Chapter 2

I am coming, I am coming! Hark! the little bee is humming; See, the lark is soaring high In the blue and sunny sky; And the gnats are on the wing, Wheeling round in airy ring.

See, the yellow catkins cover All the slender willows over! And on the banks of mossy green Star-like primroses are seen; And, their clustering leaves below, White and purple violets blow.

Hark! the new-born lambs are bleating, And the cawing rooks are meeting In the elms,--a noisy crowd; All the birds are singing loud; And the first white butterfly In the sunshine dances by.

Look around thee, look around! Flowers in all the fields abound; Every running stream is bright; All the orchard trees are white; And each small and waving shoot Promises sweet flowers and fruit.

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.

_The Coming of Spring_

There's something in the air That's new and sweet and rare-- A scent of summer things, A whir as if of wings.

There's something, too, that's new In the color of the blue That's in the morning sky, Before the sun is high.

And though on plain and hill 'Tis winter, winter still, There's something seems to say That winter's had its day.

And all this changing tint, This whispering stir and hint Of bud and bloom and wing, Is the coming of the spring.

And to-morrow or to-day The brooks will break away From their icy, frozen sleep, And run, and laugh, and leap.

And the next thing, in the woods, The catkins in their hoods Of fur and silk will stand, A sturdy little band.

And the tassels soft and fine Of the hazel will entwine, And the elder branches show Their buds against the snow.

So, silently but swift, Above the wintry drift, The long days gain and gain, Until on hill and plain,--

Once more, and yet once more, Returning as before, We see the bloom of birth Make young again the earth.

Nora Perry.

_May_

May shall make the world anew; Golden sun and silver dew, Money minted in the sky, Shall the earth's new garments buy. May shall make the orchards bloom; And the blossoms' fine perfume Shall set all the honey-bees Murmuring among the trees. May shall make the bud appear Like a jewel, crystal clear, 'Mid the leaves upon the limb Where the robin lilts his hymn. May shall make the wild flowers tell Where the shining snowflakes fell; Just as though each snow-flake's heart, By some secret, magic art, Were transmuted to a flower In the sunlight and the shower. Is there such another, pray, Wonder-making month as May?

Frank Dempster Sherman.

_Spring and Summer_

Spring is growing up, Is not it a pity? She was such a little thing, And so very pretty! Summer is extremely grand, We must pay her duty, (But it is to little Spring That she owes her beauty!)

All the buds are blown, Trees are dark and shady, (It was Spring who dress'd them, though, Such a little lady!) And the birds sing loud and sweet Their enchanting hist'ries, (It was Spring who taught them, though, Such a singing mistress!)

From the glowing sky Summer shines above us; Spring was such a little dear, But will Summer love us? She is very beautiful, With her grown-up blisses, Summer we must bow before; Spring we coaxed with kisses!

Spring is growing up, Leaving us so lonely, In the place of little Spring We have Summer only! Summer with her lofty airs, And her stately faces, In the place of little Spring, With her childish graces!

"A."

_Summer Days_

Winter is cold-hearted; Spring is yea and nay; Autumn is a weathercock, Blown every way: Summer days for me, When every leaf is on its tree,

When Robin's not a beggar, And Jenny Wren's a bride, And larks hang, singing, singing, singing, Over the wheat-fields wide, And anchored lilies ride, And the pendulum spider Swings from side to side,

And blue-black beetles transact business, And gnats fly in a host, And furry caterpillars hasten That no time be lost, And moths grow fat and thrive, And ladybirds arrive.

Before green apples blush, Before green nuts embrown, Why, one day in the country Is worth a month in town-- Is worth a day and a year Of the dusty, musty, lag-last fashion That days drone elsewhere.

Christina G. Rossetti.

_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.

H. H.

_How the Leaves Came Down_

I'll tell you how the leaves came down. The great Tree to his children said, "You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown, Yes, very sleepy, little Red; It is quite time you went to bed."

