Chapter 3

He smiles to see the eyelids close 5 Above the happy eyes; And every child right well he knows,-- Oh, he is very wise! But if, as he goes through the land, A naughty baby cries, 10 His other hand takes dull gray sand To close the wakeful eyes. Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

So when you hear the sandman's song 15 Sound through the twilight sweet, Be sure you do not keep him long A-waiting on the street. Lie softly down, dear little head, Rest quiet, busy hands, Till, by your bed his good night said, He strews the shining sands. 5 Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes, and brown, As shuts the rose, they softly close, when he goes through the town.

MARY HOWITT

ENGLAND, 1804-1888

The Fairies of the Caldon-Low

A MIDSUMMER LEGEND

"And where have you been, my Mary, And where have you been from me?" "I've been to the top of the Caldon-Low, 10 The midsummer night to see!"

"And what did you see, my Mary, All up on the Caldon-Low?" "I saw the blithe sunshine come down, And I saw the merry winds blow." 15 "And what did you hear, my Mary, All up on the Caldon Hill?" "I heard the drops the water made, And I heard the corn-ears fill."

"Oh, tell me all, my Mary-- 5 All, all that ever you know; For you must have seen the fairies Last night on the Caldon-Low."

"Then take me on your knee, mother, And listen, mother of mine: 10 A hundred fairies danced last night, And the harpers they were nine;

"And merry was the glee of the harp-strings, And their dancing feet so small; But, oh! the sound of their talking 15 Was merrier far than all!"

"And what were the words, my Mary, That you did hear them say?" "I'll tell you all, my mother, But let me have my way. 20 "And some they played with the water, And rolled it down the hill; 'And this,' they said, 'shall speedily turn The poor old miller's mill;

"'For there has been no water 5 Ever since the first of May; And a busy man shall the miller be By the dawning of the day!

"'Oh, the miller, how he will laugh, When he sees the mill-dam rise! 10 The jolly old miller, how he will laugh Till the tears fill both his eyes!'

"And some they seized the little winds, That sounded over the hill, And each put a horn into his mouth, 15 And blew so sharp and shrill:

"'And there,' said they, 'the merry winds go Away from every horn; And those shall clear the mildew dank From the blind old widow's corn: 20 "'Oh, the poor blind widow-- Though she has been blind so long, She'll be merry enough when the mildew's gone, And the corn stands stiff and strong!'

"And some they brought the brown linseed, 5 And flung it down from the Low: 'And this,' said they, 'by the sunrise, In the weaver's croft shall grow!

"'Oh, the poor lame weaver! How he will laugh outright 10 When he sees his dwindling flax-field All full of flowers by night!'

"And then up spoke a brownie, With a long beard on his chin: 'I have spun up all the tow,' said he, 15 'And I want some more to spin.

"'I've spun a piece of hempen cloth, And I want to spin another-- A little sheet for Mary's bed, And an apron for her mother.'

"And with that I could not help but laugh, And I laughed out loud and free; And then on top of the Caldon-Low 5 There was no one left but me.

"And all on top of the Caldon-Low The mists were cold and gray, And nothing I saw but the mossy stones That round about me lay. 10

"But, as I came down from the hill-top, I heard, afar below, How busy the jolly miller was, And how merry the wheel did go.

"And I peeped into the widow's field, 15 And sure enough were seen The yellow ears of the mildewed corn All standing stiff and green!

"And down by the weaver's croft I stole, To see if the flax were high; But I saw the weaver at his gate, With the good news in his eye!

"Now this is all I heard, mother, 5 And all that I did see; So, prithee, make my bed, mother, For I'm tired as I can be!"

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS

ENGLAND, 1793-1835

Night-scented Flowers

"Call back your odors, lonely flowers, From the night-wind call them back; 10 And fold your leaves till the laughing hours Come forth in the sunbeam's track.

"The lark lies couched in her grassy nest, And the honey-bee is gone, And all bright things are away to rest; 15 Why watch ye here alone?"

"Nay, let our shadowy beauty bloom When the stars give quiet light, And let us offer our faint perfume On the silent shrine of night.

