Part 4

So you see, Mister Peacock, you must not be proud, Although you can boast such a train; For many a bird is more highly endowed, And not half so conceited and vain.

BUSY BEE

How doth the little busy bee Improve each shining hour, And gather honey all the day From every opening flower.

How skilfully she builds her cell, How neat she spreads the wax, And labors hard to store it well With the sweet food she makes.

In works of labor or of skill I would be busy, too; For Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do.

THE BEES

“Oh, mother dear, pray tell me where The bees in winter stay? The flowers are gone they feed upon So sweet in summer’s day.”

“My child, they live within the hive, And have enough to eat; Amid the storm they’re clean and warm, Their food is honey sweet.”

“Say, mother dear, how came it there? Did father feed them so? I see no way in winter’s day That honey has to grow.”

“No, no, my child; in summer mild The bees laid up their store Of honey-drops in little cups, Till they should want no more.”

THE FLY

’Twas God who made the little fly; But if you pinch it, it will die.

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 when you are there.” “Oh, 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 a while, I’ll snugly tuck you in.” “Oh, 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?” “Oh, 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.

PRETTY BEE

“Pretty bee, pray tell me why Thus from flower to flower you fly, Culling sweets the livelong day, Never leaving off to play.”

“Little child, I’ll tell thee why Thus from flower to flower I fly: Let the truth thy thoughts engage From thy youth to riper age.

“Summer flowers will soon be o’er; Winter comes, they bloom no more: Fairest days will soon be past; Brightest suns will set at last.

“Little child, now learn of me: Let thy youth thy seed-time be; Then, when wintry age has come, Richly bear thy harvest home.”

THE MERRY FLY

My merry little fly, play here, And let me look at you; I will not touch you, though you’re near, As naughty children do.

I see you spread your pretty wings, That sparkle in the sun: I see your legs--what tiny things; And yet how fast they run!

You walk along the ceiling now, And down the upright wall: I’ll ask mamma to tell me how You walk and do not fall.

’Twas God who taught you, little fly, To walk along the ground, And mount above my head so high, And frolic round and round.

I’ll near you stand, to see you play; But do not be afraid: I would not lift my little hand To hurt what God has made.

THE BUTTERFLY

Where hides the downy butterfly That in the sunshine flew so high, Or sucked the flowers? When night has fallen on all around, Has he a place of shelter found For darkling hours?

Upon a bank that faces west, His velvet couch a daisy’s breast, He is at home; There sleeps until the sun with power Unfolds him like a living flower, No more to roam.

MY TAME SQUIRREL

I have a little squirry, His step is quick and light, His tail is long and furry, And his eyes are large and bright.

He burrows ’neath my pillow, And curls himself to sleep; Or in my basket willow He slyly loves to creep.

It’s of no use to scold him, He always has his way, Though oft and oft I’ve told him To be quiet in his play.

But bolder still and bolder He grows with every week; He springs upon my shoulder, And frisks across my cheek.

He builds his nest aloft there Behind a barricade; And none can tell how soft there The little crib he’s made--

What piles of snowy cotton, What balls of worsted bright, What skeins of silk forgotten, Or left within his sight.

And none can tell what bunches Of hazelnuts are stored, What dinners and what lunches Are in that secret hoard.

O Squirry, nimble Squirry! I love thy merry ways, And never yet grew weary To watch thee in thy plays.

THE SQUIRREL’S ARITHMETIC

High on the branch of a walnut-tree A bright-eyed squirrel sat; What was he thinking so earnestly? And what was he looking at?

He was doing a problem o’er and o’er; Busily thinking was he How many nuts for his Winter’s store Could he hide in the hollow tree?

He sat so still on the swaying bough You might have thought him asleep; Oh, no; he was trying to reckon now The nuts the babies could eat.

Then suddenly he frisked about, And down the tree he ran; “The best way to do, without a doubt, Is to gather all I can.”

