"It is chilly weather Though the sun feels good; I will wrap up warmly; Wear my furry hood."

Mistress p.u.s.s.y Willow Opened wide her door; Never had the sunshine Seemed so bright before.

Never had the brooklet Seemed so full of cheer; "Good morning, p.u.s.s.y Willow, Welcome to you, dear!"

Never guest was quainter:-- p.u.s.s.y came to town In a hood of silver gray And a coat of brown.

Happy little children Cried with laugh and shout, "Spring is coming, coming, p.u.s.s.y Willow's out."

Kate L. Brown.

_Spring Questions_

How do the p.u.s.s.y-willows grow?

How do the meadow violets blow?

How do the brooklet's waters flow?

Gold-Locks wants to know.

Long and gray, The willows sway, And the catkins come the first spring day.

Plenty of them On every stem, All dressed in fur, As if they were Prepared to keep the cold away.

The violets, too, In bonnets blue, And little crooked necks askew, Stand, sweet and small, Where the gra.s.s is tall, Content to spy But a bit of sky, Nor ever to know the world at all.

The waters run In shade and sun, And laugh because the winter's done.

Now swift, now slow, The pace they go, Shining between Their banks of green, Whither, they neither care nor know.

Clara Doty Bates.

_Snowdrops_

Great King Sun is out in the cold, His babies are sleeping, he misses the fun; So he knocks at their door with fingers of gold: "Time to get up," says Great King Sun.

Though the garden beds are sprinkled with snow, It's time to get up in the earth below.

Who wakes first? A pale little maid, All in her nightgown opens the door, Peering round as if half afraid Before she steps out on the wintry floor.

All in their nightgowns, snowdrops stand, White little waifs in a lonely land.

Great King Sun with a smile looks down,-- "Where are your sisters? I want them, too!"

Each baby is hurrying into her gown, Purple and saffron, orange and blue, Great King Sun gives a louder call,-- "Good morning, Papa!" cry the babies all.

W. Graham Robertson.

_A Mystery_

Flowers from clods of clay and mud!

Flowers so bright, and gra.s.s so green!

Tell me, blade, and leaf, and bud, How it is you're all so clean.

If my fingers touch these sods, See, they're streaked with sticky earth; Yet you spring from clayey clods, Pure, and fresh, and fair from birth.

Do you wash yourselves at night, In a bath of diamond dew, That you look so fresh and bright When the morning dawns on you?

G.o.d, perhaps, sends summer showers, When the gra.s.s grows grey for rain, To wash the faces of His flowers, And bid His fields be green again.

Tell me, blade, and leaf, and bud; Flowers so fair, and gra.s.s so green, Growing out of clay and mud, How it is you're all so clean.

Gabriel Setoun.

_Meadow Talk_

"Don't pick all the flowers!" cried Daisy one day To a rosy-cheeked boy who was pa.s.sing her way; "If you take every one, you will very soon see That when next summer comes, not a bud will there be!"

"Quite true!" said the Clover, "And over and over I've sung that same song To whoe'er came along."

Quoth the b.u.t.tercup, "I Have not been at all shy In impressing that rule On each child of the school."

"I've touched the same subject,"

Said Timothy Gra.s.s.

"'Leave just a few flowers!'

I beg, as they pa.s.s."

Sighed a shy little Fern, From her home in the shade, "About pulling up roots, What a protest I've made!"

"The children are heedless!"

The Gentian declared, "When my blossom-time comes, Not a bud will be spared."

"Take courage, sweet neighbor!"

The Violet said; And raised in entreaty Her delicate head.

"The children are thoughtless, I own, in my turn; But if we _all_ teach them, They cannot but learn."

"The lesson," said the Alders, "Is a simple one, indeed, _Where no root is, blooms no flower,_ _Where no flower is, no seed."_

"'Tis very well said!" chirped the Robin, From the elm tree fluttering down; "If you'll write on your leaves such a lesson, I'll distribute them over the town."

"Oh, write it, dear Alders!" the Innocents cried, Their pretty eyes tearfully blue; "You are older than we are; you're strong and you're wise-- There's none but would listen to you!"

But, ah! the Alders could not write; And though the Robin knew The art as well as any bird-- Or so he said--he flew Straight up the hill and far away, Remarking as he went, He had a business errand And was not on pleasure bent.

Did the children learn the lesson, Though 'twas never written down?

We shall know when, gay and blithesome, Lady Summer comes to town.

Nora Archibald Smith.