Chapter 3

To pass through the bowers of the silver cloud; To sing in the thunder hall aloud; To spread out the wings for a wild, free flight With the upper cloud-wings,--oh, what delight! Oh, what would I give, like a bird, to go, Right on through the arch of the sun-lit bow, And see how the water-drops are kissed Into green and yellow and amethyst.

How pleasant the life of a bird must be, Wherever it listeth, there to flee; To go, when a joyful fancy calls, Dashing down 'mong the waterfalls; Then wheeling about, with its mate at play, Above and below, and among the spray, Hither and thither, with screams as wild As the laughing mirth of a rosy child.

What joy it must be, like a living breeze, To flutter about 'mid the flowering trees;

Lightly to soar, and to see beneath, The wastes of the blossoming purple heath, And the yellow furze, like fields of gold, That gladdened some fairy region old! On the mountain tops, on the billowy sea, On the leafy stems of a forest tree, How pleasant the life of a bird must be!

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY

"Will you walk into my parlor?" Said a spider to a fly; "'Tis the prettiest little parlor That ever you did spy. The way into my parlor Is up a winding stair, And I have many pretty things To show you when you're there." "O no, no," said the little fly, "To ask me is in vain; For who goes up your winding stair Can ne'er come down again."

"I'm sure you must be weary With soaring up so high; Will you rest upon my little bed?" Said the spider to the fly. "There are pretty curtains drawn around; The sheets are fine and thin; And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in." "O no, no," said the little fly, "For I've often heard it said They never, never wake again, Who sleep upon your bed."

Said the cunning spider to the fly, "Dear friend, what shall I do To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you? I have, within my pantry, Good store of all that's nice; I'm sure you're very welcome-- Will you please to take a slice?" "O no, no," said the little fly, "Kind sir, that cannot be; I've heard what's in your pantry, And I do not wish to see."

"Sweet creature," said the spider, "You're witty and you're wise; How handsome are your gauzy wings, How brilliant are your eyes. I have a little looking-glass Upon my parlor shelf; If you'll step in one moment, dear, You shall behold yourself." "I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "For what you're pleased to say, And bidding you good-morning now, I'll call another day."

The spider turned him round about, And went into his den, For well he knew the silly fly Would soon be back again; So he wove a subtle web In a little corner sly, And set his table ready To dine upon the fly.

He went out to his door again, And merrily did sing, "Come hither, hither, pretty fly, With pearl and silver wing; Your robes are green and purple, There's a crest upon your head; Your eyes are like the diamond bright, But mine are dull as lead."

Alas, alas! how very soon This silly little fly, Hearing his wily, flattering words, Came slowly flitting by; With buzzing wings she hung aloft, Then near and nearer drew-- Thought only of her brilliant eyes, And green and purple hue; Thought only of her crested head-- Poor foolish thing! At last Up jumped the cunning spider, And fiercely held her fast.

He dragged her up his winding stair, Into his dismal den Within his little parlor--but She ne'er came out again! And now, dear little children Who may this story read, To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you, ne'er give heed. Unto an evil counselor Close heart and ear and eye; And take a lesson from this tale Of the spider and the fly.

THE FAIRIES OF THE CALDON LOW

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

"And what did you see, my Mary, All up on the Caldon Low?" "I saw the glad sunshine come down, And I saw the merry winds blow."

"And what did you hear, my Mary, All up on the Caldon Hill?" "I heard the drops of the water made, And the ears of the green corn fill."

"Oh! tell me all, my Mary-- 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: A hundred fairies danced last night. And the harpers they were nine;

"And their harp-strings rung so merrily To their dancing feet so small; But oh! the words of their talking Were merrier far than all."

"And what were the words, my Mary, That then you heard them say?" "I'll tell you all, my mother; But let me have my way.

"Some of them play'd with the water, And roll'd it down the hill; 'And this,' they said, 'shall speedily turn The poor old miller's mill;

"'For there has been no water Ever since the first of May; And a busy man will the miller be At dawning of the day.

"'Oh! the miller, how he will laugh When he sees the mill-dam rise! 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 unto his mouth, And blew both loud and shrill;

"'And there,' they said, 'the merry winds go Away from every horn; And they shall clear the mildew dank From the blind old widow's corn.

"'Oh! the poor, blind widow, Though she has been blind so long, She'll be blithe enough when the mildew's gone, And the corn stands tall and strong,'

"And some they brought the brown lint-seed, And flung it down from the Low; 'And this!' they said, 'by the sunrise, In the weaver's croft shall grow.

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

"And then outspoke a brownie, With a long beard on his chin; 'I have spun up all the tow,' said he, '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.'

