There's a dandy little fellow, Who dresses all in yellow, In yellow with an overcoat of green; With his hair all crisp and curly, In the springtime bright and early A-tripping o'er the meadow he is seen.

Through all the bright June weather, Like a jolly little tramp, He wanders o'er the hillside, down the road; Around his yellow feather, Thy gypsy fireflies camp; His companions are the wood lark and the toad.

But at last this little fellow Doffs his dainty coat of yellow, And very feebly totters o'er the green; For he very old is growing And with hair all white and flowing, A-nodding in the sunlight he is seen.

Oh, poor dandy, once so spandy, Golden dancer on the lea!

Older growing, white hair flowing, Poor little baldhead dandy now is he!

_Nellie M. Garabrant._

The Inventor's Wife

It's easy to talk of the patience of Job, Humph! Job hed nothin' to try him!

Ef he'd been married to 'Bijah Brown, folks wouldn't have dared come nigh him.

Trials, indeed! Now I'll tell you what--ef you want to be sick of your life, Jest come and change places with me a spell--for I'm an inventor's wife.

And such inventions! I'm never sure, when I take up my coffee-pot, That 'Bijah hain't been "improvin'" it and it mayn't go off like a shot.

Why, didn't he make me a cradle once, that would keep itself a-rockin'; And didn't it pitch the baby out, and wasn't his head bruised shockin'?

And there was his "Patent Peeler," too--a wonderful thing, I'll say; But it hed one fault-it never stopped till the apple was peeled away.

As for locks and clocks, and mowin' machines and reapers, and all such trash, Why, 'Bijah's invented heaps of 'em but they don't bring in no cash.

Law! that don't worry him--not at all; he's the most aggravatin'est man-- He'll set in his little workshop there, and whistle, and think, and plan, Inventin' a jew's-harp to go by steam, or a new-fangled powder-horn, While the children's goin' barefoot to school and the weeds is chokin'

our corn.

When 'Bijah and me kep' company, he warn't like this, you know; Our folks all thought he was dreadful smart--but that was years ago.

He was handsome as any pictur then, and he had such a glib, bright way-- I never thought that a time would come when I'd rue my weddin' day; But when I've been forced to chop wood, and tend to the farm beside, And look at Bijah a-settin' there, I've jest dropped down and cried.

We lost the hull of our turnip crop while he was inventin' a gun But I counted it one of my marcies when it bu'st before 'twas done.

So he turned it into a "burglar alarm." It ought to give thieves a fright-- 'Twould scare an honest man out of his wits, ef he sot it off at night.

Sometimes I wonder if 'Bijah's crazy, he does sech cur'ous things.

Hev I told you about his bedstead yit?--'Twas full of wheels and springs; It hed a key to wind it up, and a clock face at the head; All you did was to turn them hands, and at any hour you said, That bed got up and shook itself, and bounced you on the floor, And then shet up, jest like a box, so you couldn't sleep any more.

Wa'al, 'Bijah he fixed it all complete, and he sot it at half-past five, But he hadn't mor'n got into it when--dear me! sakes alive!

Them wheels began to whiz and whir! I heered a fearful snap!

And there was that bedstead, with 'Bijah inside, shet up jest like a trap!

I screamed, of course, but 'twan't no use, then I worked that hull long night A-trying to open the pesky thing. At last I got in a fright; I couldn't hear his voice inside, and I thought he might be dyin'; So I took a crow-bar and smashed it in.--There was 'Bijah peacefully lyin', Inventin' a way to git out agin. That was all very well to say, But I don't b'lieve he'd have found it out if I'd left him in all day.

Now, sence I've told you my story, do you wonder I'm tired of life?

Or think it strange I often wish I warn't an inventor's wife?

_Mrs. E.T. Corbett._

Out in the Snow

The snow and the silence came down together, Through the night so white and so still; And young folks housed from the bitter weather, Housed from the storm and the chill--

Heard in their dreams the sleigh-bells jingle, Coasted the hill-sides under the moon, Felt their cheeks with the keen air tingle, Skimmed the ice with their steel-clad shoon.

