Part 37 (1/2)

I'd love to sit on a clover-top And sway, And swing and shake, till the dew would drop In spray; To croon a song for the b.u.mble-bee To leave his golden honey with me, And sway and swing, till the wind would stop To play.

I'd weave a hammock of spider-thread Loose-hung, Where gra.s.ses nodded above my head And swung.

And all day long, while the hammock swayed I'd twine and tangle the sun and shade, Till the crickets' song, ”It is time for bed!”

Was sung.

Then wrapped in a wee gold sunset cloud I'd lie, While night winds sang to the stars that crowd The sky.

And all night long, I would swing and sleep While fireflies lighted their lamps to peep-- ”Oh, hus.h.!.+” they'd whisper, if frogs sang loud-- ”Oh hush-a-by!”

CHARLES BUXTON GOING

FRINGED GENTIANS

Near where I live there is a lake As blue as blue can be, winds make It dance as they go blowing by.

I think it curtseys to the sky.

It's just a lake of lovely flowers, And my Mamma says they are ours; But they are not like those we grow To be our very own, you know.

We have a splendid garden, there Are lots of flowers everywhere; Roses, and pinks, and four o'clocks, And hollyhocks, and evening stocks.

Mamma lets us pick them, but never Must we pick any gentians--ever!

For if we carried them away They'd die of homesickness that day.

AMY LOWELL

THE SCISSORS-MAN

As I was busy with my tools That make my garden neat, I heard a little crooked tune Come drifting up the street.

It didn't seem to have an end Like others that are plain; You always felt it going on Till it began again.

It came quite near: I heard it call, And dropped my tools and ran To peer out through the gate; I thought it might be Pan.

But it was just the scissors-man Who walked along and played Upon a little instrument He told me he had made.

Now, if you hope to see a G.o.d As hard to find as Pan, It's sad when it turns out to be A plain old scissors-man.

But when my mother came to hear The crooked tune he made, She said his instrument was like Some pipes that Pan had played.

And I must ask the scissors-man If he had ever known Or met a queer old G.o.d who played On pipes much like his own.

He would not tell: and when I asked Who taught him how to play, He made that crooked tune again, And laughed and went away.

GRACE HAZARD CONKLING