Part 3

For midsummer has roses, as you know,

As well as June; and sprinkled o'er with spices

From beds of pinks and poppies in a row?

Perhaps like them; or, maybe 'twould be sweeter,

My little song, and prettier sound to you,

If I should make it make you think of lilies--

For midsummer has always lilies too.

Around the meadow-sweet the bees they cluster

So thick the children pick it not for fear--

Like meadow-sweet and bees, if I could make it,

A pretty little song 'twould be to hear!

Down in the field a crowd of flowers are standing;

The locusts pipe, the flowers keep sweet and still--

With honey-balls of clover and the others,

If only I my little song could fill!

I want to sing a little song to please you

Of midsummer that's following after June,

But oh! of all her sweet, gay things, I cannot

With one put yet my little song in tune!

I think you'll have to find a child or robin,

Some ignorant and merry-hearted thing;

For, I suppose, a song of the midsummer

It takes a heart more like a bird's to sing!

Ill 0057]

IN THE BLACK FOREST.

By Celia Thaxter.

|UP through the great Black Forest,

So wild and wonderful,

We climbed in the autumn afternoon

'Mid the shadows deep and cool. 2

We climbed to the Grand Duke's castle

That stood on the airy height;

Above the leagues of pine-trees dark

It shone in the yellow light. 3

Around the edge of her wee white cap

We saw how the peasant women

Were toiling along the way,

In the open spaces, here and there,

That steeped in the sunshine lay. 4

They gathered the autumn harvest--

All toil-worn and weather-browned;

They gathered the roots they had planted in spring,

And piled them up on the ground. 5

We heard the laughter of children,

And merrily down the road

Ran little Max with a rattling cart,

Heaped with a heavy load. 6

Upon orange carrots, and beets so red,

And turnips smooth and white,

With leaves of green all packed between,

Sat the little Rosel bright.

The wind -blew out her curls--

A sweeter face I have never seen

Than this happy little girl's. 7

A spray of the carrot's foliage fine,

Soft as a feather of green,

Drooped over her head from behind her ear.

As proud as the plume of a queen. 8

Light was his burden to merry Max,

With Rosel perched above,

And he gazed at her on that humble throne

With the eyes of pride and love. 9

With joyful laughter they passed us by,

And up through the forest of pine,

So solemn and still, we made our way

To the castle of Eberstein.

Oh, lofty the Grand Duke's castle

That looked o'er the forest gloom;

But better I love to remember

The children's rosy bloom.

Oh, vast and dim and beautiful

Were the dark woods' shadowy aisles.

And all their silent depths seemed lit

With the children's golden smiles.

And sweet is the picture I brought away

From the wild Black Forest shade,

Of proud and happy and merry Max,

And Rosel, the little maid.

EDITH'S LESSON.

By Mrs. Margaret E. Sangster.

|OUT in the meadow the scented breeze

Was full of the gossip of birds and bees;

Out in the orchard the glad things flew,

And o'er meadow and orchard the sky was blue--

The sky was blue, and the clouds were white,

And the summer morning was blithe and bright.

" It is quite too lovely in-doors to stay,"

Said Edith, "whether I work or play."

So slate and pencil and fairy-book

Were carried forth to a cozy nook,

Where the shadows glanced, and the sunbeams shone,

And the dear little girl could be alone.

There were hard examples that must be done,

For father to see ere the set of sun;

And there was the merriest tale to read,

Of a lady fair, on a milk-white steed,--

Of a lady fair, and a stately lover,

And the charm that lay in a four-leaf clover.

"Study the lesson!" the robin said,

As he poised on the branch above her head,

With a whirr of wings like the beat of drums;

"Edith," the bee hummed, "mind the sums!"

But shadow and shine in their airy play

Coaxed for the story that matched the day.

"Any time will do for the tiresome task,"

Said Edith at last, "and I think I'll ask

Papa to excuse my Arithmetic,--

In such warm weather I might be sick

If I taxed this poor little brain of mine."

So she listened, you see, to shadow and shine;

And then full-length on the velvet grass,

She dreamed of delights that would come to pass

When she, too large for the rigid rule

Of the happy home, or the stricter school,

Should be a woman, and quite at ease

Each hour to do what she might please.

"On silvery paper, with golden pen,"

She mused,"I'd write love-stories then,

And wherever I went, would people say,

'The gifted Edith is here to-day! '

And maybe,--for stranger things have been,--

I might Editor be of a Magazine!"

No higher flight could her fancy take,

Were the darling child asleep or awake;

And presently there in that paradise,

The lids fell over the heavy eyes,

And the noon-bell's summons, loud and clear,

Was heeded not by her slumbering ear.

How long was her nap, I do not know,

But she sauntered home when the sun was low';

Dinner was over, and father frowned,

And chided her gently for "idling round,"

While gravely he bade her be sure and see

That she solved her examples after tea.

DORRIS' SPINNING.

(_An Old Time Ballad_.)

By Margaret J. Preston.

|SHE sat in the upper chamber

--'Twas a summer of Long Ago--

And looked through the gable window

At the river that ran below,

And over the quiet pastures,

And up at the wide blue sky,

And envied the jay his freedom

As he lazily flitted by.

Yet patiently at her spinning,

In a halo of happy light,

Se wrought, though a shimmer rippled

The heads of the wheat in sight--

Though the garden was spilling over

Its cups on the fragrant air,

And the hollyhocks at the doorway

Had never looked half so fair.

She saw, as her wheel kept whirling,

The leisure of Nature too--

The beautiful holiday weather

Left nothing for her to do:

The cattle were idly grazing,

And even the frisky sheep,

Away in the distant meadows,

Lay under the shade asleep.