"Call it not wasted, the scent we lend 5 To the breeze when no step is nigh: Oh! thus forever the earth should send Her grateful breath on high!

"And love us as emblems, night's dewy flowers, Of hopes unto sorrow given, 10 That spring through the gloom of the darkest hours, Looking alone to heaven."

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

AMERICA, 1807-1892

Indian Summer

From gold to gray Our mild, sweet day Of Indian summer fades too soon; 15 But tenderly Above the sea Hangs, white and calm, the hunter's moon.

In its pale fire The village spire 5 Shows like the zodiac's spectral lance; The painted walls Whereon it falls Transfigured stand in marble trance.

ALICE CARY

AMERICA, 1820-1871

November

The leaves are fading and falling, 10 The winds are rough and wild, The birds have ceased their calling, But let me tell you, my child,

Though day by day, as it closes, Doth darker and colder grow, 15 The roots of the bright red roses Will keep alive in the snow.

And when the winter is over The boughs will get new leaves, The quail will come back to the clover, And the swallow back to the eaves.

The robin will wear on his bosom 5 A vest that is bright and new, And the loveliest wayside blossoms Will shine with the sun and dew.

The leaves to-day are whirling, The brooks are all dry and dumb, 10 But let me tell you, my darling, The spring will be sure to come.

There must be rough, cold weather, And winds and rains so wild; Not all good things together 15 Come to us here, my child.

So when some dear joy loses Its beauteous summer glow, Think how the roots of the roses Are kept alive in the snow. 20

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

The Frost Spirit

He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes! You may trace his footsteps now On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown hill's withered brow. He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their pleasant green came forth, And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shaken them down to earth.

He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes!--from the frozen Labrador,-- 5 From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the white bear wanders o'er,-- Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice, and the luckless forms below In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues grow!

He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes!--on the rushing Northern blast, And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearful breath went past. With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where the fires of Hecla glow On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below.

He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes!--and the quiet lake shall feel 5 The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the skater's heel; And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang to the leaning grass, Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful silence pass.

He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes!--let us meet him as we may, And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil power away; And gather closer the circle round, when that firelight dances high, And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding wing goes by!

ALFRED TENNYSON

ENGLAND, 1809-1892

The Owl

I

When cats run home and the light is come And the dew is cold upon the ground, 5 And the far-off stream is dumb, And the whirring sail goes round, And the whirring sail goes round; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits. 10

II

When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay, Twice or thrice his roundelay; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits. 5

GEORGE MACDONALD

SCOTLAND, 1824-

The Wind and the Moon

Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out. You stare In the air Like a ghost in a chair, Always looking what I am about; 10 I hate to be watched; I will blow you out."

The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon. So, deep, On a heap Of clouds, to sleep, Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon-- Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon."

He turned in his bed; she was there again! 5 On high In the sky, With her one ghost eye, The Moon shone white and alive and plain. Said the Wind--"I will blow you out again." 10

The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim. "With my sledge And my wedge I have knocked off her edge! If only I blow right fierce and grim, 15 The creature will soon be dimmer than dim."

He blew and blew, and she thinned to a thread. "One puff More's enough To blow her to snuff! One good puff more where the last was bred, 5 And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go the thread!"

He blew a great blast and the thread was gone; In the air Nowhere Was a moonbeam bare; 10 Far off and harmless the shy stars shone; Sure and certain the Moon was gone!

The Wind he took to his revels once more; On down In town, 15 Like a merry mad clown, He leaped and hallooed with whistle and roar, "What's that?" The glimmering thread once more!

He flew in a rage--he danced and blew; But in vain Was the pain Of his bursting brain; 5 For still the broader the Moon-scrap grew, The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew.

Slowly she grew--till she filled the night, And shone On her throne 10 In the sky alone, A matchless, wonderful, silvery light, Radiant and lovely, the Queen of the Night.

Said the Wind--"What a marvel of power am I! With my breath, 15 Good faith! I blew her to death-- First blew her away right out of the sky-- Then blew her in; what a strength am I!"

But the Moon she knew nothing about the affair, For, high In the sky, 5 With her one white eye, Motionless, miles above the air, She had never heard the great Wind blare.

