Sail far o'er the fabulous main ! And if I were a sailor, I'd sail with you, Though I never sailed back again. The Land of Story-Books* Now, with my little gun, I crawl There, in the night, where none can spy、 All in my hunter's camp I lie, And play at books that I have read Till it is time to go to bed. These are the hills, these are the woods, These are my starry solitudes; And there the river by whose brink The roaring lions come to drink. *From "A Child's Garden of Verses," by Robert Louis Stevenson. By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons. I see the others far away As if in firelit camp they lay, So, when my nurse comes in for me, Robert Louis Stevenson. The City Child Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander? Whither from this pretty home, the home where mother dwells? "Far and far away," said the dainty little maiden, "All among the gardens, auriculas, anemones, Roses and lilies and Canterbury bells." Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander? Whither from this pretty house, this city-house of ours? "Far and far away," said the dainty little maiden, "All among the meadows, the clover and the clematis, Daisies and kingcups and honeysuckle-flowers.' Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Going into Breeches Joy to Philip! he this day Red-coat in his first cockade, Never was there pride or bliss Sashes, frocks, to those that need 'em, Now he's under other banners He must leave his former manners; Bid adieu to female games And forget their very names; Baste-the-bear he now may play at; Till his cheeks and fingers glow; If he get a hurt or bruise, He must have his courage ready, This and more must now be done, Now the breeches are put on. Charles and Mary Lamb. Hunting Song Up, up! ye dames and lasses gay! "Tis you must tend the flocks this morn, To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day. Leave the hearth and leave the house To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day. Over bank and over brae, Where the copsewood is the greenest, |