITTLE ECHO 
 
 We have an echo in our house, 
 
 An echo three years old, 
 With dimpled cheeks and wistful eyes, 
 
 And hair of sunny gold. 
 
 This little echo, soft and sweet. 
 
 Repeats what others say, 
 And trots about on tireless feet, 
 
 Up stairs and down all day. 
 
 It makes us very careful not 
 
 To use a naughty word. 
 Lest in the echo's lisping tones 
 
 It should again be heard. 
 
 Which would be such a dreadful thing. 
 
 As any one may see. 
 Who has an echo in his house 
 
 A little over three. 
 
THE COMPANY WHO TRY 
 
 Yes, I love the little winner 
 
 With the medal and the mark j 
 He has gained the prize he sought for, 
 
 He is joyous as a lark. 
 Every one will haste to praise him, 
 
 He is on the honor list 5 
 F've a tender thought, my darlings. 
 
 For the one who tried, and missed. 
 
 One ? Ah, me ! They count by thousands. 
 
 Those who have not gained the race. 
 Though they did their best and fairest, 
 
 Striving for the winner's place. 
 Only few can reach the laurel, 
 
 Many see their chance flit byj 
 F've a tender thought, my darlings. 
 
 For the earnest band who try. 
 
 'Tis the trying that is noble. 
 
 If you're made of sterner stuff 
 Than the laggards who are daunted 
 
 When the bit of road is rough. 
 
All will praise the happy winners ,• 
 But, when they have hurried by, 
 
 IVe a song to cheer, my darlings. 
 The great company who try. 
 
WORK FOR LITTLE FOLLOWERS 
 
 There's always work in plenty for little 
 
 hands to do. 
 Something waiting every day, that none may 
 
 try but you,- 
 Little burdens you may lift, happy steps that 
 
 you may take, 
 Heavy hearts that you may comfort for the 
 
 blessed Saviour's sake. 
 
 There's room for children's service in this 
 
 busy world of ours j 
 We need them as we need the birds and 
 
 need the summer flowers ; 
 And their help at task and toiling the 
 
 Church of God may claim, 
 And gather little followers in Jesus' holy 
 
 name. 
 
 There are words for little lips, sweetest 
 
 words of hope and cheer ; 
 They will have the spell of music for many 
 
 a tired ear. 
 
Don't you wish your gentle words might 
 lead some souls to look above, 
 
 Finding rest and peace and guidance in the 
 dear Redeemer's love ? 
 
 There are orders meant for you, swift and 
 
 jubilant they ring. 
 Oh, the bliss of being trusted on the errands 
 
 of the King ! 
 Fearless march in royal service j not an evil 
 
 can befall 
 Those who do the gracious bidding, hasting 
 
 at the Master's call. 
 
 There are songs which children only are glad 
 enough to sing — 
 
 Songs that are full of sunshine as the sun- 
 niest hour of spring. 
 
 Won't you sing them till our sorrows seem 
 the easier to bear, 
 
 As we feel how safe we're sheltered in our 
 blessed Saviour's care ? 
 
 Yes, there's always work in plenty for the 
 
 little ones to do, 
 Something waiting every day that none may 
 
 try but you j 
 
Little burdens you may lift, happy steps that 
 
 you may take. 
 Heavy hearts that you may comfort, doing it 
 
 for Jesus' sake. 
 
A FELLOW'S MOTHER 
 
 "A fellow's mother," said Will the wise, 
 With his rosy cheeks and his merry eyes, 
 " Knows what to do if a fellow gets hurt 
 By a thump, or a bruise, or a fall in the 
 dirt. 
 
 "A fellow's mother has bags and strings. 
 Rags and buttons, and lots of things ; 
 No matter how busy she is, she'll stop 
 To see how well you can spin your top. 
 
 " She does not care — not much, I mean — 
 If a fellow's face is not always clean j 
 And if your trousers are torn at the knee. 
 She can put in a patch that you'd never see. 
 