"Ah!" begged each silly, pouting leaf, "Let us a little longer stay; Dear Father Tree, behold our grief, 'Tis such a very pleasant day We do not want to go away."

So, just for one more merry day To the great Tree the leaflets clung, Frolicked and danced and had their way, Upon the autumn breezes swung, Whispering all their sports among,

"Perhaps the great Tree will forget And let us stay until the spring, If we all beg and coax and fret." But the great Tree did no such thing; He smiled to hear their whispering.

"Come, children all, to bed," he cried; And ere the leaves could urge their prayer He shook his head, and far and wide, Fluttering and rustling everywhere, Down sped the leaflets through the air.

I saw them; on the ground they lay, Golden and red, a huddled swarm, Waiting till one from far away, White bed-clothes heaped upon her arm, Should come to wrap them safe and warm.

The great bare Tree looked down and smiled. "Good-night, dear little leaves," he said; And from below each sleepy child Replied "Good-night," and murmured, "It is _so_ nice to go to bed."

Susan Coolidge.

_Winter Night_

Blow, wind, blow! Drift the flying snow! Send it twirling, whirling overhead! There's a bedroom in a tree Where, snug as snug can be, The squirrel nests in his cosey bed.

Shriek, wind, shriek! Make the branches creak! Battle with the boughs till break o' day! In a snow-cave warm and tight, Through the icy winter night The rabbit sleeps the peaceful hours away.

Call, wind, call, In entry and in hall, Straight from off the mountain white and wild! Soft purrs the pussy-cat On her little fluffy mat, And beside her nestles close her furry child.

Scold, wind, scold, So bitter and so bold! Shake the windows with your tap, tap, tap! With half-shut, dreamy eyes The drowsy baby lies Cuddled closely in his mother's lap.

Mary F. Butts.

A Year's Windfalls

On the wind of January Down flits the snow, Travelling from the frozen North As cold as it can blow. Poor robin redbreast, Look where he comes; Let him in to feel your fire, And toss him of your crumbs.

On the wind in February Snowflakes float still, Half inclined to turn to rain, Nipping, dripping, chill. Then the thaws swell the streams, And swollen rivers swell the sea:-- If the winter ever ends How pleasant it will be.

In the wind of windy March The catkins drop down, Curly, caterpillar-like, Curious green and brown. With concourse of nest-building birds And leaf-buds by the way, We begin to think of flowers And life and nuts some day.

With the gusts of April Rich fruit-tree blossoms fall, On the hedged-in orchard-green, From the southern wall. Apple-trees and pear-trees Shed petals white or pink, Plum-trees and peach-trees; While sharp showers sink and sink.

Little brings the May breeze Beside pure scent of flowers, While all things wax and nothing wanes In lengthening daylight hours. Across the hyacinth beds The wind lags warm and sweet, Across the hawthorn tops, Across the blades of wheat.

In the wind of sunny June Thrives the red rose crop, Every day fresh blossoms blow While the first leaves drop; White rose and yellow rose And moss rose choice to find, And the cottage cabbage-rose Not one whit behind.

On the blast of scorched July Drives the pelting hail, From thunderous lightning-clouds, that blot Blue heaven grown lurid-pale. Weedy waves are tossed ashore, Sea-things strange to sight Gasp upon the barren shore And fade away in light.

In the parching August wind Corn-fields bow the head, Sheltered in round valley depths, On low hills outspread. Early leaves drop loitering down Weightless on the breeze, First fruits of the year's decay From the withering trees.

In brisk wind of September The heavy-headed fruits Shake upon their bending boughs And drop from the shoots; Some glow golden in the sun, Some show green and streaked, Some set forth a purple bloom, Some blush rosy-cheeked.

In strong blast of October At the equinox, Stirred up in his hollow bed Broad ocean rocks; Plunge the ships on his bosom, Leaps and plunges the foam, It's oh! for mothers' sons at sea, That they were safe at home.

