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SEVEN TIMES ONE

SEVEN TIMES ONE

THERE'S no dew left on the daisies and clover,

There's no rain left in heaven:

I've said my "seven times" over and over
Seven times one are seven.

I am old! so old, I can write a letter;
My birthday lessons are done;

The lambs play always, they know no better;
They are only one times one.

O moon! in the night I have seen you sailing,

And shining so round and low;

You were bright, ah, bright! but your light is failing;

You are nothing now but a bow.

You moon! have you done something wrong in heaven.
That God has hidden your face?

I hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven,
And shine again in your place.

O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow,
You've powdered your legs with gold!
O brave marshmary buds, rich and yellow,
Give me your money to hold!

O columbine, open your folded wrapper
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell!

O cuckoo-pint, toll me the purple clapper
That hangs in your clear, green bell;

And show me your nest with the young ones in it –

I will not steal them away;

I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet

I am seven times one to-day.

- JEAN INGELOW.

ALL THINGS BRIGHT AND BEAUTIFUL

THE ROCK-A-BY LADY

THE Rock-a-by Lady from Hush-a-by Street
Comes stealing, comes creeping,

The poppies they hang from her head to her feet,
And each hath a dream that is tiny and fleet

She bringeth her poppies to you, my Sweet,
When she findeth you sleeping!

There is one little dream of a beautiful drum -
"Rub-a-dub," it goeth;

There is one little dream of a big sugar plum,
And lo! thick and fast the other dreams come,
Of pop-guns that bang, and tin tops that hum,
And a trumpet that bloweth!

The dollies peep out of those wee little dreams,
With laughter and singing;

And boats go a-floating on silvery streams,

And the stars peek-a-boo, with their own misty gleams,
And up, up, and up, where the Mother Moon beams

The fairies go winging!

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Would you dream all these dreams, that are tiny and fleet?

They come to you sleeping;

So shut the two eyes that are weary, my Sweet,

For the Rock-a-by Lady from the Hush-a-by Street,

Comes stealing, comes creeping.

EUGENE FIELD.

From "Poems of Childhood," by Eugene Field. Published by Chas. Scribner's Sons.

ALL THINGS BRIGHT AND BEAUTIFUL

ALL things bright and beautiful,

All creatures great and small,

DON'T KILL THE BIRDS

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GRADE 2 B

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!
Oh! let them joyous live;

And never seek to take the life
That you cannot give.

Don't kill the birds, the pretty birds,

That play among the trees;

"Twould make the earth a cheerless place,

Should we dispense with these. The little birds, how fond they play!

Do not disturb their sport;

But let them warble forth their songs,
Till winter cuts them short.

Don't kill the birds, the happy birds,
That bless the fields and grove;

So innocent to look upon,

They claim our warmest love. The happy birds, the tuneful birds,

How pleasant 'tis to see!

No spot can be a cheerless place

Where'er their presence be.

COLESWORTHY.

294

ARIEL'S SONG

ARIEL'S SONG

WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip's bell I lie;

There I couch when owls do cry:

On the bat's back I do fly,

After summer merrily:

Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough!
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE (The Tempest).

MY SHADOW

I HAVE a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes gets so little that there is none of him at all.

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see;
I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

- ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.