Part 9 (1/2)

Then Gottlieb answered fearlessly, Where he humbly stood apart, ”But the Christ-child sent them all the same, He put the thought in your heart!”

OUR HEROES

Here's a hand to the boy who has courage To do what he knows to be right; When he falls in the way of temptation, He has a hard battle to fight.

Who strives against self and his comrades Will find a most powerful foe; All honor to him if he conquers-- A cheer for the boy who says ”No!”

There's many a battle fought daily The world knows nothing about; There's many a brave little soldier Whose strength puts a legion to rout.

And he who fights sin single-handed Is more of a hero, I say, Than he who leads soldiers to battle, And conquers by arms in the fray.

Be steadfast, my boy, when you're tempted And do what you know to be right; Stand firm by the colors of manhood, And you will overcome in the fight.

”The Right” be your battle-cry ever, In waging the warfare of life; And G.o.d, who knows who are the heroes, Will give you the strength for the strife.

AN APRIL WELCOME

Come up, April, through the valley, In your robes of beauty drest, Come and wake your flowery children From their wintry beds of rest; Come and overblow them softly With the sweet breath of the south; Drop upon them, warm and loving, Tenderest kisses of your mouth.

Touch them with your rosy fingers, Wake them with your pleasant tread, Push away the leaf-brown covers, Over all their faces spread;

Tell them how the sun is waiting Longer daily in the skies, Looking for the bright uplifting Of their softly-fringed eyes.

Call the crow-foot and the crocus, Call the pale anemone, Call the violet and the daisy, Clothed with careful modesty; Seek the low and humble blossoms, Of their beauties unaware, Let the dandelion and fennel, Show their s.h.i.+ning yellow hair.

Bid the little homely sparrows Chirping, in the cold and rain, Their impatient sweet complaining, Sing out from their hearts again; Bid them set themselves to mating, Cooing love in softest words, Crowd their nests, all cold and empty, Full of little callow birds.

Come up, April, through the valley, Where the fountain sleeps to-day, Let him, freed from icy fetters, Go rejoicing on his way; Through the flower-enameled meadows Let him run his laughing race, Making love to all the blossoms That o'erlean and kiss his face.

But not birds and blossoms only, Not alone the streams complain, Men and maidens too are calling, Come up, April, come again!

Waiting with the sweet impatience Of a lover for the hours They shall set the tender beauty Of thy feet among the flowers!

AUTUMN

Shorter and shorter now the twilight clips The days, as through the sunset gates they crowd, And Summer from her golden collar slips And strays through stubble-fields and moans aloud.

Save when by fits the warmer air deceives, And, stealing hopeful to some sheltered bower, She lies on pillows of the yellow leaves, And tries the old tunes over for an hour.

The wind, whose tender whisper in the May Set all the young blooms listening through the grove, Sits rustling in the faded boughs to-day And makes his cold and unsuccessful love.

The rose has taken off her 'tire of red-- The mullein-stalk its yellow stars have lost, And the proud meadow-pink hangs down her head Against earth's chilly bosom, witched with frost.

The robin, that was busy all the June, Before the sun had kissed the topmost bough, Catching our hearts up in his golden tune, Has given place to the brown cricket now.