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

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

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

"And I peep'd into the widow's field, And, sure enough, were seen The yellow ears of the mildew'd corn, All standing stout and green.

"And down by the weaver's croft I stole, To see if the flax were sprung; And I met the weaver at his gate, With the good news on his tongue.

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

OLD CHRISTMAS

Now he who knows old Christmas, He knows a carle of worth; For he is as good a fellow As any upon earth.

He comes warm cloaked and coated, And buttoned up to the chin; And soon as he comes a-nigh the door We open and let him in.

And with sprigs of holly and ivy We make the house look gay, Just out of an old regard for him, For it was his ancient way.

He must be a rich old fellow, What money he gives away! There is not a lord in England Could equal him any day.

Good luck unto old Christmas, And long life, let us sing, For he doth more good unto the poor Than many a crowned king.

* * * * *

POEMS BY ALICE AND PHOEBE CARY

THE PIG AND THE HEN

The pig and the hen, They both got in one pen, And the hen said she wouldn't go out. "Mistress Hen," says the pig, "Don't you be quite so big!" And he gave her a push with his snout.

"You are rough, and you're fat, But who cares for all that; I will stay if I choose," says the hen. "No, mistress, no longer!" Says pig, "I'm the stronger, And mean to be boss of my pen!"

Then the hen cackled out Just as close to his snout As she dare: "You're an ill-natured brute, And if I had the corn, Just as sure as I'm born, I would send you to starve or to root!"

"But you don't own the cribs; So I think that my ribs Will be never the leaner for you: This trough is my trough, And the sooner you're off," Says the pig, "why the better you'll do!"

"You're not a bit fair, And you're cross as a bear; What harm do I do in your pen? But a pig is a pig, And I don't care a fig For the worst you can say," says the hen.

Says the pig, "You will care If I act like a bear And tear your two wings from your neck," "What a nice little pen You have got!" says the hen, Beginning to scratch and to peck.

Now the pig stood amazed And the bristles, upraised A moment past, fell down so sleek. "Neighbor Biddy," says he, "If you'll just allow me, I will show you a nice place to pick!"

So she followed him off, And they ate from one trough--

They had quarreled for nothing, they saw; And when they had fed, "Neighbor Hen," the pig said, "Won't you stay here and roost in my straw?"

"No, I thank you; you see That I sleep in a tree," Says the hen; "but I _must_ go away; So a grateful good-by." "Make your home in my sty," Says the pig, "and come in every day."

Now my child will not miss The true moral of this Little story of anger and strife; For a word spoken soft Will turn enemies oft Into friends that will stay friends for life.

A LESSON OF MERCY

A boy named Peter Found once in the road All harmless and helpless, A poor little toad;

And ran to his playmate, And all out of breath Cried, "John, come and help, And we'll stone him to death!"

And picking up stones, The two went on the run, Saying, one to the other, "Oh, won't we have fun?"

Thus primed and all ready, They'd got nearly back, When a donkey came Dragging a cart on the track.

Now the cart was as much As the donkey could draw, And he came with his head Hanging down; so he saw,

All harmless and helpless, The poor little toad, A-taking his morning nap Right in the road.

He shivered at first, Then he drew back his leg, And set up his ears, Never moving a peg.

Then he gave the poor toad, With his warm nose a dump, And he woke and got off With a hop and jump.

And then with an eye Turned on Peter and John, And hanging his homely head Down, he went on.

"We can't kill him now, John," Says Peter, "that's flat, In the face of an eye and An action like that!"

"For my part, I haven't The heart to," says John; "But the load is too heavy That donkey has on:

"Let's help him"; so both lads Set off with a will And came up with the cart At the foot of the hill.

And when each a shoulder Had put to the wheel, They helped the poor donkey A wonderful deal.

When they got to the top Back again they both run, Agreeing they never Had had better fun.

NOVEMBER

The leaves are fading and falling, 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, 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 come back to the clover, And the swallow back to the eaves.

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

The leaves to-day are whirling, The brooks are all dry and dumb, 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 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.

LITTLE GOTTLIEB

Across the German Ocean, In a country far from our own, Once, a poor little boy, named Gottlieb, Lived with his mother alone.

They dwelt in the part of a village Where the houses were poor and small, But the home of little Gottlieb, Was the poorest one of all

He was not large enough to work, And his mother could do no more (Though she scarcely laid her knitting down) Than keep the wolf from the door.

She had to take their threadbare clothes, And turn, and patch, and darn; For never any woman yet Grew rich by knitting yarn.

