I heard a voice; it said, “Drink, pretty creature, drink!”
And looking o’er the hedge, before me I espied
A snow-white mountain lamb with a maiden by its side.
Nor sheep nor kine were near; the lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone;
With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel,
While to that mountain lamb she gave its evening meal.
The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took,
Seemed to feast with head and ears; his tail with pleasure shook.
“Drink, pretty creature, drink,” she said in such a tone
That I almost received her heart into my own.
’Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare!
I watched them with delight; they were a lovely pair.
Now with her empty can the maiden turned away,
But ere ten yards were gone, her footsteps did she stay.
Right toward the lamb she looked; and from a shady place
I, unobserved, could see the workings of her face.
If nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring,
Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid might sing:—
“What ails thee, young one, what? Why pull so at thy cord?
Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and board?
Thy plot of grass is soft, as green as grass can be;
Rest, little young one, rest; what is’t that aileth thee?
“What is it thou wouldst seek? What is wanting to thy heart?
Thy limbs, are they not strong? and beautiful thou art.
This grass is tender grass, these flowers they have no peers,
And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears.
“If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woolen chain--
This beech is standing by--its covert thou canst gain.
For rain and mountain storms, the like thou needst not fear;
The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here.
“Rest, little young one, rest; thou hast forgot the day
When my father found thee first in places far away;
Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none,
And thy mother from thy side forevermore was gone.
He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home--
A blessèd day for thee!--then whither wouldst thou roam?
A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee yean
Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could have been.
“Thou knowst that twice a day I have brought thee in this can
Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran;
And twice within the day, when the ground is wet with dew,
I bring thee draughts of milk--warm milk it is and new.
“Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now;
Then I’ll yoke thee to my cart, like a pony to the plow;
My playmate thou shalt be, and when the wind is cold,
Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.
“It will not, cannot rest!--Poor creature, can it be
That ’tis thy mother’s heart which is working so in thee?
Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,
And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear.
“Alas! the mountain-tops that look so green and fair!
I’ve heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there.
The little brooks, that seem all pastime and all play,
When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.
“Here thou needst not dread the raven in the sky;
Both night and day thou’rt safe--our cottage is hard by.
Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain?
Sleep--and at break of day I will come to thee again.”
—_Wordsworth._
[Illustration: A Lamb]
THE GREAT OUTDOORS
The purple-headed mountain,
The river, running by,
The morning and the sunset
That lighteth up the sky--
He gave us eyes to see them,
And lips that we might tell
How great is God Almighty,
Who hath made all things well.
[Illustration: OUT OF DOORS]
THE GREAT OUTDOORS
THROUGH THE YEAR
SPRING
With March comes in the pleasant spring,
When little birds begin to sing;
To build their nests, to hatch their brood,
With tender care provide them food.
SUMMER
And summer comes with verdant June;
The flowers then are in full bloom,
All nature smiles, the fields look gay;
The weather’s fine to make the hay.
AUTUMN
September comes: the golden corn
By many busy hands is shorn;
Autumn’s ripe fruits, an ample store,
Are gathered in for rich and poor.
WINTER
Winter’s cold frost and northern blast--
This is the season that comes last:
The snow has come, the sleigh-bells ring,
And merry boys rejoice and sing.
THE SNOW
Oh, see! the snow is falling now,
It powders all the trees;
Its flakes abound, and all around
They float upon the breeze.
’Tis snowing fast, and cold the blast,
But yet I hope ’twill stay:
Oh, see it blow the falling snow
In meadows far away.
Jack Frost is near, we feel him here,
He’s on his icy sled;
And covered deep, the flowers sleep
Beneath their snowy bed.
Come out and play, this winter day,
Amid the falling snow;
Come, young and old, nor fear the cold,
Nor howling winds that blow.
SNOWFLAKES[3]
Whene’er a snowflake leaves the sky,
It turns and turns to say “Good-by!
