A boy named Peter Found once in the road All harmless and helpless, A poor little toad;

And ran to his playmate, And all out of breath Cried, "John, come and help, And we'll stone him to death!"

And picking up stones, The two went on the run, Saying, one to the other, "Oh, won't we have fun?"

Thus primed and all ready, They'd got nearly back, When a donkey came Dragging a cart on the track.

Now the cart was as much As the donkey could draw, And he came with his head Hanging down; so he saw,

All harmless and helpless, The poor little toad, A-taking his morning nap Right in the road.

He shivered at first, Then he drew back his leg, And set up his ears, Never moving a peg.

Then he gave the poor toad, With his warm nose a dump, And he woke and got off With a hop and jump.

And then with an eye Turned on Peter and John, And hanging his homely head Down, he went on.

"We can't kill him now, John,"

Says Peter, "that's flat, In the face of an eye and An action like that!"

"For my part, I haven't The heart to," says John; "But the load is too heavy That donkey has on:

"Let's help him"; so both lads Set off with a will And came up with the cart At the foot of the hill.

And when each a shoulder Had put to the wheel, They helped the poor donkey A wonderful deal.

When they got to the top Back again they both run, Agreeing they never Had had better fun.

NOVEMBER

The leaves are fading and falling, The winds are rough and wild, The birds have ceased their calling, But let me tell you, my child,

Though day by day, as it closes, Doth darker and colder grow, The roots of the bright red roses Will keep alive in the snow.

And when the winter is over, The boughs will get new leaves, The quail come back to the clover, And the swallow back to the eaves.

The robin will wear on his bosom A vest that is bright and new, And the loveliest wayside blossom Will shine with the sun and dew.

The leaves to-day are whirling, The brooks are all dry and dumb, But let me tell you, my darling, The spring will be sure to come.

There must be rough, cold weather, And winds and rains so wild; Not all good things together Come to us here, my child.

So, when some dear joy loses Its beauteous summer glow, Think how the roots of the roses Are kept alive in the snow.

LITTLE GOTTLIEB

Across the German Ocean, In a country far from our own, Once, a poor little boy, named Gottlieb, Lived with his mother alone.

They dwelt in the part of a village Where the houses were poor and small, But the home of little Gottlieb, Was the poorest one of all

He was not large enough to work, And his mother could do no more (Though she scarcely laid her knitting down) Than keep the wolf from the door.

She had to take their threadbare clothes, And turn, and patch, and darn; For never any woman yet Grew rich by knitting yarn.

And oft at night, beside her chair, Would Gottlieb sit, and plan The wonderful things he would do for her, When he grew to be a man.

One night she sat and knitted, And Gottlieb sat and dreamed, When a happy fancy all at once Upon his vision beamed.

'Twas only a week till Christmas, And Gottlieb knew that then The Christ-child, who was born that day, Sent down good gifts to men.

But he said, "He will never find us, Our home is so mean and small.

And we, who have most need of them, Will get no gifts at all."

When all at once a happy light Came into his eyes so blue, And lighted up his face with smiles, As he thought what he could do.

Next day when the postman's letters Came from all over the land; Came one for the Christ-child, written In a child's poor trembling hand.

You may think he was sorely puzzled What in the world to do; So he went to the Burgomaster, As the wisest man he knew.

And when they opened the letter, They stood almost dismayed That such a little child should dare To ask the Lord for aid.

Then the Burgomaster stammered, And scarce knew what to speak, And hastily he brushed aside A drop, like a tear, from his cheek.

Then up he spoke right gruffly, And turned himself about: "This must be a very foolish boy, And a small one, too, no doubt."

But when six rosy children That night about him pressed, Poor, trusting little Gottlieb Stood near him, with the rest.

And he heard his simple, touching prayer, Through all their noisy play; Though he tried his very best to put The thought of him away.

A wise and learned man was he, Men called him good and just; But his wisdom seemed like foolishness, By that weak child's simple trust.

Now when the morn of Christmas came And the long, long week was done, Poor Gottlieb, who scarce could sleep, Rose up before the sun,

And hastened to his mother, But he scarce might speak for fear, When he saw her wondering look, and saw The Burgomaster near.

He wasn't afraid of the Holy Babe, Nor his mother, meek and mild; But he felt as if so great a man Had never been a child.

Amazed the poor child looked, to find The hearth was piled with wood, And the table, never full before, Was heaped with dainty food.

Then half to hide from himself the truth The Burgomaster said, While the mother blessed him on her knees, And Gottlieb shook for dread;

"Nay, give no thanks, my good dame, To such as me for aid, Be grateful to your little son, And the Lord to whom he prayed!"

Then turning round to Gottlieb, "Your written prayer, you see, Came not to whom it was addressed, It only came to me!

"'Twas but a foolish thing you did, As you must understand; For though the gifts are yours, you know, You have them from my hand."