So sitting, she heard sweet laughter,

And a bevy of maidens fair,

With babble of merry voices,

Came climbing the chamber stair;

"O Dorns! how can you bear it,

To drone at your spinning here?

Why, girl! it's the heart of summer,

The goldenest time of year.

"Put out of your hand the distaff,

This wearisome whirl relax--

There are things that are gayer, Dorris,

Than sitting and spinning flax:

Come with us away to the forest;

When it rains is the time to ply

Such tiresome tasks--and to-day is

The fifteenth day of July!"

With a face that was softly saddened,

Sweet Dorris looked up and said,

As she ravelled a bit of tangle,

And twisted again her thread,

"Nay, nay, I must do my spinning;

It wouldn't be kind or right

That the loom should be kept a-waiting;

My hanks must be done to-night.

So the frolicsome maidens left her,

With something of mild surprise

That Dorris should choose a duty,

With pleasure before her eyes;

Not dreaming that when her mother

Her "dozens" should count up-stairs,

And kiss her and say, "My darling!"

Her day would be glad as theirs.

So she minded her wheel, and blithely

She sang as she twirled it round,

And cunningly from her fingers

The delicate fibre wound;

And on through the sunny hours,

That neither were sad nor long,

She toiled in her sweet obedience,

And lightened her toil with song.

"Aye, surely, the day is lovely!

It tugs at my very heart

To look at its drifting beauty,

Nor share in its joy my part r

I may not go forth to meet it,

But the summer is kind, you see,

And I think, as I sit at my spinning--

I think it will come to me!"

(_She sings._)

"Come hither, happy birds,

With warbling woo me,

Till songs that have no words

Melt through and through me!

Come, bees, that drop and rise

Within the clover,

Where yellow butterflies

Go glancing over!

Oh, roses, red and white,

And lilies, shining

Like gilded goblets bright

With silver lining--

Each to my window send

Gifts worth the winning,

To cheer me as I bend

Above my spinning!

"Oh, ripples on the sand,

That break in beauty,

Oh, pines, that stiffly stand

Like guards on duty,

Green meadows, where, this morn,

The scythes were mowing,

Soft slopes, where, o'er the corn

The wind is blowing,

"White clouds above the hill

That sail together,

Rich summer scents that fill

This summer weather--

All bring the sweets you've found

Since morn's beginning,

And come and crowd them round

My day of spinning!"

THE BROOK BEHIND THE WAUMBEK HOUSE.

( _Jefferson and White Mountains._)

By Mrs. Martha Perry Lowe.

|RUN along thy pastures, happy, happy brook,

Run along the pebbles, with a curvet and a

crook,

Sing it all the morning, and sing it afternoon,

Sing it all the starry night--that pleasant little

tune!

Are you growing modest, do you think that I shall

tire?

Do you fear that I shall go and look for something

higher?

Well I know the noisy world has music grand enough,

But I do not care for all its preludes, wild and

rough.

Well I know other music, solemn and sublime,

Voices of the ocean sounding all the depths of

time:

That is not the music I am looking for to-day,

It is you I want to hear, so frolicsome and gay.

Do not ever try to practise any modern art,

Do not even stop to think or care about your part,

Sing just as you always do, when there are none to

hear,

That will surely be the sweetest way to please my ear.

Ah, my little brook! how foolish was my thought:

All the praises of the worldling can disturb you naught.

Nothing can mislead you, or set you ill at ease,

Make you think about yourself, or of the way

to please.

Not a little fish could have made such a speech,

Not a shining fly that skims along your beach,

Not a little bird would have said such a thing--

Pardon me my foolishness, and sing again, sing!

BOBBY LEE

|ONE, two, three!

One was Bobby Lee

Sitting by the brook,

With his fishing-hook,

With his spelling-book

Thrust far aside,

Whilst loud he cried:

"For once, no school,

For once, no rule,

Bell, ring away!

This whole, whole day

I'll stop and play!"

One, two, three!

One was Mrs. Bee

Stopping just to stare

At the vision there--

Bobby by the brook

With his fishing-hook;

At the spelling-book

Thrust far aside;

THREE.

By Rosa Graham.

Whilst loud she cried:

"The livelong day

A boy to play!

I'd like to see

One little bee

Like Bobby Lee!"

One, two, three!

One was Lady Rose,

In her pretty clothes,

Staring down to see

Little Bobby Lee,

With his fishing-hook,

With his spelling-book

Thrust far aside,

Whilst loud she cried:

"The livelong day,

A boy to play!

I'd like to know,

If I did so,

How I would grow!"

SUMMER'S GOING.

By Mrs. L. C. Whiton.

|LEAVES are shrinking on the trees,

Where the nests are hidden;

There's a hush among the bees,

As to roam forbidden;

There's the silk of corn that shows

Faded tangles blowing:

So that everybody knows,

Darling, summer's going.

There are insects' wings that gleam;

Locusts shrilly calling;

There are silences that seem

Into sadness falling;

There is not another rose

But the sweet-brier blowing:

So that everybody knows,

Darling, summer's going.

There's the mist that haunts the night

Into morning sailing,

Leaving filmy webs of light

On the grasses trailing;

There's the fierce red sun that glows,

Through the vapor showing:

So that everybody knows,

Darling, summer's going.

Breathe but softest little sigh.

Child, for vanished roses,

For each season, going by,

Something sweet discloses;

And if in your heart has grown

Truth to fairer blowing,

Summer then will be your own,

Spite of summer's going.

End of Project Gutenberg's Christmas Carols and Midsummer Songs, by Various