Part 3 (1/2)

There surely is a gold mine somewhere underneath the gra.s.s, For dandelions are popping out in every place you pa.s.s.

But if you want to gather some you'd better not delay, For the gold will turn to silver soon and all will blow away.

--_Anon._

AT LITTLE VIRGIL'S WINDOW.

There are three green eggs in a small brown pocket, And the breeze will swing and the gale will rock it, Till three little birds on the thin edge teeter, And our G.o.d be glad and our world be sweeter.

--_Edwin Markham._

MEMORY GEMS.

Do thy duty, that is best, Leave unto the Lord the rest.

Whene'er a task is set for you, Don't idly sit and view it-- Nor be content to wish it done; Begin at once and do it.

Beautiful hands are those that do Work that is earnest, brave and true, Moment by moment, the long day through.

--_Sel._

SECOND GRADE

SEVEN TIMES ONE.

There's no dew left on the daisies and clover, There's no rain left in heaven; I've said my ”seven times” over and over, Seven times one are seven.

I am old, so old I can write a letter; My birthday lessons are done; The lambs play always, they know no better-- They are only one times one.

O moon! in the night I have seen you sailing And s.h.i.+ning so round and low; You were bright, ah bright! but your light is failing,-- You are nothing now but a bow.

You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven, That G.o.d has hidden your face?

I hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven, And s.h.i.+ne again in your place.

O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow; You've powdered your legs with gold!

O brave marshmary buds, rich and yellow, Give me your money to hold!

And show me your nest with the young ones in it,-- I will not steal it away; I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet,-- I am seven times one to-day!

--_Jean Ingelow._

CHRISTMAS EVE.

G.o.d bless the little stockings all over the land to-night Hung in the choicest corners, in the glory of crimson light.

The tiny scarlet stockings, with a hole in the heel and toe, Worn by the wonderful journeys that the darlings have to go.

And Heaven pity the children, wherever their homes may be, Who wake at the first gray dawning, an empty stocking to see.