 "A fellow's mother is never mad, 
 And only sorry, if you're bad ,• 
 And I'll tell you this : if you're only true. 
 She'll always forgive you, whate'er you do. 
 123 
 
'• Fm sure of this," said Will the wise, 
 With a manly look in his laughing eyes ; 
 " ril mind my mother, quick, every day — 
 A fellow's a baby that won't obey." 
 
WHERE THE TROLLS ARE BUSY 
 
 Where the trolls are busy, 
 
 Underneath the snow, 
 There is stirring, there is whirring, 
 
 Of flowers that yet will blow. 
 
 The little trolls are spinning 
 The crocus garments gay, 
 
 Cups of honey, colors sunny, 
 To see the light one day. 
 
 Beneath the great oak's foot, dears, 
 And by the frozen stream, 
 
 On her pillow Pussywillow 
 Is waking from a dream. 
 
 For, oh ! the trolls are busy. 
 When wintry breezes blow. 
 
 Weaving flowers for summer hours, 
 Deep down beneath the snow. 
 
GIRLS OF THE PERIOD 
 
 They tell me 'twas the fashion, 
 
 Oh, long and long ago, 
 For girls to look like lilies white, 
 
 And sit at home and sew. 
 Forth strode their sturdy brothers, 
 
 On many a gallant quest ; 
 But the maids behind the lattice 
 
 Their weary souls possessed. 
 
 To-day the times have altered. 
 
 And pretty Kate and Nell 
 Are playing golf and tennis — 
 
 In sooth, they do it well. 
 They ride across the country, 
 
 They climb the mountain side. 
 And with oars that feather lightly 
 
 Along the rivers glide. 
 
 If they've not yet been to college, 
 They are going, by-and-by, 
 
 To shake the tree of knowledge, 
 
 Though its branches touch the sky. 
 126 
 
For all their Greek and Latin, 
 
 And poring over books, 
 With faces smooth as satin, 
 
 They keep their dainty looks. 
 
 Do you want a happy comrade, 
 
 Wherever you may be ? 
 Be sure you'll find her quickly 
 
 Where a troop of girls you see. 
 She'll keep that bright head steady, 
 
 Unharmed in any whirl, 
 And not a lad will love her less 
 
 Because she is a girl. 
 
AFTER THE MATCH 
 
 Both Nines could not beat, of course ! 
 
 One must be the winner ! 
 Shouting till our throats were hoarse, 
 
 Home we went to dinner. 
 
 And the little sister there 
 
 Met the Nine defeated 
 With so very sweet an air, 
 
 All their gloom retreated. 
 
 *' Oh, such meanness !" she exclaimed j 
 " Why, your game was splendid. 
 
 Everybody felt ashamed 
 At the way it ended. 
 
 " Tou were fne /" she firmly said, 
 
 Beaming on her brothers j 
 " Such a fuss !" she shook her head, 
 
 " Just about the others !" 
 
JOE 
 
 Bright brown eyes and tangled hair, 
 Rosy cheek beneath the tan, 
 
 Fearless head on shoulders square — 
 That is Joe, the little man, 
 Helping mother all he can. 
 
 Father is away at sea 
 
 (Oh, the vessel tarries long !) 
 
 Lonely would the cottage be, 
 Many a weary day go wrong, 
 But for Joe, with shout and song. 
 
 Rough the weather, fierce the gales, 
 Wild the nights upon the shore : 
 
 Oft the dear wife's courage fails. 
 When she hears the breakers roar. 
 Lest her sailor come no more. 
 
 Joe, with lion heart and leal. 
 Tells her it is safe outside ; 
 
 That the deep sea does not feel 
 All the troubles of the tide ; 
 That the good ship safe will ride. 
 129 
 
Mother heeds her comforter : 
 He is only eight years old. 
 
 But his earnest words to her 
 Are as rubies set in gold — 
 Precious with a worth untold. 
 
