The Snow-Storm
by Anne M. Cooper
It is fun to sit in the window-seat,
When all outdoors is snow and sleet,
For everywhere I look I see
Things that are n't what they seem to be.
The fence-posts, each with a cap of snow,
Look like soldiers all in a row;
While just over there, the kitchen pump
Looks like a rabbit about to jump.
Down by the gate, that tall white ghost
Is really only the hitching-post;
While under the tree, that polar bear
Is only our rustic chair.
Seal Lullaby
by Rudyard Kipling
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 down-
ward 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.
The Snowman's Resolution
by Aileen Fisher
The snowman's hat was crooked
And his nose was out of place
And several of his whiskers
Had fallen from his face.
But the snowman didn't notice
For he was trying to think
Of a New Year's resolution
That wouldn't melt or shrink.
He thought and planned and pondered
With his little snow-ball head
Till his eyes began to glisten
And his toes began to spread;
And at last he said, "I've got it-
I'll make a firm resolve
That no matter what the weather
My smile will not dissolve."
Now the snowman acted wisely
And his resolution won
For his splinter smile was wooden
And it didn't mind the sun!
Songs of the Seasons.
Meta E. B. Thorne.
[For Four Students.]
SPRING.
The king of the day is exerting his power,
And night and cold at his bidding depart;
All nature in this resurrection hour
Will welcome my advent with joyous heart.
Then hasten, my children! Ho, March winds wild,
O'er mountain and valley, blow, madly blow!
Proclaim the glad coming of springtime mild,
And speed the departure of frost and snow!
Ye clouds of April, drop down your showers,
And fill to the brim the rivers and rills
"With liquid laughter; May's delicate flowers
Await your dripping 'mong valleys and hills.
SUMMER.
Spring scattered the seed with a lavish hand,
Her whispering breezes and magic showers
Awoke into life; see the serried ranks stand
Of fervid July's lush grasses and flowers.
Then August comes with her sultry noons
Whose hot breath gildeth the ripening grain,
And the glorious light of her harvest moons;
Now the reaper sings as he sweeps the plain:
" My gleaming scythe I swing to and fro;
Before it is falling the golden wheat -
A precious store for the time of the snow;
All praise to the Giver of mercies so sweet!"
AUTUMN.
The plentiful harvest is garnered in;
But I bring September's bounteous store
Of glowing fruitage, all hearts to win;
Now the summer's brilliant reign is o'er.
Now, royal October the scepter wields,
In whose wealth of rosy and mellow light
Seem glorified even the bare brown fields,
With their delicate veil of haze bedight.
And e'en when November, dark and chill,
In her cloud-robe somber broods o'er the earth,
When the birds are hushed 'mid woodland and hill,
And the flowers are asleep till the spring's glad birth,
There are blossoms still for the trustful heart,
Sweet hopes for what life may yet unfold,
And memories precious that will not depart
When fades from the hill-tops the autumn's gold.
WINTER.
I bring to the waiting fields the snow,
December's mantle so soft and pure,
That covers the sleeping seeds below,
To remain, till the spring's return, secure.
Ye think my touch unkind and rude
When the bracing frost and cold I bring,
Ye chant in a pining, reproachful mood
The praises of summer and dewy spring;
Yet oft at my touch the baleful seeds
Of pestilence powerless fall in death;
New vigor to youth and prime proceeds
From my clear, keen, purifying breath.
Bnt richer delights to you I bring;
For mine is the anniversary time,
When " Good-will to men!" the angels sing,
" Good-will!" the echoing joy-bells chime.
The Old Folks in the New School-house.
Things ain't now as they used to be
A hundred years ago,
When schools were kept in private rooms
Above stairs or below;
When sturdy boys and rosy girls
Romped through the drifted snow,
And spelled t^ir duty and their " abs,"
A hundred years ago.
Those old school-rooms were dark and cold
When winter's sun ran low;
But darker was the master's frown,
A hundred years ago;
And high hung up the birchen rod,
That all the school might see,
Which taught the boys obedience
As well as Rule of Three.
Though 'twas but little that they learned,
A hundred years ago,
Yet what they got they ne'er let slip, -
'Twas well whipped in, you know.
But now the times are greatly changed,
The rod has had its day,
The boys are won by gentle words,
And girls by love obey.
The school-house now a palace is,
And scholars, kings and queens;
They master Algebra and Greek
Before they reach their teens.
Where once was crying, music sweet
Her soothing influence sheds;
Ferules are used for beating time,
And not for beating heads.