In slack wind of November The fog forms and shifts; All the world comes out again When the fog lifts. Loosened from their sapless twigs Leaves drop with every gust; Drifting, rustling, out of sight In the damp or dust.

Last of all, December, The year's sands nearly run, Speeds on the shortest day, Curtails the sun; With its bleak raw wind Lays the last leaves low, Brings back the nightly frosts, Brings back the snow.

Christina G. Rossetti.

II

THE CHILD'S WORLD

_Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World, With the wonderful water round you curled, And the wonderful grass upon your breast, World, you are beautifully drest._

_William Brighty Rands._

THE CHILD'S WORLD

_The Wonderful World_

Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World, With the wonderful water round you curled, And the wonderful grass upon your breast, World, you are beautifully drest.

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

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

Ah! you are so great, and I am so small, I hardly can think of you, World, at all; And yet, when I said my prayers to-day, My mother kissed me, and said, quite gay,

"If the wonderful World is great to you, And great to father and mother, too, You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot! You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!"

William Brighty Rands.

_A Day_

I'll tell you how the sun rose, A ribbon at a time. The steeples swam in amethyst, The news like squirrels ran.

The hills untied their bonnets, The bobolinks begun. Then I said softly to myself, "That must have been the sun!"

* * * * *

But how he set, I know not. There seemed a purple stile Which little yellow boys and girls Were climbing all the while

Till when they reached the other side, A dominie in gray Put gently up the evening bars, And led the flock away.

Emily Dickinson.

_Good-Morning_

The year's at the Spring, And day's at the morn; Morning's at seven; The hill-side's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn; God's in his heaven-- All's right with the world.

Robert Browning.

_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 The cows come shivering up the lane, When the East begins to blow.

Which is the Wind that brings the flowers? The West-Wind, Bessy; and soft and low The birdies sing in the summer hours, When the West begins to blow.

Edmund Clarence Stedman.

_Lady Moon_

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving? "Over the sea." Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving? "All that love me."

Are you not tired with rolling, and never Resting to sleep? Why look so pale and so sad, as forever Wishing to weep?

"Ask me not this, little child, if you love me: You are too bold: I must obey my dear Father above me, And do as I'm told."

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving? "Over the sea." Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving? "All that love me."

Lord Houghton.

_O Lady Moon_[A]

O Lady Moon, your horns point toward the east: Shine, be increased; O Lady Moon, your horns point toward the west: Wane, be at rest.

Christina G. Rossetti.

_Windy Nights_[B]

Whenever the moon and stars are set, Whenever the wind is high, All night long in the dark and wet, A man goes riding by, Late at night when the fires are out, Why does he gallop and gallop about?

Whenever the trees are crying aloud, And ships are tossed at sea, By, on the highway, low and loud, By at the gallop goes he. By at the gallop he goes, and then By he comes back at the gallop again.

Robert Louis Stevenson.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] _From "Sing-Song," by Christina G. Rossetti. By permission of the Macmillan Company._

[B] _From "A Child's Garden of Verses," by Robert Louis Stevenson. By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons._

_Wild Winds_

Oh, oh, how the wild winds blow! Blow high, Blow low, And whirlwinds go, To chase the little leaves that fly-- Fly low and high, To hollow and to steep hill-side; They shiver in the dreary weather, And creep in little heaps together, And nestle close and try to hide.

Oh, oh, how the wild winds blow! Blow low, Blow high, And whirlwinds try To find a crevice--to find a crack, They whirl to the front; they whirl to the back. But Tommy and Will and the baby together Are snug and safe from the wintry weather. All the winds that blow Cannot touch a toe-- Cannot twist or twirl One silken curl. They may rattle the doors in a noisy pack, But the blazing fires will drive them back.

Mary F. Butts.

_Now the Noisy Winds Are Still_[A]

Now the noisy winds are still; April's coming up the hill! All the spring is in her train, Led by shining ranks of rain; Pit, pat, patter, clatter, Sudden sun, and clatter, patter!-- First the blue, and then the shower; Bursting bud, and smiling flower; Brooks set free with tinkling ring; Birds too full of song to sing; Crisp old leaves astir with pride, Where the timid violets hide,-- All things ready with a will,-- April's coming up the hill!