And oft at night, beside her chair, Would Gottlieb sit, and plan The wonderful things he would do for her, When he grew to be a man.

One night she sat and knitted, And Gottlieb sat and dreamed, When a happy fancy all at once Upon his vision beamed.

'Twas only a week till Christmas, And Gottlieb knew that then The Christ-child, who was born that day, Sent down good gifts to men.

But he said, "He will never find us, Our home is so mean and small. And we, who have most need of them, Will get no gifts at all."

When all at once a happy light Came into his eyes so blue, And lighted up his face with smiles, As he thought what he could do.

Next day when the postman's letters Came from all over the land; Came one for the Christ-child, written In a child's poor trembling hand.

You may think he was sorely puzzled What in the world to do; So he went to the Burgomaster, As the wisest man he knew.

And when they opened the letter, They stood almost dismayed That such a little child should dare To ask the Lord for aid.

Then the Burgomaster stammered, And scarce knew what to speak, And hastily he brushed aside A drop, like a tear, from his cheek.

Then up he spoke right gruffly, And turned himself about: "This must be a very foolish boy, And a small one, too, no doubt."

But when six rosy children That night about him pressed, Poor, trusting little Gottlieb Stood near him, with the rest.

And he heard his simple, touching prayer, Through all their noisy play; Though he tried his very best to put The thought of him away.

A wise and learned man was he, Men called him good and just; But his wisdom seemed like foolishness, By that weak child's simple trust.

Now when the morn of Christmas came And the long, long week was done, Poor Gottlieb, who scarce could sleep, Rose up before the sun,

And hastened to his mother, But he scarce might speak for fear, When he saw her wondering look, and saw The Burgomaster near.

He wasn't afraid of the Holy Babe, Nor his mother, meek and mild; But he felt as if so great a man Had never been a child.

Amazed the poor child looked, to find The hearth was piled with wood, And the table, never full before, Was heaped with dainty food.

Then half to hide from himself the truth The Burgomaster said, While the mother blessed him on her knees, And Gottlieb shook for dread;

"Nay, give no thanks, my good dame, To such as me for aid, Be grateful to your little son, And the Lord to whom he prayed!"

Then turning round to Gottlieb, "Your written prayer, you see, Came not to whom it was addressed, It only came to me!

"'Twas but a foolish thing you did, As you must understand; For though the gifts are yours, you know, You have them from my hand."

Then Gottlieb answered fearlessly, Where he humbly stood apart, "But the Christ-child sent them all the same, He put the thought in your heart!"

OUR HEROES

Here's a hand to the boy who has courage To do what he knows to be right; When he falls in the way of temptation, He has a hard battle to fight. Who strives against self and his comrades Will find a most powerful foe; All honor to him if he conquers-- A cheer for the boy who says "No!"

There's many a battle fought daily The world knows nothing about; There's many a brave little soldier Whose strength puts a legion to rout.

And he who fights sin single-handed Is more of a hero, I say, Than he who leads soldiers to battle, And conquers by arms in the fray.

Be steadfast, my boy, when you're tempted And do what you know to be right; Stand firm by the colors of manhood, And you will overcome in the fight. "The Right" be your battle-cry ever, In waging the warfare of life; And God, who knows who are the heroes, Will give you the strength for the strife.

AN APRIL WELCOME

Come up, April, through the valley, In your robes of beauty drest, Come and wake your flowery children From their wintry beds of rest; Come and overblow them softly With the sweet breath of the south; Drop upon them, warm and loving, Tenderest kisses of your mouth.

Touch them with your rosy fingers, Wake them with your pleasant tread, Push away the leaf-brown covers, Over all their faces spread;

Tell them how the sun is waiting Longer daily in the skies, Looking for the bright uplifting Of their softly-fringed eyes.

Call the crow-foot and the crocus, Call the pale anemone, Call the violet and the daisy, Clothed with careful modesty; Seek the low and humble blossoms, Of their beauties unaware, Let the dandelion and fennel, Show their shining yellow hair.

Bid the little homely sparrows Chirping, in the cold and rain, Their impatient sweet complaining, Sing out from their hearts again; Bid them set themselves to mating, Cooing love in softest words, Crowd their nests, all cold and empty, Full of little callow birds.

Come up, April, through the valley, Where the fountain sleeps to-day, Let him, freed from icy fetters, Go rejoicing on his way; Through the flower-enameled meadows Let him run his laughing race, Making love to all the blossoms That o'erlean and kiss his face.

But not birds and blossoms only, Not alone the streams complain, Men and maidens too are calling, Come up, April, come again! Waiting with the sweet impatience Of a lover for the hours They shall set the tender beauty Of thy feet among the flowers!

