Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks-- Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks-- "Bonny bird," quoth she, "Sing me your best song before I go."

"Here's the very finest song I know, Little Bell," said he.

And the blackbird piped; you never heard Half so gay a song from any bird-- Full of quips and wiles, Now so round and rich, now soft and slow.

All for love of that sweet face below, Dimpled o'er with smiles.

And the while the bonny bird did pour His full heart out freely o'er and o'er 'Neath the morning skies.

In the little childish heart below All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, And shine forth in happy overflow From the blue, bright eyes.

Down the dell she tripped and through the glade, Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade, And from out the tree Swung, and leaped, and frolicked, void of fear,-- While bold blackbird piped that all might hear-- "Little Bell," piped he.

Little Bell sat down amid the fern-- "Squirrel, to your task return-- Bring me nuts," quoth she.

Up, away the frisky squirrel hies-- Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes-- And adown the tree, Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun, In the little lap dropped one by one-- Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun!

"Happy Bell," pipes he.

Little Bell looked up and down the glade-- "Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid, Come and share with me!"

Down came squirrel eager for his fare-- Down came bonny blackbird I declare; Little Bell gave each his honest share-- Ah the merry three!

And the while these frolic playmates twain Piped and frisked from bough to bough again, 'Neath the morning skies, In the little childish heart below All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, And shine out in happy overflow From her blue, bright eyes.

By her snow-white cot at close of day, Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to pray-- Very calm and clear Rose the praying voice to where, unseen, In blue heaven, an angel shape serene Paused awhile to hear-- "What good child is this," the angel said, "That, with happy heart, beside her bed Prays so lovingly?"

Low and soft, oh! very low and soft, Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft, "Bell, dear Bell!" crooned he.

"Whom G.o.d's creatures love," the angel fair Murmured, "G.o.d doth bless with angels' care; Child, thy bed shall be Folded safe from harm--Love deep and kind Shall watch around and leave good gifts behind, Little Bell, for thee!"

Thomas Westwood [1814?-1888]

THE BAREFOOT BOY

Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!

With thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; From my heart I give thee joy,-- I was once a barefoot boy!

Prince thou art,--the grown-up man Only is republican.

Let the million-dollared ride!

Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buy In the reach of ear and eye,-- Outward sunshine, inward joy: Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood; How the tortoise bears his sh.e.l.l, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the ground-nut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's cl.u.s.ters shine; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans!

For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks; Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy,-- Blessings on the barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for.

I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night, Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides!

Still as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too; All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy!

Oh for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread; Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude!

O'er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold; While for music came the play Of the pied frogs' orchestra; And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire.

I was monarch: pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy!

Cheerily, then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can!

Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil: Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground; Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin.

Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy, Ere it pa.s.ses, barefoot boy!

John Greenleaf Whittier [1807-1892]

THE HERITAGE

Thee rich man's son inherits lands, And piles of brick and stone, and gold, And he inherits soft white hands, And tender flesh that fears the cold, Nor dares to wear a garment old; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits cares; The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants, His stomach craves for dainty fare; With sated heart, he hears the pants Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, And wearies in his easy-chair; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?

Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, A hardy frame, a hardier spirit, King of two hands, he does his part In every useful toil and art; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?

Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, A rank adjudged by toil-won merit, Content that from employment springs, A heart that in his labor sings; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?

A patience learned of being poor, Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, A fellow-feeling that is sure To make the outcast bless his door; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.

O rich man's son! there is a toil That with all others level stands; Large charity doth never soil, But only whiten, soft white hands; This is the best crop from thy lands, A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O poor man's son! scorn not thy state; There is worse weariness than thine, In merely being rich and great; Toil only gives the soul to shine, And makes rest fragrant and benign; A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, Are equal in the earth at last; Both, children of the same dear G.o.d, Prove t.i.tle to your heirship vast By record of a well-filled past; A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee.

James Russell Lowell [1819-1891]

LETTY'S GLOBE Or Some Irregularities In A First Lesson In Geography

When Letty had scarce pa.s.sed her third glad year, And her young artless words began to flow, One day we gave the child a colored sphere Of the wide Earth, that she might mark and know, By tint and outline, all its sea and land.

She patted all the world; old Empires peeped Between her baby fingers; her soft hand Was welcome at all frontiers. How she leaped, And laughed and prattled in her world-wide bliss!

But when we turned her sweet unlearned eye On our own Isle, she raised a joyous cry,-- "O yes! I see it, Letty's home is there!"

And while she hid all England with a kiss, Bright over Europe fell her golden hair.

Charles Tennyson Turner [1808-1879]

DOVE'S NEST