Chapter 3

Then it rushed like a monster o'er cottage and farm, Striking their inmates with sudden alarm; And they ran out like bees in a midsummer swarm. There were dames with their kerchiefs tied over their caps, To see if their poultry were free from mishaps; The turkeys they gobbled, the geese screamed aloud, And the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd; There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on, Where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to be gone. But the wind had passed on, and had met in a lane With a schoolboy, who panted and struggled in vain, For it tossed him, and twirled him, then passed, and he stood With his hat in a pool and his shoe in the mud.

William Howitt.

_Clouds_

The sky is full of clouds to-day, And idly to and fro, Like sheep across the pasture, they Across the heavens go. I hear the wind with merry noise-- Around the housetops sweep, And dream it is the shepherd boys, They're driving home their sheep.

The clouds move faster now; and see! The west is red and gold. Each sheep seems hastening to be The first within the fold. I watch them hurry on until The blue is clear and deep, And dream that far beyond the hill The shepherds fold their sheep.

Then in the sky the trembling stars Like little flowers shine out, While Night puts up the shadow bars, And darkness falls about. I hear the shepherd wind's good-night-- "Good-night and happy sleep!" And dream that in the east, all white, Slumber the clouds, the sheep.

Frank Dempster Sherman.

_Signs of Rain_

The hollow winds begin to blow, The clouds look black, the glass is low, The soot falls down, the spaniels sleep, The spiders from their cobwebs peep: Last night the sun went pale to bed, The moon in halos hid her head; The boding shepherd heaves a sigh, For, see, a rainbow spans the sky: The walls are damp, the ditches smell, Closed is the pink-eyed pimpernel. Hark how the chairs and tables crack! Old Betty's joints are on the rack; Loud quack the ducks, the peacocks cry, The distant hills are seeming nigh. How restless are the snorting swine; The busy flies disturb the kine; Low o'er the grass the swallow wings, The cricket too, how sharp he sings; Puss on the hearth, with velvet paws, Sits wiping o'er her whiskered jaws. Through the clear stream the fishes rise, And nimbly catch the incautious flies. The glow-worms, numerous and bright, Illumed the dewy dell last night. At dusk the squalid toad was seen, Hopping and crawling o'er the green; The whirling wind the dust obeys, And in the rapid eddy plays; The frog has changed his yellow vest, And in a russet coat is dressed. Though June, the air is cold and still, The mellow blackbird's voice is shrill. My dog, so altered in his taste, Quits mutton-bones on grass to feast; And see yon rooks, how odd their flight, They imitate the gliding kite, And seem precipitate to fall, As if they felt the piercing ball. 'Twill surely rain, I see with sorrow, Our jaunt must be put off to-morrow.

Edward Jenner.

_A Sudden Shower_

Barefooted boys scud up the street, Or scurry under sheltering sheds; And school-girl faces, pale and sweet, Gleam from the shawls about their heads.

Doors bang; and mother-voices call From alien homes; and rusty gates Are slammed; and high above it all The thunder grim reverberates.

And then abrupt,--the rain, the rain! The earth lies gasping; and the eyes Behind the streaming window-panes Smile at the trouble of the skies.

The highway smokes, sharp echoes ring; The cattle bawl and cow-bells clank; And into town comes galloping The farmer's horse, with steaming flank.

The swallow dips beneath the eaves, And flirts his plumes and folds his wings; And under the catawba leaves The caterpillar curls and clings.

The bumble-bee is pelted down The wet stem of the hollyhock; And sullenly in spattered brown The cricket leaps the garden walk.

Within, the baby claps his hands And crows with rapture strange and vague; Without, beneath the rosebush stands A dripping rooster on one leg.

James Whitcomb Riley.

_Strange Lands_

Where do you come from, Mr. Jay? "From the land of Play, from the land of Play." And where can that be, Mr. Jay? "Far away--far away."

Where do you come from, Mrs. Dove? "From the land of Love, from the land of Love." And how do you get there, Mrs. Dove? "Look above--look above."

