B Spelling, reading, writing, Putting up the young ones; Fuming, scolding, fighting, Spurring on the dumb ones; Gymnasts, vocal music— How the heart rejoices When the singer comes to Cultivate the voices ! Institute attending, Making out reports, Giving object lessons, Class drill of all sorts; Reading dissertations, Feeling like a foolOh, the untold blessing Of the public school! THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. ETWEEN the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, I hear in the chamber above me, The sound of a door that is opened And voices soft and sweet. From my study I see in the lamplight, A whisper, and then a silence; Yet I know by their merry eyes, They are plotting and planning together A sudden rush from the stairway, By three doors left unguarded, They climb up into my turret, O'er the arms and back of my chair; I have you fast in my fortress, And I will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon In the round tower of my heart. (26) And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble in ruin And moulder in dust away. HENRY WADSWORTH Longfellow. THE LITTLE CHILDREN. LITTLE feet; that such long years O, little hands, that weak or strong, Have still so long to give or ask ; Such limitless and strong desires; Now covers and conceals its fires. BABY LOUISE. M in love with you, Baby Louise! With your silken hair, and your soft blue eyes, And the dreamy wisdom that in them lies, And the faint, sweet smile you brought from the skies God's sunshine, Baby Louise. When you fold your hands, Baby Louise, Your hands, like a fairy's, so tiny and fair, Are you trying to think of some angel-taught prayer, I'm in love with you, Baby Louise! Do you hear me, Baby Louise? I have sung your prai-es for nearly an hour, MARGARET EYTINGE DREAMS AND REALITIES. ROSAMOND, thou fair and good, Why did'st thou droop before thy time? For, looking backward through my tears O child of light, O golden head !— Why did'st thou vanish from our sight? O friend so true, O friend so good !— And yet had this poor soul been fed Had life been always fair— Would these dear dreams that ne'er depart, That thrill with bliss my inmost heart, Forever tremble there? If still they kept their earthly place, And gave to death, alas! Could I have learned that clear, calm faith Sometimes, I think, the things we see That what we plan we build; In heaven shall be fulfilled; That even the children of the brain Though here unclothed and dumb; And wait for us to come. And when on that last day we rise, Shall be thy faith's reward." PHOEBY CARY. LITTLE GOLDENHAIR. .OLDENHAIR climbed up on grandpapa's knee; Dear little Goldenhair! tired was she, Up in the morning as soon as 't was light, Grandpapa toyed with the curls on her head. 'Pitty much," answered the sweet little one; "I cannot tell so much things I have donePlayed with my dolly and feeded my Bun. "And I have jumped with my little jump-rope, And I made out of some water and soap Bufitle worlds! mamma's castles of hope. "And I have readed in my picture-book, And little Bella and I went to look For some smooth stones by the side of the brook. "Then I comed home and I eated my tea, And I climbed up to my grandpapa's knee. I jes as tired as tired can be.” Lower and lower the little head pressed, We are but children; the things that we do God grant that when night overshadows our way, I am old-so old I can write a letter; My birthday lessons are done. The lambs play always-they know no better; O moon! in the night I have seen you sailing You were bright—ah, bright—but your light is failing; You are nothing now but a bow. You moon! have you done something wrong in heaven, That God has hidden your face? I hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven, O velvet bee! you're a dusty fellow You've powdered your legs with gold. O brave marsh Mary-buds, rich and yellow, O columbine ! open your folded wrapper, IPING down the valleys wild, "Pipe a song about a lamb: " So I piped with merry cheer. "Piper, pipe that song again :' So I piped; he wept to hear. "Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, "Piper, sit thee down and write And I made a rural pen, WILLIAM BLAKE. BABY'S SHOES. THOSE little, those little blue shoes! That those shoes would buy, For they hold the small shape of feet And ceased from their totter so sweet. And O, since that baby slept, So hushed, how the mother has kept, With a tearful pleasure, That little dear treasure, And o'er them thought and wept! For they mind her forevermore And blue eyes she sees As they lie before her there, Their babbles from chair to chair A little sweet face That's a gleam in the place, With its little gold curls of hair. Then O wonder not that her heart From all else would rather part Than those tiny blue shoes That no little feet use, And whose sight makes such fond tears start! WILLIAM Cox BENNETT. THE ENCHANTRESS-A SPRING-TIME LYRIC FOR MABEL. T is only in legend and fable The fairies are with us, you know; For the fairies are fled, little Mabel, Ay, ages and ages ago. And yet I have met with a fairy You needn't go shaking your curls- Like her who talked nothing but pearls! A marvelous creature! I really Can't say she is gifted with wings, Or resides in a tulip; but, clearly, She's queen of all beautiful things. Whenever she comes fron: her castle, The snow fades away like a dream, And the pine-cone's icicle tassel Melts, and drops into the stream! The dingy gray moss on the bowlder Takes color like burnished steel; The brook puts its silvery shoulder Again to the old mill-wheel ! The robin and wren fly to meet her; The honey-bee hums with delight ; By roadsides, in pastures and meadows, For her sake light up the shadows Is such an enchantress as she, B THE BAREFOOT BOY. LESSINGS on thee, little man, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; I was once a barefoot boy! Prince thou art-the grown-up man Only is republican. Let the million-dollared ride! Barefoot, trudging at his side, O for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules. Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase Of the wild-flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the ground-nut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's clusters shi; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans !— For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks; Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joyBlessings on the barefoot boy! O for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for. I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees: For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; a Laughed the brook for my delight O for festal dainties spread, I was monarch: pomp and joy Cheerly, then, my little man, Quick and treacherous sands of sin. JOHN GREENleaf Whittier. THE GOAT AND THE SWING. VICIOUS goat, one day, had found His way into forbidden ground, When, coming to the garden swing, He spied a most prodigious thing— A ram, a monster to his mind, With head before and head behind! Its shape was odd, no noos were seen, Two heads, no tail-it's mighty queer! A most insulting countenance !" "You winked as I was going by! "Ha! you'll fight? A quarrelsome chap The swing, as if with kindling wrath, The goat, astonished, shook his head, Winked hard, turned round, grew mad, and said, 'Villain! I'll teach you who I am!" (Or seemed to say,) "you rascal ram, To pick a fight with me, when I So quietly am passing by! Your head or mine!" A thundering stroke: The cracking horns met crashing oak! JOHN TOWNSEnd Trowbridge. LITTLE BROWN HANDS. HEY drive home the cows from the pasture, That are yellow with ripening grain. And the first crimson buds of the rose. They gather the elder-blooms white; They find where the dusky grapes purple, In the soft-tinted October light. |