Part 11 (2/2)

Squirrel and song-sparrow, High on their perch, Hear the sweet lily-bells Ringing to church.

Come, hear what his reverence Rises to say, In his low painted pulpit This calm Sabbath-day.

Fair is the canopy Over him seen, Penciled by Nature's hand, Black, brown, and green.

Green is his surplice, Green are his bands; In his queer little pulpit The little priest stands.

In black and gold velvet, So gorgeous to see, Comes with his ba.s.s voice The chorister bee.

Green fingers playing Unseen on wind-lyres, Low singing bird voices,-- These are his choirs.

The violets are deacons-- I know by the sign That the cups which they carry Are purple with wine.

And the columbines bravely As sentinels stand On the look-out with all their Red trumpets in hand.

Meek-faced anemones, Drooping and sad; Great yellow violets, Smiling out glad; b.u.t.tercups' faces, Beaming and bright; Clovers, with bonnets,-- Some red and some white; Daisies, their white fingers Half-clasped in prayer; Dandelions, proud of The gold of their hair; Innocents,--children Guileless and frail, Meek little faces Upturned and pale; Wild-wood geraniums, All in their best, Languidly leaning In purple gauze dressed:-- All are a.s.sembled This sweet Sabbath-day To hear what the priest In his pulpit will say.

Look! white Indian pipes On the green mosses lie!

Who has been smoking Profanely so nigh?

Rebuked by the preacher The mischief is stopped, But the sinners, in haste, Have their little pipes dropped.

Let the wind, with the fragrance Of fern and black birch, Blow the smell of the smoking Clean out of the church!

So much for the preacher: The sermon comes next,-- Shall we tell how he preached it, And where was his text?

Alas! like too many Grown-up folks who play At wors.h.i.+p in churches Man-builded to-day,-- We heard not the preacher Expound or discuss;

But we looked at the people, And they looked at us.

We saw all their dresses, Their colors and shapes; The trim of their bonnets, The cut of their capes.

We heard the wind-organ, The bee, and the bird, But of Jack in the pulpit We heard not a word!

_Clara Smith._

THE ANT AND THE CRICKET

A silly young cricket, accustomed to sing Through the warm, sunny months of gay summer and spring, Began to complain, when he found that at home His cupboard was empty and winter was come.

Not a crumb to be found On the snow-covered ground; Not a flower could he see, Not a leaf on a tree.

”Oh, what will become,” says the cricket, ”of me?”

At last by starvation and famine made bold, All dripping with wet and all trembling with cold, Away he set off to a miserly ant To see if, to keep him alive, he would grant Him shelter from rain.

A mouthful of grain He wished only to borrow, He'd repay it to-morrow; If not helped, he must die of starvation and sorrow.

Says the ant to the cricket: ”I'm your servant and friend, But we ants never borrow, we ants never lend.

Pray tell me, dear sir, did you lay nothing by When the weather was warm?” Said the cricket, ”Not I.

My heart was so light That I sang day and night, For all nature looked gay.”

”You sang, sir, you say?

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