Good-by, dear clouds, so cool and gray!”
Then lightly travels on its way.
And when a snowflake finds a tree,
“Good-day!” it says--“Good-day to thee!
Thou art so bare and lonely, dear,
I’ll rest and call my comrades here.”
But when a snowflake, brave and meek,
Lights on a rosy maiden’s cheek,
It starts--“How warm and soft the day!
’Tis summer!”--and it melts away.
[3] FROM ALONG THE WAY. Copyright, 1879, by Mary Mapes Dodge. Published
by Charles Scribner’s Sons.
JACK FROST
The Frost looked forth on a still, clear night,
And whispered, “Now, I shall be out of sight;
So through the valley and over the height
In silence I’ll take my way.
I will not go on like that blustering train,
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
That make such a bustle and noise in vain;
But I’ll be as busy as they!”
So he flew to the mountain and powdered its crest;
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed
With diamonds and pearls; and over the breast
Of the quivering lake he spread
A coat of mail, that it need not fear
The glittering point of many a spear
Which he hung on its margin, far and near,
Where a rock could rear its head.
He went to the window of those who slept,
And over each pane like a fairy crept:
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped,
By the light of the morn were seen
Most beautiful things--there were flowers and trees,
There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees;
There were cities and temples and towers; and these
All pictured in silvery sheen!
But he did one thing that was hardly fair--
He peeped in the cupboard; and finding there
That all had forgotten for him to prepare--
“Now just to set them a-thinking,
I’ll bite this basket of fruit,” said he,
“This costly pitcher I’ll burst in three!
And the glass of water they’ve left for me,
Shall ‘tchick’ to tell them I’m drinking.”
—_Hannah F. Gould._
THE NORTH WIND
The north wind doth blow,
And we shall have snow;
And what will the robin do then, poor thing?
He’ll sit by the barn
And keep himself warm,
And hide his head under his wing, poor thing!
The north wind doth blow,
And we shall have snow;
And what will the swallow do then, poor thing?
Oh, do you not know?
He is gone long ago
To a country much warmer than ours, poor thing!
The north wind doth blow,
And we shall have snow;
And what will the honey-bee do, poor thing?
In his hive he will stay
Till the cold pass away,
And then he’ll come out in the spring, poor thing!
The north wind doth blow,
And we shall have snow;
What will the children do then, poor things?
When lessons are done,
They’ll jump, skip, and run,
And play till they make themselves warm, poor things!
THE SNOW-SHOWER
“See, mamma, the crumbs are flying
Fast and thickly through the air;
On the branches they are lying,
On the walks and everywhere.
Oh, how glad the birds will be,
When so many crumbs they see!”
“No, my little girl, ‘tis snowing,
Nothing for the birds is here;
Very cold the air is growing,
’Tis the winter of the year:
Frost will nip the robins’ food,
’Twill no more be sweet and good.
“See the clouds the skies that cover;
’Tis from them the snowflakes fall,
Whitening hills and fields all over,
Hanging from the fir-trees tall.
Were it warm, ’twould rain; but lo,
Frost has changed the rain to snow.”
WHAT THE WINDS BRING
“Which is the wind that brings the cold?”
“The north wind, Freddy, and all the snow;
And the sheep will scamper into the fold
When the north begins to blow.”
“Which is the wind that brings the heat?”
“The south wind, Katy; and corn will grow
And peaches redden for you to eat,
When the south begins to blow.”
“Which is the wind that brings the rain?”
“The east wind, Arty; and farmers know
That cows come shivering up the lane
When the east begins to blow.”
“Which is the wind that brings the flowers?”
“The west wind, Bessie; and soft and low
The birdies sing in the summer hours,
When the west begins to blow.”
[Illustration: Girls walking with umbrella]
WIND SONG[4]
K. E. C. K. E. C.
1. Oo-oh! Oo-oh! I am the storm-wind bold;
Blow! snow! I fill the world with cold.