Mary Mapes Dodge.

_The Wind_

The wind has a language, I would I could learn; Sometimes 'tis soothing, and sometimes 'tis stern; Sometimes it comes like a low, sweet song, And all things grow calm, as the sound floats along; And the forest is lulled by the dreamy strain; And slumber sinks down on the wandering main; And its crystal arms are folded in rest, And the tall ship sleeps on its heaving breast.

Letitia Elizabeth Landon.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] _From "Along the Way," by Mary Mapes Dodge. By permission of Charles Scribner's Sons._

_The Fountain_

Into the sunshine, Full of the light, Leaping and flashing From morn till night!

Into the moonlight, Whiter than snow, Waving so flower-like When the winds blow!

Into the starlight, Rushing in spray, Happy at midnight, Happy by day;

Ever in motion, Blithesome and cheery, Still climbing heavenward, Never aweary;

Glad of all weathers; Still seeming best, Upward or downward; Motion thy rest;

Full of a nature Nothing can tame, Changed every moment, Ever the same;

Ceaseless aspiring, Ceaseless content, Darkness or sunshine Thy element;

Glorious fountain! Let my heart be Fresh, changeful, constant, Upward like thee!

James Russell Lowell.

_The Waterfall_

_Tinkle, tinkle!_ Listen well! Like a fairy silver bell In the distance ringing, Lightly swinging In the air; 'Tis the water in the dell Where the elfin minstrels dwell, Falling in a rainbow sprinkle, Dropping stars that brightly twinkle, Bright and fair, On the darkling pool below, Making music so; 'Tis the water elves who play On their lutes of spray. _Tinkle, tinkle!_ Like a fairy silver bell; Like a pebble in a shell; _Tinkle, tinkle!_ Listen well!

Frank Dempster Sherman.

_The Voice of the Grass_

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; By the dusty roadside, On the sunny hill-side, Close by the noisy brook, In every shady nook, I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere; All around the open door, Where sit the aged poor; Here where the children play, In the bright and merry May, I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; In the noisy city street My pleasant face you'll meet, Cheering the sick at heart Toiling his busy part,-- Silently creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; You cannot see me coming, Nor hear my low sweet humming; For in the starry night, And the glad morning light, I come quietly creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; More welcome than the flowers In summer's pleasant hours; The gentle cow is glad, And the merry bird not sad, To see me creeping, creeping everywhere.

* * * * *

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; My humble song of praise Most joyfully I raise To him at whose command I beautify the land, Creeping, silently creeping everywhere.

Sarah Roberts Boyle.

_The Wind in a Frolic_

The wind one morning sprang up from sleep, Saying, "Now for a frolic! Now for a leap! Now for a madcap, galloping chase! I'll make a commotion in every place!" So it swept with a bustle right through a great town, Creaking the signs, and scattering down Shutters, and whisking, with merciless squalls, Old women's bonnets and gingerbread stalls. There never was heard a much lustier shout, As the apples and oranges tumbled about; And the urchins that stand with their thievish eyes Forever on watch, ran off with each prize.

Then away to the field it went blustering and humming, And the cattle all wondered whatever was coming. It plucked by their tails the grave matronly cows, And tossed the colts' manes all about their brows, Till offended at such a familiar salute, They all turned their backs and stood silently mute. So on it went capering and playing its pranks; Whistling with reeds on the broad river-banks; Puffing the birds as they sat on the spray, Or the traveller grave on the king's highway. It was not too nice to bustle the bags Of the beggar and flutter his dirty rags. 'Twas so bold that it feared not to play its joke With the doctor's wig and the gentleman's cloak. Through the forest it roared, and cried gayly, "Now, You sturdy old oaks, I'll make you bow!" And it made them bow without more ado, Or it cracked their branches through and through.