JAMES T. FIELDS

AMERICA, 1817-1881

The Tempest

We were crowded in the cabin, Not a soul would dare to sleep,-- 10 It was midnight on the waters, And a storm was on the deep.

'Tis a fearful thing in winter To be shattered in the blast, And to hear the rattling trumpet Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"

So we shuddered there in silence,-- For the stoutest held his breath, While the hungry sea was roaring, 5 And the breakers talked with Death.

As thus we sat in darkness, Each one busy in his prayers,-- "We are lost!" the captain shouted, As he staggered down the stairs. 10

But his little daughter whispered, As she took his icy hand, "Is not God upon the ocean, Just the same as on the land?"

Then we kissed the little maiden, 15 And we spoke in better cheer; And we anchored safe in harbor When the morn was shining clear.

CLEMENT C. MOORE

AMERICA, 1779-1863

A Visit from St. Nicholas

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, 5 While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And Mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap, When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shatters and threw up the sash. The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow, Gave a luster of midday to objects below; 5 When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, 10 And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name: "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen-- To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall! Now, dash away, dash away, dash away, all!" As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, So, up to the house-top the coursers they flew, 5 With the sleigh full of toys--and St. Nicholas, too. And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. 10 He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. His eyes how they twinkled! his dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry; His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, 5 And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow. The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath; He had a broad face and a little round belly That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly. 10 He was chubby and plump--a right jolly old elf; And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself. A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head, Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, 5 And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle; But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!" 10

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

ENGLAND, 1770-1850

Lucy Gray

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray; And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew; 5 She dwelt on a wide moor,-- The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green; 10 But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night-- You to the town must go: And take a lantern, child, to light 15 Your mother through the snow."

"That, father, will I gladly do: 'Tis scarcely afternoon-- The minster-clock has just struck two; And yonder is the moon."

At this the father raised his hook, 5 And snapped a fagot-band; He plied his work;--and Lucy took The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke 10 Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time, She wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb, 15 But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide. 20 At daybreak on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door.

They wept--and, turning homeward, cried, 5 "In heaven we all shall meet!" When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small; 10 And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the low stone wall:

And then an open field they crossed; The marks were still the same; They tracked them on, nor ever lost; 15 And to the bridge they came.

They follow from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank; And further there were none! 20 --Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along. 5 And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.

WILLIAM BRIGHTLY RANDS

ENGLAND, 1823-1880

The Wonderful World

Great, wide, wonderful, beautiful world, With the beautiful water about you curled, 10 And the wonderful grass upon your breast-- World, you are beautifully dressed!

The wonderful air is over me, And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree; It walks on the water and whirls the mills, 15 And talks to itself on the tops of the hills.

You friendly earth, how far do you go, With wheat fields that nod, and rivers that flow, And cities and gardens, and oceans and isles, And people upon you for thousands of miles?

Ah, you are so great and I am so small, 5 I hardly can think of you, world, at all; And yet, when I said my prayers to-day, A whisper within me seemed to say: "You are more than the earth, though you're such a dot; You can love and think, and the world cannot." 10

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

ENGLAND, 1770-1850

To a Child

WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM

Small service is true service while it lasts. Of humblest friends, bright creature! scorn not one: The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.

CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI

ENGLAND, 1830-1894

Consider

Consider The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief: We are as they; 5 Like them we fade away, As doth a leaf.

Consider The sparrows of the air of small account: Our God doth view 10 Whether they fall or mount,-- He guards us too.

Consider The lilies that do neither spin nor toil, Yet are most fair: 15 What profits all this care And all this toil?

Consider The birds that have no barn nor harvest-weeks; God gives them food: Much more our Father seeks To do us good. 5

SIR WALTER SCOTT

SCOTLAND, 1771-1832

Lullaby of an Infant Chief

Oh, hush thee, my baby, thy sire was a knight, Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright; The woods and the glens from the tower which we see, They all are belonging, dear baby, to thee.

Oh, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows, 10 It calls but the warders that guard thy repose; Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red, Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed.

Oh, hush thee, my baby, the time will soon come, When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum; Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may, For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day. 5

EUGENE FIELD