Part 17 (2/2)

Then away to the fields it went bl.u.s.tering and humming, And the cattle all wondered whatever was coming.

It plucked by their tails the grave matronly cows, And tossed the colts' manes all about their brows, Till offended at such a familiar salute, They all turned their backs and stood silently mute.

So on it went, capering and playing its pranks; Whistling with reeds on the broad river banks; Puffing the birds, as they sat on a spray, Or the travelers grave on the king's highway.

It was not too nice to bustle the bags Of the beggar, and flutter his dirty rags.

'Twas so bold that it feared not to play its joke With the doctor's wig, and the gentleman's cloak.

Through the forest it roared, and cried gayly, ”Now, You st.u.r.dy old oaks, I'll make you bow!”

And it made them bow without more ado, Or it cracked their great branches through and through.

Then it rushed like a monster o'er cottage and farm, Striking their inmates with sudden alarm; And they ran out like bees in a midsummer swarm.

There were dames with kerchiefs tied over their caps, To see if their poultry were free from mishaps.

The turkeys they gobbled, the geese screamed aloud, And the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd; There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on, Where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to be gone.

But the wind had pa.s.sed on, and had met in a lane With a schoolboy, who panted and struggled in vain, For it tossed him, and twirled him, then pa.s.sed, and he stood With his hat in a pool and his shoe in the mud.

_William Howitt._

A DAY

I'll tell you how the sun rose,-- A ribbon at a time.

The steeples swam in amethyst, The news like squirrels ran.

The hills untied their bonnets, The bobolinks begun.

Then said I softly to myself, ”That must have been the sun!”

But how he set I know not; There seemed a purple stile Which little yellow boys and girls Were climbing all the while.

Till when they reached the other side, A dominie in gray Put gently up the evening bars, And led the flock away.

_Emily d.i.c.kinson._

THE GRa.s.s

The gra.s.s so little has to do,-- A sphere of simple green, With only b.u.t.terflies to brood, And bees to entertain,

And stir all day to pretty tunes The breezes fetch along, And hold the suns.h.i.+ne in its lap And bow to everything;

And thread the dews all night, like pearls, And make itself so fine,-- A d.u.c.h.ess were too common For such a noticing.

And even when it dies, to pa.s.s In odors so divine, As lowly spices gone to sleep, Or amulets of pine.

And then to dwell in sovereign barns, And dream the days away,-- The gra.s.s so little has to do, I wish I were the hay.

_Emily d.i.c.kinson._

WHITE SEAL

Oh! hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us, And black are the waters that sparkled so green.

The moon, o'er the combers, looks downward to find us At rest in the hollows that rustle between.

Where billow meets billow, there soft be thy pillow; Ah, weary, wee flipperling, curl at thy ease!

The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee, Asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging seas.

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