A LOST CHRISTMAS 
 
 Little Gladys lost her Christmas 
 
 Just a year ago, 
 When the world was bright with holly, 
 
 And glittering white with snow. 
 A hateful Fever Dragon, 
 
 With footsteps like a mouse, 
 All in the dead of night, my dears. 
 
 Crept softly through the house. 
 
 The dragon's wicked art, dears. 
 
 Caught Gladys in a spell. 
 And in a tower's very top 
 
 For weeks she had to dwell. 
 The doctor quarantined her. 
 
 And cut off her golden hair ,• 
 And never a sound of Christmas 
 
 Stole up her guarded stair. 
 
 At last the strong health-angels 
 Came winging from the sky. 
 
 And before their breath of life, dears, 
 The fiend was fain to fly. 
 131 
 
But spring, with birds and flowers, 
 Tripped down the hills amain 
 
 Before our little darling 
 Was safe and well again. 
 
 And thus she lost her Christmas ! 
 
 It was so very sad, 
 To be lying ill with fever 
 
 When all the world was glad. 
 Not any Christmas pleasure, 
 
 But weary hours of pain ; 
 Forgotten, to be sure, dears. 
 
 When the child was well again. 
 
 This year, her happy mother. 
 
 With eyes that shine for joy. 
 Has planned a double Christmas, 
 
 With doll, and tree, and toy, 
 And a lovely Christmas party, 
 
 And a merry Christmas play. 
 To make her precious treasure. 
 
 If possible, twice gay. 
 
 " Two Christmas days in one, dear, 
 Because of that you lost, 
 
 When the cruel fever burned you, 
 And in bed you raved and tossed. 
 
 " But not all to myself, please ?" 
 Our little Gladys said, 
 132 
 
For the Christ-child in His wisdom 
 The little maiden led. 
 
 A hospital for children, 
 
 Where little ones are brought 
 In sickness and in suffering, 
 
 Our Gladys has in thought. 
 There many a tiny cot, dears, 
 
 Will have its share of joy 
 From Gladys this dear Christmas, 
 
 In flower, and doll, and toy. 
 
 So 'twas not wholly lost, dears, 
 
 Last year that Christmas-day, 
 Though the Christmas angels tarried 
 
 So long upon the way. 
 There are little faces beaming. 
 
 And eyes alight with cheer, 
 For a Christmas shared with Gladys 
 
 This happy, happy year. 
 
A CHILD'S PUZZLES 
 
 Pray, where do the Old Years go, mamma, 
 
 When their work is over and done ? 
 Does somebody tuck them away to sleep, 
 
 Quite out of the sight of the sun ? 
 Or, perhaps, are they shut into crystal jars 
 
 And set away on a shelf. 
 In a beautiful closet behind the stars, 
 
 Each Year in a place by itself? 
 
 Was there ever a year that made a mistake. 
 
 And stayed when its time was o'er. 
 Till it had to hurry its poor old feet, 
 
 When the New Year knocked at the door ? 
 I wish you a happy New Year, mamma — 
 
 I am sure new things are nice — 
 And this one comes with a merry face, 
 
 And plenty of snow and ice. 
 
 But I only wish I had kept awake 
 
 Till the Old Year made his bow. 
 For what he said when the clock struck 
 twelve 
 I shall never find out now. 
 134 
 
Do you think he was tired and glad to rest ? 
 
 Do you think that he said good-bye, 
 Or faded away alone in the dark, 
 
 Without so much as a sigh ? 
 
 Do I bother you now? Must I run away? 
 
 Why, that's what you always say ,• 
 The New Year's just the same as the Old — 
 
 I might as well go and play. 
 Oh, look at those sparrows, so pert and spry ! 
 
 They are waiting to get their crumbs. 
 For the New Year's sake they shall have 
 some cake, 
 
 And I hope they'll fight for the plums. 
 
AT EASTER 
 
 I DID not grow tired of winter, 
 
 I was glad of the snow and the cold j 
 I liked the weather when flake and feather 
 
 Were flying o'er field and wold j 
 But now I am glad of the sunshine 
 
 That is calling the robins back, 
 Of the beautiful flowers, the long bright 
 hours. 
 
