Part 4 (2/2)
--_Anon._
AUTUMN LEAVES.
”Come, little leaves,” said the wind one day; ”Come over the meadows with me, and play, Put on your dresses of red and gold, Summer is gone and the days grow cold.”
Soon the leaves heard the wind's loud call, Down they fell fluttering, one and all.
Over the brown fields they danced and flew, Singing the soft little songs they knew.
Dancing and flying, the little leaves went; Winter had called them, and they were content.
Soon fast asleep in their earthy beds, The snow laid a white blanket over their heads.
--_Anon._
IF I WERE A SUNBEAM.
”If I were a sunbeam, I know what I'd do: I would seek white lilies Rainy woodlands through: I would steal among them, Softest light I'd shed, Until every lily Raised its drooping head.
”If I were a sunbeam, I know where I'd go: Into lowliest hovels, Dark with want and woe: Till sad hearts looked upward, I would s.h.i.+ne and s.h.i.+ne; Then they'd think of heaven, Their sweet home and mine.”
Art thou not a sunbeam, Child whose life is glad With an inner radiance Suns.h.i.+ne never had?
Oh, as G.o.d has blessed thee, Scatter rays divine!
For there is no sunbeam But must die, or s.h.i.+ne.
--_Lucy Larcom._
MEADOW TALK.
A b.u.mble bee, yellow as gold Sat perched on a red-clover top, When a gra.s.shopper, wiry and old, Came along with a skip and a hop.
”Good morrow” cried he, ”Mr. b.u.mble Bee, You seem to have come to stop.”
”We people that work,” said the bee with a jerk, ”Find a benefit sometimes in stopping, Only insects like you, who have nothing to do Can keep perpetually hopping.”
The gra.s.shopper paused on his way And thoughtfully hunched up his knees: ”Why trouble this suns.h.i.+ny day,”
Quoth he, ”with reflections like these?
I follow the trade for which I was made We all can't be wise b.u.mble-bees; There's a time to be sad and a time to be glad, A time for both working and stopping, For men to make money, for you to make honey, And for me to keep constantly hopping.”
--_Caroline Leslie._
THE OLD LOVE.
I once had a sweet little doll, dears, The prettiest doll in the world; Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears, And her hair was so charmingly curled: But I lost my poor little doll, dears, As I played on the heath one day, And I cried for her more than a week, dears, And I never could find where she lay.
I found my poor little doll, dears, As I played on the heath one day; Folks say she is terribly changed, dears, For her paint is all washed away; And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears, And her hair not the least bit curled: Yet for old time's sake, she is still to me The prettiest doll in the world.
--_Charles Kingsley._
<script>