I drive the hardy sailors Far o’er the boist’rous seas;
I clear a path for the south-wind And for the western breeze.
2. Zoo-zo! Zoo-zo! South-wind soft am I;
Low! low! List to my sough and sigh.
I wake the sleepy cloudlets Bringing the summer showers,
I hum the world’s low dream-song Over the baby flow’rs,
[4] May be sung with zither, jew’s-harp, or horn-comb accompaniment
THE VOICE OF SPRING
“Spring, where are you waiting now?
Why are you so long unfelt?
Winter went a month ago,
When the snows began to melt.”
“I am coming, little maiden,
With the pleasant sunshine laden,
With the honey for the bee,
With the blossom for the tree,
With the flower and with the leaf,
And the stalk to make the sheaf.
“Turn thine eyes to earth and heaven;
God for thee the spring has given,
Taught the birds their melodies,
Clothed the earth and cleared the skies
For thy pleasure or thy food.
Pour thy soul in gratitude.”
—_Mary Howitt._
[Illustration: Girl with flowers]
A WALK IN SPRING
I’m very glad the spring is come: the sun shines out so bright,
The little birds upon the trees are singing for delight;
The young grass looks so fresh and green, the lambs do sport and play,
And I can skip and run about as merrily as they.
I like to see the daisy and the buttercups once more,
The primrose and the cowslip, too, and every pretty flower:
I like to see the butterfly extend her painted wing,
And all things seem, just like myself, so pleased to see the spring.
The fishes in the little brook are jumping up so high,
The lark is singing sweetly as she mounts into the sky;
The rooks are building up their nests upon the great oak-tree,
And everything’s as busy and as happy as can be.
There’s not a cloud upon the sky, there’s nothing dark or sad;
I jump, and scarce know what to do, I feel so very glad.
God must be very good indeed, who made each pretty thing;
I’m sure we ought to love him much for bringing back the spring.
THE ARK AND THE DOVE
There was a noble ark
Sailing o’er waters dark
And wide around;
Not one tall tree was seen,
Nor flower, nor leaf of green--
All, all was drowned.
Then a soft wing was spread,
And o’er the billows dread
A meek dove flew;
But on that shoreless tide
No living thing she spied
To cheer her view.
So to the ark she fled,
With weary, drooping head,
To seek for rest:
Christ is thy ark, my love,
Thou art the tender dove;
Fly to his breast.
—_Mrs. Sigourney._
MERRY RAINDROPS
“Oh, where do you come from,
You little drops of rain?
Pitter patter, pitter patter,
Down the window-pane.
“They won’t let me walk,
And they won’t let me play,
And they won’t let me go
Outdoors at all to-day.
“They put away my playthings
Because I broke them all,
And they locked up all my bricks
And took away my ball.
“Tell me, little raindrops,
Is that the way you play,
Pitter patter, pitter patter,
All the rainy day?
“They say I’m very naughty;
But I’ve nothing else to do
But sit here at the window;
I should like to play with you.”
The little raindrops cannot speak,
But “pitter patter pat”
Means, “We can play on _this_ side:
Why can’t you play on THAT?”
THE SNOWDROP
Now the spring is coming on,
Now the snow and ice are gone,
Come, my little snowdrop-root,
Will you not begin to shoot?
Ah, I see your little head
Peeping from the flower-bed,
Looking out so green and gay
On this fine and pleasant day.
For the mild south wind doth blow
And hath melted all the snow;
And the sun shines out so warm,
You need not fear another storm.
So your pretty flowers show
And your petals white undo;
Then you’ll hang your modest head
Down upon my flower-bed.
THE BUD
Pretty bud, I love to see
Much in you resembling me;
And from your instructive look
Learn as from a little book.
I am young, and so are you,
Life with us is fresh and new;
Yet fair buds oft withered lie,
And the youngest children die.