 And the bloom in the spring-time's track. 
 
 I am making a splendid garden 
 
 With the plants that I love best,- 
 There sparrows will quarrel o'er mint and 
 laurel, 
 
 And orioles hang a nest. 
 I shall bring from the deep old forest 
 
 All fairylike things I see. 
 And trooping after, with song and laughter, 
 
 The fairies will follow me. 
 
 I have heard that Mother Nature, 
 A dame so wise and kind, 
 136 
 
Is always spinning a sweet beginning 
 For the lives she keeps in mind. 
 
 She tends the snow-drop hardy. 
 And the jonquil's merry race, 
 
 She lines her pillows with pussy-willows, 
 And kisses the pansy's face. 
 
 You see I am just eleven, 
 
 I have lots of things to do j 
 And all our learning is well worth earning. 
 
 If what folks tell be true. 
 I am glad, so glad, 'tis Easter, 
 
 When the tiny bluebells chime ; 
 But, somehow, eleven is so near heaven, 
 
 I am happy 'most all the time. 
 
THE LITTLE GREEN BEDS 
 
 There are little green beds in many a row 
 On our hill-sides fair and our valleys low, 
 And, lying still in their hollows deep, 
 The gallant soldiers are fast asleep. 
 Oh, gently we tread when we pass a mound, 
 Which, under the flag, is holy ground. 
 
 And over our country, here and there, 
 Those little green beds grow bright and fair 
 When the May flowers drop in the lap of 
 
 June, 
 And sweet in the pastures the wild bees croon. 
 With banner and bugle and beat of drum. 
 To honor the brave the people come. 
 
 They come with the roses red and white, 
 And the starry lilies as pure as light j 
 They scatter the blossoms everywhere. 
 And the perfume thrills on the sighing air 
 As they wreathe with beauty each lowly 
 
 mound 
 That, under the flag, is holy ground. 
 138 
 
O children, glad as the summer skies, 
 With your dancing dimples and laughing 
 
 eyes, 
 Little you dream of the wild work done 
 Ere the soldiers' rest in these beds was won ; 
 And you only know that here brave ones lie 
 Fast asleep as the years go by. 
 Nothing they heed of the work or play 
 Of the busy world in the merry May. 
 Though life was sweet to the hero band, 
 They died for love of our native landj 
 And so we garland each lowly mound 
 That, under the flag, is holy ground. 
 
THE SNOW-FLAKE 
 
 It was a little snow-flake 
 
 With tiny winglets furled ; 
 Its warm cloud-mother held it fast 
 
 Above the sleeping world. 
 All night the wild winds blustered 
 
 And blew o'er land and sea, 
 But the little snow-flake cuddled close. 
 
 As safe as safe could be. 
 
 Then came the cold, gray morning. 
 
 And the great cloud-mother said, 
 " Now every little snow-flake 
 
 Must proudly lift its head, 
 And through the air go sailing, 
 
 Till it finds a place to alight, 
 For I must weave a coverlet 
 
 To clothe the world in white." 
 
 The little snow-flake fluttered 
 
 And gave a wee, wee sigh. 
 But fifty million other flakes 
 
 Came softly floating by. 
 140 
 
And the wise cloud-mothers sent them 
 To keep the world's bread warm, 
 
 Through many a winter sunset, 
 And many a night of storm. 
 
THE LITTLE "FRESH- AIRS" 
 
 What shall we show them, the little Fresh- 
 Airs, 
 When out to the country they come from 
 town ? 
 Why, the swallow's nest and the oriole's 
 breast. 
 And the fan -tailed pigeons gray and 
 brown. 
 
 The fluffy chicks and their clucking mother, 
 The little colt with his slender legs, 
 
 The lambkins, one just like another. 
 
 And the nooks in the barn where we hunt 
 for eggs. 
 
