Part 16 (1/2)

Is the princess worth your knowing?

Then haste, for the spring is brief, And find the Hepatica growing, Hid under a last year's leaf!

_Helen Gray Cone._

A FABLE

The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel, And the former called the latter ”Little Prig”; Bun replied, ”You are doubtless very big; But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together, To make up a year And a sphere.

And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place.

If I'm not so large as you You are not so small as I, And not half so spry.

I'll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track; Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut.”

_Ralph Waldo Emerson._

THE NIGHT WIND

Have you ever heard the wind go ”Yooooo”?

'Tis a pitiful sound to hear!

It seems to chill you through and through With a strange and speechless fear.

'Tis the voice of the night that broods outside When folk should be asleep, And many and many's the time I've cried To the darkness brooding far and wide Over the land and the deep: ”Whom do you want, O lonely night, That you wail the long hours through?”

And the night would say in its ghostly way: ”Yoooooooo!

Yoooooooo!

Yoooooooo!”

My mother told me long ago (When I was a little tad) That when the night went wailing so, Somebody had been bad;

And then, when I was snug in bed, Whither I had been sent, With the blankets pulled up round my head, I'd think of what my mother'd said, And wonder what boy she meant!

And ”Who's been bad to-day?” I'd ask Of the wind that hoa.r.s.ely blew; And the voice would say in its meaningful way: ”Yoooooooo!

Yoooooooo!

Yoooooooo!”

That this was true I must allow-- You'll not believe it, though!

Yes, though I'm quite a model now, I was not always so.

And if you doubt what things I say, Suppose you make the test; Suppose, when you've been bad some day And up to bed are sent away From mother and the rest-- Suppose you ask, ”Who has been bad?”

And then you'll hear what's true; For the wind will moan in its ruefulest tone: ”Yoooooooo!

Yoooooooo!

Yoooooooo!”

_Eugene Field._

DON'T KILL THE BIRDS

Don't kill the birds, the pretty birds That sing about your door, Soon as the joyous spring has come And chilling storms are o'er.

The little birds, how sweet they sing!