Riper flowers may wide expand,
Win the eye and court the hand;
But, like you, oh, may I be
Graced with humble modesty.
When ’tis evening, dark and chill,
Close you wrap yourself from ill;
So may God my heart secure
Safe from everything impure.
And as, when the sun is up,
You expand your little cup,
So thy beams may I possess,
Christ the Sun of righteousness.
THE VIOLET
Timid, blue-eyed flower
In thy native bower
’Mid the moss so green,
Say, what art thou doing?
Why so lowly bowing
Ever art thou seen?
Joy within me springeth
When so sweetly singeth
Lone the nightingale;
To her song attending
I am lowly bending
In my peaceful vale.
—_Jane Taylor._
AN APRIL SHOWER
K. E. C.
Pitter, patter, patter, let it pour,
Pitter, patter, patter, let it roar!
Down the steep roof let it rush,
Down the hillside let it gush!
’Tis the welcome April shower
Which will wake the sweet May flower.
THE THUNDERSTORM
Look! the black cloud rises high;
Now it spreads along the sky:
See! the quivering lightnings fly;
Hark! the thunders roar.
Yet will I not shrink with fear
When the thunderclap I hear;
Soon the rainbow will appear,
Soon the storm be o’er.
When the black cloud rises high,
When it spreads along the sky,
When the forkèd lightnings fly,
And the thunders roar,
Never will I feel alarm;
God can shield me from all harm
In the sunshine or the storm:
Him will I adore.
[Illustration: Scene, mountain and forest]
SUMMER-TIME
I love the cheerful summer-time,
With all its birds and flowers,
Its shining garments green and smooth,
Its cool, refreshing showers.
I love to hear the little birds
That carol on the trees;
I love the gentle murmuring stream,
I love the evening breeze.
I love the bright and glorious sun
That gives us light and heat;
I love the pearly drops of dew
That sparkle ’neath my feet.
I love to hear the busy hum
Of honey-making bee,
And learn a lesson, hard to learn,
Of patient industry.
I love to see the playful lambs,
So innocent and gay;
I love the faithful, watchful dog
Who guards them night and day.
I love to think of Him who made
These pleasant things for me;
Who gave me life and health and strength,
And eyes that I might see.
I love the holy Sabbath-day,
So peaceful, calm, and still;
And oh, I love to go to church
And learn my Maker’s will!
HAPPY CHILDHOOD
Over field and meadow,
Where the daisies grow,
Up and down I wander,
Singing as I go.
They who see me roving
Think me all alone,
But the birds are with me;
Hark! their joyful tone.
How can I be lonely
On the sunny banks,
While the murmuring waters
Raise a song of thanks?
[Illustration: “ON SUNNY BANKS”]
SEVEN TIMES ONE
There’s no dew left on the daisies and clover,
There’s no rain left in heaven;
I’ve said my “seven times” over and over--
Seven times one are seven.
I am old, so old I can write a letter;
My birthday-lessons are done.
The lambs play always, they know no better;
They are only one time’s one.
O moon in the night, I have seen you sailing
And shining so round and low;
You were bright, ah, bright! but your light is failing,
You are nothing now but a bow.
You moon! have you done something wrong in heaven,
That God has hidden your face?
I hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven
And shine again in your place.
O velvet bee! you’re a dusty fellow,
You’ve powdered your legs with gold!
O brave marshmary-buds, rich and yellow,
Give me your money to hold.
O columbine! open your folded wrapper,
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell;
O cuckoo-pint! toll me the purple clapper
That hangs in your clear, green bell.
And show me your nest with the young ones in it;
I will not steal them away;
I am old; you may trust me, linnet, linnet,
I am seven times one to-day.
—_Jean Ingelow._
THE SETTING SUN
Dear John, the sun is setting now,
Behold him in the west;
And all the children now must soon
Lie down and go to rest.
In other countries far away
The day begins to break;
And many a child and many a bird
Will soon be wide awake.