Where do you come from, Baby Miss? "From the land of Bliss, from the land of Bliss." And what is the way there, Baby Miss? "Mother's kiss--mother's kiss."

Laurence Alma Tadema.

_Guessing Song_

Oh ho! oh ho! Pray, who can I be? I sweep o'er the land, I scour o'er the sea; I cuff the tall trees till they bow down their heads, And I rock the wee birdies asleep in their beds. Oh ho! oh ho! And who can I be, That sweep o'er the land and scour o'er the sea?

I rumple the breast of the gray-headed daw, I tip the rook's tail up and make him cry "caw"; But though I love fun, I'm so big and so strong, At a puff of my breath the great ships sail along. Oh ho! oh ho! And who can I be, That sweep o'er the land and sail o'er the sea?

I swing all the weather-cocks this way and that, I play hare-and-hounds with a runaway hat; But however I wander, I never can stray, For go where I will, I've a free right of way! Oh ho! oh ho! And who can I be, That sweep o'er the land and scour o'er the sea?

I skim o'er the heather, I dance up the street, I've foes that I laugh at, and friends that I greet; I'm known in the country, I'm named in the town, For all the world over extends my renown. Oh ho! oh ho! And who can I be, That sweep o'er the land and scour o'er the sea?

Henry Johnstone.

_The Rivulet_

Run, little rivulet, run! Summer is fairly begun. Bear to the meadow the hymn of the pines, And the echo that rings where the waterfall shines; Run, little rivulet, run!

Run, little rivulet, run! Sing to the fields of the sun That wavers in emerald, shimmers in gold, Where you glide from your rocky ravine, crystal-cold; Run, little rivulet, run!

Run, little rivulet, run! Sing of the flowers, every one,-- Of the delicate harebell and violet blue; Of the red mountain rose-bud, all dripping with dew; Run, little rivulet, run!

Run, little rivulet, run! Carry the perfume you won From the lily, that woke when the morning was gray, To the white waiting moonbeam adrift on the bay; Run, little rivulet, run!

Run, little rivulet, run! Stay not till summer is done! Carry the city the mountain-birds' glee; Carry the joy of the hills to the sea; Run, little rivulet, run!

Lucy Larcom.

_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.

_Snowflakes_[A]

Whenever 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.

Mary Mapes Dodge.

_The Water! the Water!_

The Water! the Water! The joyous brook for me, That tuneth through the quiet night Its ever-living glee. The Water! the Water! That sleepless, merry heart, Which gurgles on unstintedly, And loveth to impart, To all around it, some small measure Of its own most perfect pleasure.

The Water! the Water! The gentle stream for me, That gushes from the old gray stone Beside the alder-tree. The Water! the Water! That ever-bubbling spring I loved and look'd on while a child, In deepest wondering,-- And ask'd it whence it came and went, And when its treasures would be spent.

The Water! the Water! The merry, wanton brook That bent itself to pleasure me, Like mine old shepherd crook. The Water! the Water! That sang so sweet at noon, And sweeter still all night, to win Smiles from the pale proud moon, And from the little fairy faces That gleam in heaven's remotest places.

* * * * *

William Motherwell.

FOOTNOTE:

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

III

HIAWATHA'S CHICKENS

_Then the little Hiawatha Learned of every bird its language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How they built their nests in Summer, Where they hid themselves in Winter, Talked with them whene'er he met them, Called them "Hiawatha's Chickens."_

_Henry Wadsworth Longfellow._

HIAWATHA'S CHICKENS

_The Swallows_

Gallant and gay in their doublets gray, All at a flash like the darting of flame, Chattering Arabic, African, Indian-- Certain of springtime, the swallows came!

Doublets of gray silk and surcoats of purple, And ruffs of russet round each little throat, Wearing such garb they had crossed the waters, Mariners sailing with never a boat.

Edwin Arnold.

_The Swallow's Nest_

Day after day her nest she moulded, Building with magic, love and mud, A gray cup made by a thousand journeys, And the tiny beak was trowel and hod.

Edwin Arnold.