They saw the snow when they rose in the morning, Glittering ghosts of the vanished night, Though the sun shone clear in the winter dawning, And the day with a frosty pomp was bright.

Out in the clear, cold, winter weather-- Out in the winter air, like wine-- Kate with her dancing scarlet feather, Bess with her peac.o.c.k plumage fine,

Joe and Jack with their pealing laughter, Frank and Tom with their gay hallo, And half a score of roisterers after, Out in the witching, wonderful snow,

Shivering graybeards shuffle and stumble, Righting themselves with a frozen frown, Grumbling at every snowy tumble; But young folks know why the snow came down.

_Louise Chandler Moulton._

Give Them the Flowers Now

Closed eyes can't see the white roses, Cold hands can't hold them, you know; Breath that is stilled cannot gather The odors that sweet from them blow.

Death, with a peace beyond dreaming, Its children of earth doth endow; Life is the time we can help them, So give them the flowers now!

Here are the struggles and striving, Here are the cares and the tears; Now is the time to be smoothing The frowns and the furrows and fears.

What to closed eyes are kind sayings?

What to hushed heart is deep vow?

Naught can avail after parting, So give them the flowers now!

Just a kind word or a greeting; Just a warm grasp or a smile-- These are the flowers that will lighten The burdens for many a mile.

After the journey is over What is the use of them; how Can they carry them who must be carried?

Oh, give them the flowers now!

Blooms from the happy heart's garden, Plucked in the spirit of love; Blooms that are earthly reflections Of flowers that blossom above.

Words cannot tell what a measure Of blessing such gifts will allow To dwell in the lives of many, So give them the flowers now!

_Leigh M. Hodges._

The Lost Occasion

(Written in memory of Daniel Webster.)

Some die too late and some too soon, At early morning, heat of noon, Or the chill evening twilight. Thou, Whom the rich heavens did so endow With eyes of power and Jove's own brow, With all the ma.s.sive strength that fills Thy home-horizon's granite hills, With rarest gifts of heart and head From manliest stock inherited-- New England's stateliest type of man, In port and speech Olympian; Whom no one met, at first, but took A second awed and wondering look (As turned, perchance, the eyes of Greece On Phidias' unveiled masterpiece); Whose words, in simplest home-spun clad, The Saxon strength of Caedmon's had, With power reserved at need to reach The Roman forum's loftiest speech, Sweet with persuasion, eloquent In pa.s.sion, cool in argument, Or, ponderous, falling on thy foes As fell the Norse G.o.d's hammer blows.

Crushing as if with Talus' flail Through Error's logic-woven mail, And failing only when they tried The adamant of the righteous side,-- Thou, foiled in aim and hope, bereaved Of old friends, by the new deceived, Too soon for us, too soon for thee, Beside thy lonely Northern sea, Where long and low the marsh-lands spread, Laid wearily down thy august head.

Thou shouldst have lived to feel below Thy feet Disunion's fierce upthrow,-- The late-sprung mine that underlaid Thy sad concessions vainly made.

Thou shouldst have seen from Sumter's wall The star-flag of the Union fall, And armed Rebellion pressing on The broken lines of Washington!

No stronger voice than thine had then Called out the utmost might of men, To make the Union's charter free And strengthen law by liberty.

How had that stern arbitrament To thy gray age youth's vigor lent, Shaming ambition's paltry prize Before thy disillusioned eyes; Breaking the spell about thee wound Like the green withes that Samson bound; Redeeming, in one effort grand, Thyself and thy imperiled land!

Ah cruel fate, that closed to thee, O sleeper by the Northern sea, The gates of opportunity!

G.o.d fills the gaps of human need, Each crisis brings its word and deed.

Wise men and strong we did not lack; But still, with memory turning back, In the dark hours we thought of thee, And thy lone grave beside the sea.