Is the princess worth your knowing?

Then haste, for the spring is brief, And find the Hepatica growing, Hid under a last year's leaf!

_Helen Gray Cone._

A FABLE

The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel, And the former called the latter "Little Prig"; Bun replied, "You are doubtless very big; But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together, To make up a year And a sphere.

And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place.

If I'm not so large as you You are not so small as I, And not half so spry.

I'll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track; Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut."

_Ralph Waldo Emerson._

THE NIGHT WIND

Have you ever heard the wind go "Yooooo"?

'Tis a pitiful sound to hear!

It seems to chill you through and through With a strange and speechless fear.

'Tis the voice of the night that broods outside When folk should be asleep, And many and many's the time I've cried To the darkness brooding far and wide Over the land and the deep: "Whom do you want, O lonely night, That you wail the long hours through?"

And the night would say in its ghostly way: "Yoooooooo!

Yoooooooo!

Yoooooooo!"

My mother told me long ago (When I was a little tad) That when the night went wailing so, Somebody had been bad;

And then, when I was snug in bed, Whither I had been sent, With the blankets pulled up round my head, I'd think of what my mother'd said, And wonder what boy she meant!

And "Who's been bad to-day?" I'd ask Of the wind that hoa.r.s.ely blew; And the voice would say in its meaningful way: "Yoooooooo!

Yoooooooo!

Yoooooooo!"

That this was true I must allow-- You'll not believe it, though!

Yes, though I'm quite a model now, I was not always so.

And if you doubt what things I say, Suppose you make the test; Suppose, when you've been bad some day And up to bed are sent away From mother and the rest-- Suppose you ask, "Who has been bad?"

And then you'll hear what's true; For the wind will moan in its ruefulest tone: "Yoooooooo!

Yoooooooo!

Yoooooooo!"

_Eugene Field._

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 can never 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.

_J. Colesworthy._

A THANKSGIVING FABLE

It was a hungry p.u.s.s.y cat, upon Thanksgiving morn, And she watched a thankful little mouse, that ate an ear of corn.

"If I ate that thankful little mouse, how thankful he should be, When he has made a meal himself, to make a meal for me!

"Then with his thanks for having fed, and his thanks for feeding me, With all _his_ thankfulness inside, how thankful I shall be!"

Thus mused the hungry p.u.s.s.y cat, upon Thanksgiving Day; But the little mouse had overheard and declined (with thanks) to stay.

_Oliver Herford._

THE BALLAD OF THE TEMPEST

We were crowded in the cabin, Not a soul would dare to sleep,-- It was midnight on the waters, And a storm was on the deep.

'Tis a fearful thing in winter To be shattered by the blast, And to hear the rattling trumpet Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"

So we shuddered there in silence,-- For the stoutest held his breath, While the hungry sea was roaring And the breakers talked with Death.

As thus we sat in darkness, Each one busy with his prayers, "We are lost!" the captain shouted, As he staggered down the stairs.

But his little daughter whispered, As she took his icy hand, "Isn't G.o.d upon the ocean, Just the same as on the land?"

Then we kissed the little maiden, And we spoke in better cheer, And we anch.o.r.ed safe in harbor, When the morn was shining clear.

_James T. Fields._

A CHILD'S PRAYER

G.o.d make my life a little light, Within the world to glow,-- A tiny flame that burneth bright, Wherever I may go.

G.o.d make my life a little flower, That giveth joy to all;-- Content to bloom in native bower Although its place be small.

G.o.d make my life a little song, That comforteth the sad; That helpeth others to be strong, And makes the singer glad.

G.o.d make my life a little staff Whereon the weak may rest,-- That so what health and strength I have May serve my neighbor best.

G.o.d make my life a little hymn Of tenderness and praise,-- Of faith, that never waxeth dim, In all His wondrous ways.

_Matilda B. Edwards._

JACK FROST