SUN, MOON, AND STARS
The moon is very fair and bright,
And seems so very high;
I think it is a pretty sight
To see it in the sky:
It shone upon me as I lay
Until ’twas almost bright as day.
The stars are very pretty, too,
And scattered all about;
At first there seems a very few,
But soon the rest come out:
I’m sure I could not count them all,
They are so very bright and small.
The sun is brighter still than they,
He blazes in the skies;
I dare not turn my face that way,
Unless I shut my eyes:
Yet when he shines our hearts revive,
And all the trees rejoice and thrive.
God made and keeps them every one
By his great power and might;
He is more glorious than the sun
And all the stars of light:
Yet, though so great, we, by his grace,
If pure in heart, shall see his face.
THE STARS ARE COMING
“See, the stars are coming
In the far blue skies:
Mother, look, they brighten;
Are they angels’ eyes?”
“No, my child, the luster
Of the stars is given,
Like the hues of flowers,
By the God of heaven.”
“Mother, if I study,
Sure he’ll make me know
Why the stars he kindled
O’er our earth to glow.”
“Child, what God created
Has a glorious aim;
Thine it is to worship,
Thine to love his name.”
LITTLE STAR
Twinkle, twinkle, little star;
How I wonder what you are!
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
When the glorious sun is set,
When the grass with dew is wet,
Then you show your little light,
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.
In the dark blue sky you keep,
And often through my curtains peep;
For you never shut your eye
Till the sun is in the sky.
As your bright and tiny spark
Lights the traveler in the dark,
Though I know not what you are,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
THE MOON
Who am I that shine so bright,
With my pretty yellow light
Peeping through your curtains gray?
Tell me, little girl, I pray.
When the sun is gone, I rise
In the clear and silent skies;
And a cloud or two doth skim
Round about my silver rim.
All the little stars do seem
Hidden by my brighter beam;
And among them I do ride
Like a queen in all her pride.
Then the reaper goes along
Singing forth a merry song,
While I light the shaking leaves
And the yellow harvest sheaves.
THE WORKS OF GOD
God made the sky that looks so blue;
He made the grass so green;
He made the flowers that smell so sweet,
In pretty colors seen.
God made the sun that shines so bright
And gladdens all I see;
It comes to give us heat and light:
How thankful should we be!
“HE GIVETH US ALL THINGS”
Back of the loaf is the snowy flour,
And back of the flour is the mill;
And back of the mill is the sheaf,
And the shower,
And the sun,
And the Father’s will.
WHERE IS GOD?
In the sun, the moon, and sky,
On the mountains wild and high,
In the thunder, in the rain,
In the grove, the wood, the plain,
In the little birds which sing:
God is seen in everything.
THE SLEIGH-RIDE
Jingle, jingle, go the bells;
A right good time have we,
Over the valleys and over the hills,
Dear grandmamma to see.
The day is bright, and away we go
As swift as swift can be,
Over the smoothly trodden snow,
Dear grandmamma to see.
And look, do look, for there she stands,
Aunt Mary by her side,
To welcome us with outstretched hands
After our pleasant ride.
And there are George and Carlo, too,
For they heard the tell-tale bells,
As over the shining road we flew,
And down the slippery hills.
THE SLED-RIDE
Down, down the hill I swiftly go,
Over the ice and over the snow;
A horse or cart I do not fear,
For past them both my sled I steer.
Hurrah, my boy, I’m going down,
While you toil up; but never frown:
The far hill-top you soon will gain,
And then, with all your might and main,
You’ll dash by me; while, full of glee,
I’ll up again, to dash by thee.
So on we glide--oh, life of joy;
What pleasure has the little boy!
MY KITE
Oh, look at my kite,
Almost out of sight;
How swiftly it flies
Right up to the skies!
Pretty kite, pretty kite,
Almost out of sight,
Pray, what do you spy
In the bright blue sky?