_The Birds in Spring_

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then Maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing-- Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The Palm and May make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the Shepherds pipe all day, And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay-- Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The Fields breathe sweet, the Daisies kiss our feet, Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, In every Street these Tunes our ears do greet-- Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! Spring, the sweet Spring!

Thomas Nashe.

_Robin Redbreast_

(A Child's Song)

Good-bye, good-bye to Summer! For Summer's nearly done; The garden smiling faintly, Cool breezes in the sun;

Our Thrushes now are silent, Our Swallows flown away,-- But Robin's here, in coat of brown, With ruddy breast-knot gay. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! Robin singing sweetly In the falling of the year.

Bright yellow, red, and orange, The leaves come down in hosts; The trees are Indian Princes, But soon they'll turn to Ghosts; The scanty pears and apples Hang russet on the bough, It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, 'Twill soon be Winter now. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! And welaway! my Robin, For pinching times are near.

The fireside for the Cricket, The wheatstack for the Mouse, When trembling night-winds whistle And moan all round the house; The frosty ways like iron, The branches plumed with snow,-- Alas! in Winter, dead and dark, Where can poor Robin go? Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! And a crumb of bread for Robin, His little heart to cheer.

William Allingham.

_The Lark and the Rook_

"Good-night, Sir Rook!" said a little lark. "The daylight fades; it will soon be dark; I've bathed my wings in the sun's last ray; I've sung my hymn to the parting day; So now I haste to my quiet nook In yon dewy meadow--good-night, Sir Rook!"

"Good-night, poor Lark," said his titled friend With a haughty toss and a distant bend; "I also go to my rest profound, But not to sleep on the cold, damp ground. The fittest place for a bird like me Is the topmost bough of yon tall pine-tree.

"I opened my eyes at peep of day And saw you taking your upward way, Dreaming your fond romantic dreams, An ugly speck in the sun's bright beams; Soaring too high to be seen or heard; And I said to myself: 'What a foolish bird!'

"I trod the park with a princely air, I filled my crop with the richest fare; I cawed all day 'mid a lordly crew, And I made more noise in the world than you! The sun shone forth on my ebon wing; I looked and wondered--good-night, poor thing!"

"Good-night, once more," said the lark's sweet voice. "I see no cause to repent my choice; You build your nest in the lofty pine, But is your slumber more sweet than mine? You make more noise in the world than I, But whose is the sweeter minstrelsy?"

Unknown.

_The Snowbird_

In the rosy light trills the gay swallow, The thrush, in the roses below; The meadow-lark sings in the meadow, But the snowbird sings in the snow. Ah me! Chickadee! The snowbird sings in the snow!

The blue martin trills in the gable, The wren, in the gourd below; In the elm flutes the golden robin, But the snowbird sings in the snow. Ah me! Chickadee! The snowbird sings in the snow!

High wheels the gray wing of the osprey, The wing of the sparrow drops low; In the mist dips the wing of the robin, And the snowbird's wing in the snow. Ah me! Chickadee! The snowbird sings in the snow.

I love the high heart of the osprey, The meek heart of the thrush below, The heart of the lark in the meadow, And the snowbird's heart in the snow. But dearest to me, Chickadee! Chickadee! Is that true little heart in the snow.

Hezekiah Butterworth.

_Who Stole the Bird's Nest?_

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! Will you listen to me? Who stole four eggs I laid, And the nice nest I made?"

"Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo! Such a thing I'd never do. I gave you a wisp of hay, But didn't take your nest away. Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo! Such a thing I'd never do."

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! Will you listen to me? Who stole four eggs I laid, And the nice nest I made?"

"Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link! Now what do you think? Who stole a nest away From the plum-tree, to-day?"

"Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow! I wouldn't be so mean, anyhow! I gave hairs the nest to make, But the nest I did not take. Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow! I'm not so mean, anyhow."

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! Will you listen to me? Who stole four eggs I laid, And the nice nest I made?"

"Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link! Now what do you think? Who stole a nest away From the plum-tree, to-day?"

"Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Let me speak a word, too! Who stole that pretty nest From little yellow-breast?"

