_Twenty Froggies_

Twenty froggies went to school Down beside a rushy pool.

Twenty little coats of green, Twenty vests all white and clean.

"We must be in time," said they, "First we study, then we play; That is how we keep the rule, When we froggies go to school."

Master Bull-frog, brave and stern, Called his cla.s.ses in their turn, Taught them how to n.o.bly strive, Also how to leap and dive;

Taught them how to dodge a blow, From the sticks that bad boys throw.

Twenty froggies grew up fast, Bull-frogs they became at last;

Polished in a high degree, As each froggie ought to be, Now they sit on other logs, Teaching other little frogs.

George Cooper.

_The Snail_

The Snail he lives in his hard round house, In the orchard, under the tree: Says he, "I have but a single room; But it's large enough for me."

The Snail in his little house doth dwell All the week from end to end, You're at home, Master Snail; that's all very well, But you never receive a friend.

Unknown.

_The Worm_

No, little worm, you need not slip Into your hole, with such a skip; Drawing the gravel as you glide On to your smooth and slimy side.

I'm not a crow, poor worm, not I, Peeping about your holes to spy, And fly away with you in air, To give my young ones each a share.

No, and I'm not a rolling-stone, Creaking along with hollow groan;

Nor am I of the naughty crew, Who don't care what poor worms go through, But trample on them as they lie, Rather than pa.s.s them gently by; Or keep them dangling on a hook, Choked in a dismal pond or brook, Till some poor fish comes swimming past, And finishes their pain at last.

For my part, I could never bear Your tender flesh to hack and tear, Forgetting that poor worms endure As much as I should, to be sure, If any giant should come and jump On to my back, and kill me plump, Or run my heart through with a scythe, And think it fun to see me writhe!

O no, I'm only looking about, To see you wriggle in and out, And drawing together your slimy rings, Instead of feet, like other things: So, little worm, don't slide and slip Into your hole, with such a skip.

Ann Taylor.

_The City Mouse and the Garden Mouse_

The city mouse lives in a house;-- The garden mouse lives in a bower, He's friendly with the frogs and toads, And sees the pretty plants in flower.

The city mouse eats bread and cheese;-- The garden mouse eats what he can; We will not grudge him seeds and stocks, Poor little timid furry man.

Christina G. Rossetti.

_The Robin to His Mate_

Said Robin to his pretty mate, "Bring here a little hay; Lay here a stick and there a straw, And bring a little clay.

"And we will build a little nest, Wherein you soon shall lay Your little eggs, so smooth, so blue; Come, let us work away.

"And you shall keep them very warm; And only think, my dear, 'Twill not be long before we see Four little robins here.

"They'll open wide their yellow mouths, And we will feed them well; For we shall love the little dears, Oh, more than I can tell!

"And while the sun is shining warm Up in the summer sky, I'll sit and sing to them and you, Up in the branches high.

"And all night long, my love, you'll sit Upon the pretty nest, And keep the little robins warm Beneath your downy breast."

Mrs. Carter.

_The Brown Thrush_

There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree.

He's singing to me! He's singing to me!

And what does he say, little girl, little boy?

"Oh, the world's running over with joy!

Don't you hear? Don't you see?

Hush! Look! In my tree, I'm as happy as happy can be!"

And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see And five eggs, hid by me in the juniper tree?

Don't meddle! Don't touch! little girl, little boy, Or the world will lose some of its joy!

Now I'm glad! now I'm free!

And I always shall be, If you never bring sorrow to me."

So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree, To you and to me, to you and to me; And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy, "Oh, the world's running over with joy!

But long it won't be, Don't you know? Don't you see?

Unless we're as good as can be."

Lucy Larcom.

_The Little Doves_

High on the top of an old pine-tree, Broods a mother dove with her young ones three; Warm over them is her soft downy breast, And they sing so sweetly in their nest: "Coo," say the little ones, "Coo," says she, All in their nest in the old pine-tree.

Soundly they sleep through the moonshiny night, Each young one covered and tucked in tight; Morn wakes them up with the first blush of light, And they sing to each other with all their might: "Coo," say the little ones, "Coo," says she, All in their nest in the old pine-tree.

When in the nest they are all left alone, While their mother dear for their food has flown, Quiet and gentle they all remain, Till their mother they see come home again: Then "Coo," say the little ones, "Coo," says she, All in their nest in the old pine-tree.

When they are fed by their tender mother, One never will push nor crowd another: Each opens widely his own little bill, And he patiently waits, and gets his fill: Then "Coo," say the little ones, "Coo," says she, All in their nest in the old pine-tree.

Wisely the mother begins, by and by, To make her young ones learn to fly; Just for a little way over the brink, Then back to the nest as quick as a wink: And "Coo," say the little ones, "Coo," says she, All in their nest in the old pine-tree.