Part 12 (1/2)
Go then,” said the ant, ”and sing winter away.”
Thus ending, he hastily lifted the wicket And out of the door turned the poor little cricket.
Though this is a fable, the moral is good-- If you live without work, you must live without food.
_Anonymous._
WIs.h.i.+NG
Ring-Ting! I wish I were a Primrose, A bright yellow Primrose, blowing in the spring!
The stooping boughs above me, The wandering bee to love me, The fern and moss to creep across, And the Elm tree for our king!
Nay--stay! I wish I were an Elm tree, A great, lofty Elm tree, with green leaves gay!
The winds would set them dancing, The sun and moons.h.i.+ne glance in, The birds would house among the boughs, And sweetly sing.
Oh no! I wish I were a Robin, A Robin or a little Wren, everywhere to go; Through forest, field, or garden, And ask no leave or pardon, Till winter comes with icy thumbs To ruffle up our wing!
Well--tell! Where should I fly to, Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell?
Before a day was over, Home comes the rover, For mother's kiss--sweeter this Than any other thing.
_William Allingham._
ROBIN REDBREAST
Good-bye, good-bye to Summer!
For Summer's nearly done; The garden smiling faintly, Cool breezes in the sun!
Our thrushes now are silent,-- Our swallows flown away,-- But Robin's here in coat of brown, And scarlet breast-knot gay.
Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear!
Robin sings so sweetly In the falling of the year.
Bright yellow, red, and orange, The leaves come down in hosts; The trees are Indian princes, But soon they'll turn to ghosts; The scanty pears and apples Hang russet on the bough; It's autumn, autumn, autumn late, 'Twill soon be winter now.
Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear!
And what will this poor Robin do?
For pinching days are near.
The fireside for the cricket, The wheat-stack for the mouse, When trembling night-winds whistle And moan all round the house.
The frosty ways like iron, The branches plumed with snow,-- Alas! in winter dead and dark, Where can poor Robin go?
Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear!
And a crumb of bread for Robin, His little heart to cheer.
_William Allingham._
THE CHESTNUT BURR
A wee little nut lay deep in its nest Of satin and brown, the softest and best, And slept and grew while its cradle rocked-- As it hung in the boughs that interlocked.