 Where will they sleep, the little Fresh- Airs, 
 In a hurry to get to their beds at night. 
 
 After a day of the merriest play — 
 
 A day that they say is " out of sight " ? 
 
 They will sleep in little white beds as soft 
 As the down that ruffles the goose's throat; 
 
 142 
 
[Page 142 
 
 THE LITTLE FRESH-AIRS 
 
The pillows that wait for their drowsy heads 
 Will float them off in the dreamland's 
 boat. 
 
 What shall we teach them, the little Fresh- 
 Airs, 
 As they sit at our table and eat our food ? 
 We will try to behave by the rule He gave 
 Who taught the world to be kind and 
 good. 
 
 And it wouldn't be strange should our 
 
 mothers think, 
 
 When the small Fresh -Airs had said 
 
 good-bye. 
 
 We could be as ready, as prompt and steady, 
 
 As our guests themselves if we'd only try. 
 
TO-DAY 
 
 When is the golden time ? you ask — 
 
 The golden time for love ; 
 The time when earth is green beneath, 
 
 And skies are blue above • 
 The time for sturdy health and strength, 
 
 The time for happy play. 
 When is the golden hour ? you ask ,• 
 
 I answer you, " To-day." 
 
 To-day, that from the Maker's hand 
 Slips on the great world sea 
 
 As stanch as ever ship that launched 
 To sail eternally j 
 
 To-day, that wafts to you and me 
 A breath of Eden's prime, 
 
 That greets us, glad and large and free- 
 It is our golden time. 
 
 For Yesterday hath veiled her face, 
 
 And gone as far away 
 As sands that swept the pyramids 
 
 In Egypt's ancient day. 
 144 
 
No man shall look on Yesterday, 
 Or tryst with her again. 
 
 Forever gone her toils, her prayers, 
 Her conflicts, and her pain. 
 
 To-morrow is not ours to hold 5 
 
 May never come to bless 
 Or blight our lives with weal or ill, 
 
 With gladness or distress j 
 No man shall clasp To-morrow's hand, 
 
 Nor catch her on the way 5 
 For when we reach To-morrow's land. 
 
 She'll be, by then, To-day. 
 
 You ask me for the golden time — 
 
 I bid you " seize the hour," 
 And fill it full of earnest work. 
 
 While yet you have the power. 
 To-day the golden time for joy 
 
 Beneath the household eaves ^ 
 To-day the royal time for work. 
 
 For " bringing in the sheaves." 
 
 To-day the golden time for peace. 
 
 For righting olden feuds ; 
 For sending forth from every heart 
 Whatever sin intrudes j 
 K 14s 
 
To-day the time to consecrate 
 Your life to God above j 
 
 To-day the time to banish hate, 
 The golden time for love. 
 
A NEW YEAR 
 
 Just at the turn of the midnight, 
 
 When the children are fast asleep, 
 The tired Old Year slips out by himself. 
 Glad of a chance to be laid on the shelf, 
 And the New Year takes a peep 
 
 At the beautiful world that is waiting 
 For the hours that he will bring : 
 
 For the wonderful things in his peddler's 
 pack 5 
 
 Weather, all sorts, there will be no lack, 
 And many a marvellous thing. 
 
 Flowers, by hosts and armies, 
 
 Stars and sunshine and rain ! 
 The merry times and the sorrowful times, 
 Quickstep and jingle and dirge and chimes, 
 
 And the weaving of joy and pain. 
 
 When the children wake in the morning, 
 Shouting their " Happy New Year," 
 
 147 
 
The year will be started well on his way. 
 Swinging along through his first white day, 
 With the path before him clear. 
 
 Twelve long months for his journey j 
 
 Fifty-two weeks of a spell j 
 At the end of it all he'll slip out by himself, 
 Glad of a chance to be laid on the shelf, 
 
 At the stroke of the midnight bell. 
 
 THE END 
 
By MRS. SANGSTER 
 
 On the Road Home. Poems. By 
 Margaret E. Sangster. With Four 
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