AUTUMN

Shorter and shorter now the twilight clips The days, as through the sunset gates they crowd, And Summer from her golden collar slips And strays through stubble-fields and moans aloud.

Save when by fits the warmer air deceives, And, stealing hopeful to some sheltered bower, She lies on pillows of the yellow leaves, And tries the old tunes over for an hour.

The wind, whose tender whisper in the May Set all the young blooms listening through the grove, Sits rustling in the faded boughs to-day And makes his cold and unsuccessful love.

The rose has taken off her 'tire of red-- The mullein-stalk its yellow stars have lost, And the proud meadow-pink hangs down her head Against earth's chilly bosom, witched with frost.

The robin, that was busy all the June, Before the sun had kissed the topmost bough, Catching our hearts up in his golden tune, Has given place to the brown cricket now.

The very cock crows lonesomely at morn-- Each flag and fern the shrinking stream divides-- Uneasy cattle low, and lambs forlorn Creep to their strawy sheds with nettled sides.

Shut up the door: who loves me must not look Upon the withered world, but haste to bring His lighted candle, and his story-book, And live with me the poetry of spring.

* * * * *

POEMS BY CHARLES KINGSLEY

THE THREE FISHERS

Three fishers went sailing away to the west-- Away to the west as the sun went down; Each thought on the woman who loved him the best, And the children stood watching them out of the town; For men must work, and women must weep; And there's little to earn, and many to keep, Though the harbor bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, And they trimm'd the lamps as the sun went down; They look'd at the squall, and they look'd at the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up, ragged and brown; But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbor bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands For those who will never come home to the town; For men must work, and women must weep-- And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep-- And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

THE "OLD, OLD SONG"

When all the world is young, lad, And all the trees are green; And every goose a swan, lad, And every lass a queen,-- Then hey for boot and horse, lad, And round the world away; Young blood must have its course, lad, And every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad, And all the trees are brown; And all the sport is stale, lad, And all the wheels run down,-- Creep home, and take your place there, The spent and maimed among: God grant you find one face there You loved when all was young.

A FAREWELL

My fairest child, I have no song to give you; No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray; Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you For every day.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; Do noble things, not dream them, all day long: And so make life, death, and that vast forever One grand, sweet song.

THE LOST DOLL

I once had a sweet little doll, dears, The prettiest doll in the world; Her cheeks were so red and white, dears, And her hair was so charmingly curled. But I lost my poor little doll, dears, As I played in the heath one day; And I cried for her more than a week, dears, But I never could find where she lay.

I found my poor little doll, dears, As I played in the heath one day; Folks say she is terribly changed, dears, For her paint is all washed away, And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears, And her hair not the least bit curled; Yet for old sakes' sake, she is still, dears, The prettiest doll in the world.

* * * * *

POEMS BY HELEN HUNT JACKSON

"DOWN TO SLEEP"

November woods are bare and still; November days are clear and bright; Each noon burns up the morning's chill; The morning's snow is gone by night. Each day my steps grow slow, grow light, As through the woods I reverent creep, Watching all things lie "down to sleep."

I never knew before what beds, Fragrant to smell, and soft to touch, The forest sifts and shapes and spreads; I never knew before how much Of human sound there is in such Low tones as through the forest sweep, When all wild things lie "down to sleep."

Each day I find new coverlids Tucked in, and more sweet eyes shut tight; Sometimes the viewless mother bids Her ferns kneel down full in my sight; I hear their chorus of "good-night"; And half I smile, and half I weep, Listening while they lie "down to sleep."

November woods are bare and still; November days are bright and good; Life's noon burns up life's morning chill; Life's night rests feet which long have stood; Some warm soft bed, in field or wood, The mother will not fail to keep, Where we can "lay us down to sleep."

SEPTEMBER

The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down;

The gentian's bluest fringes Are curling in the sun; In dusty pods the milkweed Its hidden silk has spun;

The sedges flaunt their harvest In every meadow nook, And asters by the brookside Make asters in the brook;

From dewy lanes at morning The grapes' sweet odors rise; At noon the roads all flutter With yellow butterflies--

By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer's best of weather And autumn's best of cheer.

OCTOBER'S BRIGHT BLUE WEATHER

O suns and skies and clouds of June, And flowers of June together, Ye cannot rival for one hour October's bright blue weather.

When loud the bumble-bee makes haste, Belated, thriftless, vagrant, And golden-rod is dying fast, And lanes with grapes are fragrant;

When gentians roll their fringes tight To save them for the morning, And chestnuts fall from satin burrs Without a sound of warning;