Yes, learning was a ragged boy,
A hundred years ago;
With six weeks schooling in a year,
What could the urchin do?
But now he is a full-grown man,
And boasts attainments rare;
He's got his silver slippers on,
And running everywhere.
Some Old School-books.
I have been back to my home again.
To the place where I was born;
I have heard the wind from the stormy main
Go rustling through the corn;
I have seen the purple hills once more;
I have stood on the rocky coast
Where the waves storm inland to the shore;
But the thing that touched me most
Was a little leather strap that kept
Some school-books, tattered and torn!
I sighed, I smiled, I could have wept
When I came on them one morn;
For I thought of the merry little lad,
In the mornings sweet and cool,
If weather was good, or weather bad,
Going whistling off to school.
My fingers undid the strap again,
And I thought how my hand had changed,
And half in longing, and half in pain,
Backward my memory ranged.
There was the grammar I knew so well, -
I didn't remember a rule;
And the old blue speller, - I used to spell
Better than any in school;
And the wonderful geography
I've read on the green hill-side,
When I've told myself I'd surely see
All lands in the world so wide,
From the Indian homes in the far, far West,
To the mystical Cathay.
I have seen them all. But Home is best
When the evening shades fall gray.
And there was the old arithmetic,
All tattered and stained with tears;
I and Jamie and little Dick
Were together in by-gone years.
Jamie has gone to the better land;
And I get now and again,
A letter in Dick's bold, ready hand,
From some great Western plain.
There wasn't a book, and scarce a page,
That hadn't some memory
Of days that seemed like a golden age,
Of friends I shall no more see.
And so I picked up the books again
And buckled the strap once more,
And brought them over the tossing main;
Come, children, and look them o'er.
And there they lie on a little stand
Not far from the Holy Book;
And his boys and girls with loving care
O'er grammar and speller look.
He said, " They speak to me, children dear,
Of a past without alloy;
And the look of Books, in promise clear,
Of a future full of joy."
FOR GRANDMA
Grandma's hair is turning white;
Once 'twas long and brown and bright;
But gray hair is sweet and right
For grandma.
Grandma's eyes are getting dim;
Give the light another trim,
Bring her glasses, read the hymn.
For grandma.
Whisper trials in her ear,
She has always time to hear;
Words of wisdom and of cheer
For grandma.
Tell her things that make you glad;
Maybe she is feeling sad;
Lonesome hours are always bad
For grandma.
by Harriet D. Castle.
GRANDPA
My grandpa says that he was once
A little boy like me.
I s'pose he was; and yet it does
Seem queer to think that he
Could ever get my jacket on,
Or shoes, or like to play
With games and toys, and race with Duke,
As I do every day.
He's come to visit us, you see.
Nurse says I must be good
And mind my manners, as a child
With such a grandpa should.
For grandpapa is straight and tall,
And very dignified;
He knows most all there is to know.
And other things beside.
So though my grandpa knows so much,
I thought that maybe boys
Were things he hadn't studied,
They make such awful noise.
But when I asked at dinner for
Another piece of pie,
I thought I saw a twinkle in
The corner of his eye.
So yesterday when they went out
And left us two alone,
I was not quite so much surprised
To find how nice he'd grown.
You should have seen us romp and run!
My! now I almost see
That p'r'aps he was, long, long ago,
A little boy like me.
by Gertrude Morton Cannon.
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| Wise Men Seek The King from christianclipartreview.blogspot.com |
GIFTS FOR THE KING
The wise may bring their learning;
The rich may bring their wealth;
And some may bring their greatness;
And some bring strength and health.
We, too, would bring our treasures,
To offer to the King;
We have no wealth nor learning;
What shall we children bring ?
We'll bring Him hearts that love Him;
We'll bring Him thankful praise;
And young souls meekly striving
To walk in holy ways;
And these shall be the treasures
We offer to the King;
And these are gifts that even
The poorest child may bring.
SHOE OR STOCKING?
Edith M. Thomas
In Holland, children set their shoes,
This night, outside the door;
These wooden shoes Knecht Clobes sees,
And fills them from his store.
But here we hang our stockings up
On handy hook, or nail;
And Santa Claus, when all is still,
Will plump them, without fail.
Speak out! you "Sobersides." speak out!
And let us hear your views;
Between a stocking and a shoe,
What do you see to choose?
One instant pauses Sobersides,
A little sigh to fetch-
"Well, seems to me, a stocking's best,
For wooden shoes won't stretch!"