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And wouldn't it be wiser,

Than waiting like a dunce, To go to work in earnest,

And learn the thing at once?

-Phoebe Cary.


What does the daisy see

In the breezy meadows tossing?
It sees the wide blue fields o'er head
And the little cloud flocks crossing.

What does the daisy see

Round the sunny meadows glancing? It sees the butterflies' chase

And the filmy gnats at their dancing.

What does the daisy see

Down in the grassy thickets?
The grasshoppers green and brown,
And the shining, coal-black crickets.

It sees the bobolink's nest,

That no one else can discover,

And the brooding mother-bird.

With the floating grass above her.



Have you ever heard the wind go " Yoooooo"? 'Tis a pitiful sound to hear;

It seems to chill you through and through
With a strange and speechless fear.

'Tis the voice of the wind that broods outside When folks should be asleep,

And many and many's the time I've cried.
To the darkness brooding far and wide
Over the land and the deep:

"Whom do you want, O lonely night,

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That you wail the long hours through? And the night would say in its ghostly


"Yoooooo! Yoooooooooo! Yoooooooooo ! "

My mother told me long ago

When I was a little lad

That when the night went wailing so,

Somebody had been bad;

And then when I was snug in bed,

Whither I had been sent,

With the blankets pulled up round my head,

I'd think of what my mother said,

And wonder what boy she meant.

And. "Who's been bad to-day?" I'd ask

Of the wind that hoarsely blew,

And the voice would say in its meaningfu


"Yoooooo! Yoooooooooo! Yo000000000!"

That this was true, I must allow -
You'll not believe it though,

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Yes, though I'm quite a model now,
I was not always so.

And if you doubt what things I say,

Suppose you make the test;

Suppose that when you've been bad some day,

And up to bed you're sent away

From mother and the rest

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Suppose you ask, "Who has been bad?"

And then you'll hear what's true;

For the wind will moan in its ruefulest tone: "Yoooooo! Yoooooooooo! Yoooooooooo!”

-Eugene Field.


Little white snowdrop, I pray you arise:
Bright yellow crocus, come, open your eyes:
Sweet little violets hid from the cold,
Put on your mantles of purple and gold.
Daffodils, daffodils, say, do you hear?
Summer is coming and springtime is here.



Suppose the little cowslip
Should hang its golden cup,
And say, "I'm such a tiny flower,
I'd better not grow up;"
How many a weary traveler
Would miss its fragrant smell,
And many a little child would grieve
To lose it from the dell.

Suppose the little breezes,
Upon a summer's day,

Should think themselves too small
To cool the traveler on his way;
Who would not miss the smallest
And softest cnes that blow,
And think they made a great mistake,
If they were talking so?

Suppose the little dewdrop
Upon the grass should say,
What can a little dewdrop do?
I'd better roll away."

The blade on which it rested,

Before the day was done, Without a drop to moisten it,

Would wither in the sun.


many deeds of kindness

A little child can do,

Although it has but little strength,

And little wisdom, too!

It wants a loving spirit,

Much more than strength, to prove
How many things a child may do
For others by its love.



"Come, little leaves," said the wind one day;
"Come over the meadows with me, and play,
Put on your dresses of red and gold,
Summer is gone and the days grow cold."

Soon the leaves heard the wind's loud call,
Down they fell fluttering, one and all.
Over the brown fields they danced and flew,
Singing the soft little songs they knew.

Dancing and flying, the little leaves went;
Winter had called them, and they were


Soon fast asleep in their earthy beds,

The snow laid a white blanket over their



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