Then Gottlieb answered fearlessly, Where he humbly stood apart, "But the Christ-child sent them all the same, He put the thought in your heart!"

OUR HEROES

Here's a hand to the boy who has courage To do what he knows to be right; When he falls in the way of temptation, He has a hard battle to fight.

Who strives against self and his comrades Will find a most powerful foe; All honor to him if he conquers-- A cheer for the boy who says "No!"

There's many a battle fought daily The world knows nothing about; There's many a brave little soldier Whose strength puts a legion to rout.

And he who fights sin single-handed Is more of a hero, I say, Than he who leads soldiers to battle, And conquers by arms in the fray.

Be steadfast, my boy, when you're tempted And do what you know to be right; Stand firm by the colors of manhood, And you will overcome in the fight.

"The Right" be your battle-cry ever, In waging the warfare of life; And G.o.d, who knows who are the heroes, Will give you the strength for the strife.

AN APRIL WELCOME

Come up, April, through the valley, In your robes of beauty drest, Come and wake your flowery children From their wintry beds of rest; Come and overblow them softly With the sweet breath of the south; Drop upon them, warm and loving, Tenderest kisses of your mouth.

Touch them with your rosy fingers, Wake them with your pleasant tread, Push away the leaf-brown covers, Over all their faces spread;

Tell them how the sun is waiting Longer daily in the skies, Looking for the bright uplifting Of their softly-fringed eyes.

Call the crow-foot and the crocus, Call the pale anemone, Call the violet and the daisy, Clothed with careful modesty; Seek the low and humble blossoms, Of their beauties unaware, Let the dandelion and fennel, Show their shining yellow hair.

Bid the little homely sparrows Chirping, in the cold and rain, Their impatient sweet complaining, Sing out from their hearts again; Bid them set themselves to mating, Cooing love in softest words, Crowd their nests, all cold and empty, Full of little callow birds.

Come up, April, through the valley, Where the fountain sleeps to-day, Let him, freed from icy fetters, Go rejoicing on his way; Through the flower-enameled meadows Let him run his laughing race, Making love to all the blossoms That o'erlean and kiss his face.

But not birds and blossoms only, Not alone the streams complain, Men and maidens too are calling, Come up, April, come again!

Waiting with the sweet impatience Of a lover for the hours They shall set the tender beauty Of thy feet among the flowers!

AUTUMN

Shorter and shorter now the twilight clips The days, as through the sunset gates they crowd, And Summer from her golden collar slips And strays through stubble-fields and moans aloud.

Save when by fits the warmer air deceives, And, stealing hopeful to some sheltered bower, She lies on pillows of the yellow leaves, And tries the old tunes over for an hour.

The wind, whose tender whisper in the May Set all the young blooms listening through the grove, Sits rustling in the faded boughs to-day And makes his cold and unsuccessful love.

The rose has taken off her 'tire of red-- The mullein-stalk its yellow stars have lost, And the proud meadow-pink hangs down her head Against earth's chilly bosom, witched with frost.

The robin, that was busy all the June, Before the sun had kissed the topmost bough, Catching our hearts up in his golden tune, Has given place to the brown cricket now.

The very c.o.c.k crows lonesomely at morn-- Each flag and fern the shrinking stream divides-- Uneasy cattle low, and lambs forlorn Creep to their strawy sheds with nettled sides.

Shut up the door: who loves me must not look Upon the withered world, but haste to bring His lighted candle, and his story-book, And live with me the poetry of spring.

POEMS BY CHARLES KINGSLEY

THE THREE FISHERS

Three fishers went sailing away to the west-- Away to the west as the sun went down; Each thought on the woman who loved him the best, And the children stood watching them out of the town; For men must work, and women must weep; And there's little to earn, and many to keep, Though the harbor bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, And they trimm'd the lamps as the sun went down; They look'd at the squall, and they look'd at the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up, ragged and brown; But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbor bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands For those who will never come home to the town; For men must work, and women must weep-- And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep-- And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

THE "OLD, OLD SONG"

When all the world is young, lad, And all the trees are green; And every goose a swan, lad, And every la.s.s a queen,-- Then hey for boot and horse, lad, And round the world away; Young blood must have its course, lad, And every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad, And all the trees are brown; And all the sport is stale, lad, And all the wheels run down,-- Creep home, and take your place there, The spent and maimed among: G.o.d grant you find one face there You loved when all was young.

A FAREWELL

My fairest child, I have no song to give you; No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray; Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you For every day.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; Do n.o.ble things, not dream them, all day long: And so make life, death, and that vast forever One grand, sweet song.

THE LOST DOLL

I once had a sweet little doll, dears, The prettiest doll in the world; Her cheeks were so red and white, dears, And her hair was so charmingly curled.

But I lost my poor little doll, dears, As I played in the heath one day; And I cried for her more than a week, dears, But I never could find where she lay.

I found my poor little doll, dears, As I played in the heath one day; Folks say she is terribly changed, dears, For her paint is all washed away, And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears, And her hair not the least bit curled; Yet for old sakes' sake, she is still, dears, The prettiest doll in the world.

POEMS BY HELEN HUNT JACKSON

"DOWN TO SLEEP"

November woods are bare and still; November days are clear and bright; Each noon burns up the morning's chill; The morning's snow is gone by night.

Each day my steps grow slow, grow light, As through the woods I reverent creep, Watching all things lie "down to sleep."