JOHN WHITE AND HIS KITE
John White flew his kite one very windy day,
But a gale broke the tail, and it soon flew away.
And while he sat crying and sighing and sad,
Charlie Gray came that way, a good-natured lad.
“Don’t cry, wipe your eye, poor little Jack;
Stay here, never fear; I’ll soon bring it back.”
Up the tree went he, and took the kite down.
“Many thanks, many thanks,” said dear little John.
DAPPLE GRAY
We have a little pony, and we call him Dapple Gray,
And in our little carriage we drive out every day;
How our happy hearts are bounding,
With his clinking hoofs resounding,
And his clatter, clatter, clatter, all the way.
They give our horsie water and they give our horsie hay,
And they give our horsie oats for his breakfast every day;
When clinking hoofs are ringing,
And our happy voices singing,
Then we clatter, clatter, clatter, all the way.
The nicest rides we have are in the month of May,
When we drive out in the country, and always some new way;
Oh, the turnings and the windings,
Oh, the seekings and the findings,
As we clatter, clatter, clatter, all the way.
[Illustration: Boy with pony]
MY LITTLE PONY
Hop, hop, hop, nimble as top,
Over hill and valley bounding,
With your clinking hoofs resounding:
Hop, hop, hop, nimble as a top.
Spare, spare, spare; sure enough, we’re there;
Very well, my little pony;
Safe’s our jaunt, though rough and stony:
Spare, spare, spare; sure enough, we’re there.
Here, here, here; yes, my pony dear:
Now with hay and oats I’ll treat you,
And with smiles will ever greet you,
Here, here, here; yes, my pony dear.
THE SWING
Merry it is on a summer’s day
All through the meadows to wend away,
To watch the brooks glide fast or slow,
And the little fish twinkle down below;
To hear the lark in the blue sky sing;
Oh, sure enough, ’tis a merry thing,
But ’tis merrier far to swing, to swing!
Down with the hoop upon the green,
Down with the ringing tambourine;
Little care we for this or for that;
Off with the bonnet, off with the hat:
Away we go, like birds on the wing!
Higher yet! higher yet! Now for the king!
This is the way we swing, we swing!
Scarcely the bough bends, Claude is so light;
Mount up behind him--there, that is right;
Down bends the branch, now swing him away.
Higher yet! higher yet! higher, I say!
Oh, what a joy it is! Now let us sing,
“A pear for the queen and a peach for the king!”
And shake the old tree as we swing, we swing.
DOLLY GOING TO SLEEP
There, go to sleep, Dolly, in mother’s own lap;
I’ve put on your nightgown and neat little cap:
So sleep, pretty baby, and shut up your eye;
By-by, little Dolly, lie still and by-by.
Now I’ll lay my clean handkerchief over your head,
And then you may think that my lap is your bed;
So hush, little dear, and be sure you don’t cry;
By-by, little Dolly, lie still and by-by.
There, now it is morning, and time to get up;
I’ll crumb you a mess in my own china cup:
Awake, little baby, and open your eye,
For now it is time to be done with by-by.
MY DOLL
I have a little doll,
I take care of her clothes;
She has soft flaxen hair,
And her name is Rose.
She has pretty blue eyes,
And a very small nose,
And a sweet little mouth--
And her name is Rose.
I have a little bedstead
Where Dolly may repose,
Or sit up like a lady--
And her name is Rose.
SATURDAY NIGHT
Now, Dolly, my dear,
I pray you come here;
The daylight has gone,
And work is all done:
I’ll put you to bed, for to-morrow is Sunday,
And I shall not see you again until Monday.
You don’t want to go?
But you ought to, you know,
For it is but right;
So, Dolly, good-night:
Lie still without fretting or crying till Monday,
For we ought not to play, Dolly dear, on a Sunday.
MY SHADOW
I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me when I jump into my bed.
The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow--
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes gets so little that there’s none of him at all.