Volume I Part 38 (1/2)

Little Prince Tatters has LOST HIS BALL!

Rolled away down the street!

Somebody'll have to find it, that's all, Before he can sleep or eat.

Now raise the neighborhood, quickly, do!

And send for the crier and constable too!

”Trifles are trifles; but serious matters, They must be seen to,” says little Prince Tatters.

Laura E. Richards [1850-

THE LITTLE BLACK BOY

My mother bore me in the southern wild, And I am black, but oh, my soul is white!

White as an angel is the English child, But I am black, as if bereaved of light.

My mother taught me underneath a tree, And, sitting down before the heat of day, She took me on her lap and kissed me, And, pointing to the East, began to say:

”Look on the rising sun,--there G.o.d does live, And gives His light, and gives His heat away; And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.

”And we are put on earth a little s.p.a.ce, That we may learn to bear the beams of love; And these black bodies and this sunburnt face Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

”For, when our souls have learned the heat to bear, The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice, Saying: 'Come out from the grove, My love and care, And round My golden tent like lambs rejoice.'”

Thus did my mother say, and kissed me; And thus I say to little English boy.

When I from black, and he from white cloud free, And round the tent of G.o.d like lambs we joy,

I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bear To lean in joy upon our Father's knee; And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair, And be like him, and he will then love me.

William Blake [1757-1827]

THE BLIND BOY

O say what is that thing called Light, Which I must ne'er enjoy; What are the blessings of the sight, O tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wondrous things you see, You say the sun s.h.i.+nes bright; I feel him warm, but how can he, Or make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make Whene'er I sleep or play; And could I ever keep awake With me 'twere always day.

With heavy sighs I often hear You mourn my hapless woe; But sure with patience I can bear A loss I ne'er can know.