—_Modern Instructor._

THE LAMB’S LULLABY

The pretty little lambs that lie And sleep upon the grass Have none to sing them lullaby But the night winds as they pass--

While I, a happy little maid, Bid dear papa good-night, And in my crib so warm am laid, And tucked up snug and tight.

Haste, kind mamma, and call them here, Where they’ll be warm as I; For in the chilly fields, I fear, Before the morn they’ll die.

MOTHER

The lambs sleep in the fields, ’tis true, Without a lullaby; And yet they are as warm as you Beneath a summer sky.

They choose some dry and grassy spot Beneath the shady trees; To other songs they listen not While softly hums the breeze.

And when the night is bitter cold, The shepherd comes with care, And leads them to his peaceful fold; They’re safe and sheltered there.

How happy are the lambs, my love, How safe and calm they rest; But you a Shepherd have above, Of all kind shepherds best.

His lambs he gathers in his arms, And in his bosom bears: How blest, how safe from all alarms, Each child his love who shares!

COUNTRY MUSIC

The cock is crowing, The cows are lowing; The sheep are baa-ing, The boys ha-ha-ing; The birds are singing, The bells are ringing; The brook is babbling, The geese are gabbling; The pigs are squeaking, The barn-door creaking; Sally is churning, The grindstone turning; John is sawing, Willie hurrahing; The peacock screeching, And Carrie teaching Amid all the noise.

MARY AND HER LAMB

Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow; And everywhere that Mary went, The lamb was sure to go.

He followed her to school one day-- That was against the rule; It made the children laugh and play To see a lamb at school.

So the teacher turned him out, But still he lingered near, And waited patiently about Till Mary did appear.

Then he ran to her, and laid His head upon her arm, As if he said: I’m not afraid; You’ll keep me from all harm.

“What makes the lamb love Mary so?” The eager children cry. “Oh, Mary loves the lamb, you know,” The teacher did reply.

And you each gentle animal In confidence may bind, And make them follow at your will, If you are only kind.

OF WHAT ARE YOUR CLOTHES MADE?

Come here to mamma, and I’ll tell you, dear boy-- For I think you never have guessed-- How many poor animals we must employ Before little George can be dressed.

The pretty sheep gives you the wool from his sides, To make you a jacket to use; The goat or the calf must be stripped of their hides, To give you these nice little shoes.

And then the shy beaver contributes his share, With the rabbit, to give you a hat, For this must be made of their delicate hair; And so you may thank them for that.

Then as the poor creatures thus suffer to give So much for the comfort of man, I think ’tis but right, that as long as they live We should treat them as well as we can.

THE LITTLE FISH

“Dear mother,” said a little fish, “Pray is not that a fly? I’m very hungry, and I wish You’d let me go and try.”

“Sweet innocent,” the mother cried, And started from her nook, “That horrid fly is put to hide The sharpness of the hook.”

Now, as I’ve heard, this little trout Was young and foolish too, And so he thought he’d venture out To see if it were true.

And round about the hook he played, With many a longing look, And, “Dear me,” to himself he said, “I’m sure that’s not a _hook_.

“I can but give one little pluck: Let’s see, and so I will.” So on he went, and lo, it stuck Quite through his little gill.

And as he faint and fainter grew, With hollow voice he cried, “Dear mother, had I minded you, I need not now have died.”

THE REINDEER AND THE RABBIT

_Mary._--I wish I were a reindeer, To gallop o’er the snow; Over frosty Lapland drear So merrily I’d go.

_Beth._--A little rabbit I would be, With fur so soft and sleek, And timid ears raised prettily, And looks so very meek.

_Mary._--But then some sly and cruel rat Would find your burrow out; Or else the furious old gray cat Might scratch your peepers out.

_Beth._—’Tis true they might, but don’t you know The reindeer’s wretched lot? His dinner and his bed are snow, And supper he has not.

_Mary._--But then he is so useful, Beth, His masters love him so! Dear creatures, they do all they can, And are content with snow.

THE PET LAMB

The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink; 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._

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.

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.”

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._

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.