"Not I," said the sheep; "Oh, no! I wouldn't treat a poor bird so. I gave wool the nest to line, But the nest was none of mine. Baa! Baa!" said the sheep, "Oh, no I wouldn't treat a poor bird so."

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! Will you listen to me? Who stole four eggs I laid, And the nice nest I made?"

"Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link! Now what do you think? Who stole a nest away From the plum-tree, to-day?"

"Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Let me speak a word, too! Who stole that pretty nest From little yellow-breast?"

"Caw! Caw!" cried the crow; "I should like to know What thief took away A bird's nest, to-day?"

"Cluck! Cluck!" said the hen; "Don't ask me again, Why I haven't a chick Would do such a trick. We all gave her a feather, And she wove them together. I'd scorn to intrude On her and her brood. Cluck! Cluck!" said the hen, "Don't ask me again."

"Chirr-a-whirr! Chirr-a-whirr! All the birds make a stir! Let us find out his name, And all cry 'For shame!'"

"I would not rob a bird," Said little Mary Green; "I think I never heard Of anything so mean."

"It is very cruel, too," Said little Alice Neal; "I wonder if he knew How sad the bird would feel?"

A little boy hung down his head, And went and hid behind the bed, For he stole that pretty nest From poor little yellow-breast; And he felt so full of shame, He didn't like to tell his name.

Lydia Maria Child.

_Answer to a Child's Question_

Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove, The linnet, and thrush say, "I love and I love!" In the winter they're silent, the wind is so strong; What it says I don't know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, And singing and loving, all come back together; Then the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The green fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he, "I love my Love, and my Love loves me."

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

_The Burial of the Linnet_

Found in the garden dead in his beauty-- Oh that a linnet should die in the spring! Bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty, Muffle the dinner-bell, solemnly ring.

Bury him kindly, up in the corner; Bird, beast, and goldfish are sepulchred there Bid the black kitten march as chief mourner, Waving her tail like a plume in the air.

Bury him nobly--next to the donkey; Fetch the old banner, and wave it about; Bury him deeply--think of the monkey, Shallow his grave, and the dogs got him out.

Bury him softly--white wool around him, Kiss his poor feathers--the first kiss and last; Tell his poor widow kind friends have found him: Plant his poor grave with whatever grows fast.

Farewell, sweet singer! dead in thy beauty, Silent through summer, though other birds sing, Bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty, Muffle the dinner-bell, mournfully ring.

Juliana Horatia Ewing.

_The Titmouse_

. . . . Piped a tiny voice hard by, Gay and polite, a cheerful cry, _Chic-chicadeedee!_ saucy note Out of sound heart and merry throat, As if it said, "Good-day, good sir! Fine afternoon, old passenger! Happy to meet you in these places, Where January brings few faces."

This poet, though he live apart, Moved by his hospitable heart, Sped, when I passed his sylvan fort, To do the honors of his court, As fits a feathered lord of land; Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand; Hopped on the bough, then, darting low, Prints his small impress on the snow, Shows feats of his gymnastic play, Head downward, clinging to the spray,

* * * * *

Here was this atom in full breath, Hurling defiance at vast death. This scrap of valor, just for play, Fronts the north wind in waistcoat gray.

* * * * *

Ralph Waldo Emerson.

_Birds in Summer_

How pleasant the life of a bird must be, Flitting about in each leafy tree; In the leafy trees so broad and tall, Like a green and beautiful palace hall, With its airy chambers, light and boon, That open to sun, and stars, and moon; That open unto the bright blue sky, And the frolicsome winds as they wander by!

They have left their nests in the forest bough; Those homes of delight they need not now; And the young and old they wander out, And traverse the green world round about; And hark at the top of this leafy hall, How, one to another, they lovingly call! "Come up, come up!" they seem to say, "Where the topmost twigs in the breezes play!"

"Come up, come up, for the world is fair, Where the merry leaves dance in the summer air!" And the birds below give back the cry, "We come, we come to the branches high!" How pleasant the life of the birds must be, Living above in a leafy tree! And away through the air what joy to go, And to look on the green, bright earth below!