Part 6 (2/2)

There are many flags in many lands, There are flags of every hue, But there is no flag in any land Like our own Red, White and Blue.

I know where the prettiest colors are, I'm sure, if I only knew How to get them here, I could make a flag Of glorious Red, White and Blue.

I would cut a piece from the evening sky Where the stars were s.h.i.+ning through, And use it just as it was on high For my stars and field of Blue.

Then I want a part of a fleecy cloud And some red from a rainbow bright, And I'd put them together, side by side For my stripes of Red and White.

Then ”Hurrah for the Flag!” our country's flag, Its stripes and white stars too; There is no flag in any land Like our own ”Red, White and Blue.”

--_Anon._

SONG FROM ”PIPPA Pa.s.sES.”

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: G.o.d's in his heaven-- All's right with the world.

--_Robert Browning._

LITTLE BROWN HANDS.

They drive home the cows from the pasture, Up through the long shady lane, Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-fields, That are yellow with ripening grain.

They find, in the thick, waving gra.s.ses, Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows.

They gather the earliest snowdrops, And the first crimson buds of the rose.

They toss the new hay in the meadow; They gather the elder-bloom white; They find where the dusky grapes purple In the soft-tinted October light.

They know where the apples hang ripest, And are sweeter than Italy's wines; They know where the fruit hangs the thickest On the long, th.o.r.n.y blackberry-vines.

They gather the delicate sea-weeds, And build tiny castles of sand; They pick up the beautiful sea-sh.e.l.ls-- Fairy barks that have drifted to land.

They wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops Where the oriole's hammock-nest swings; And at night-time are folded in slumber By a song that a fond mother sings.

Those who toil bravely are strongest; The humble and poor become great; And so from these brown-handed children Shall grow mighty rulers of state.

The pen of the author and statesman-- The n.o.ble and wise of the land-- The sword, and the chisel, and palette, Shall be held in the little brown hand.

--_M. H. Krout._

WINTER AND SUMMER.

Oh, I wish the Winter would go, And I wish the Summer would come, Then the big brown farmers will hoe, And the little brown bee will hum.

Then the robin his fife will trill, And the wood-piper beat his drum; And out of their tents on the hill The little green troops will come.

Then around and over the trees With a flutter and flirt we'll go, A rollicking, frolicking breeze, And away with a frisk ho! ho!

--_Anon._

THE BROOK.

I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down the valley.

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