Did a finch fly with it Into the hedge, Or a reed-warbler Down in the sedge?

Are they carousing there, All the night through?

Such a great goblet, Brimful of dew!

Have beetles crept with it Where oak roots hide?

There have they settled it Down on its side?

Neat little kennel, So cosy and dark, Has one crept into it, Trying to bark?

Have the ants cover'd it With straw and sand?

Roomy bell-tent for them, So tall and grand; Where the red soldier-ants Lie, loll, and lean-- While the blacks steadily Build for their queen.

Has a huge dragon-fly Borne it (how cool!) To his snug dressing-room, By the clear pool?

There will he try it on, For a new hat-- n.o.body watching But one water-rat?

Did the flowers fight for it, While, undecried, One selfish daisy Slipp'd it aside; Now has she plunged it in Close to her feet-- Nice private water-tank For summer heat?

Did spiders s.n.a.t.c.h at it Wanting to look At the bright pebbles Which lie in the brook?

Now are they using it (n.o.body knows!) Safe little diving-bell, Shutting so close?

Hunt for it, hope for it, All through the moss; Dip for it, grope for it-- 'Tis such a loss!

Jane finds a drop of dew, Fan finds a stone; I find the thimble, Which is mother's own!

Run with it, fly with it-- Don't let it fall; All did their best for it-- Mother thanks all.

Just as we give it her,-- Think what a shame!-- Ned says he's sure That it isn't the same!

"B."

_Discontent_

Down in a field, one day in June, The flowers all bloomed together, Save one, who tried to hide herself, And drooped that pleasant weather.

A robin, who had flown too high, And felt a little lazy, Was resting near a b.u.t.tercup Who wished she were a daisy.

For daisies grew so trig and tall!

She always had a pa.s.sion For wearing frills around her neck, In just the daisies' fashion.

And b.u.t.tercups must always be The same old tiresome color; While daisies dress in gold and white, Although their gold is duller.

"Dear robin," said the sad young flower, "Perhaps you'd not mind trying To find a nice white frill for me, Some day when you are flying?"

"You silly thing!" the robin said, "I think you must be crazy: I'd rather be my honest self, Than any made-up daisy.

"You're nicer in your own bright gown; The little children love you: Be the best b.u.t.tercup you can, And think no flower above you.

"Though swallows leave me out of sight, We'd better keep our places: Perhaps the world would all go wrong With one too many daisies.

"Look bravely up into the sky, And be content with knowing That G.o.d wished for a b.u.t.tercup Just here, where you are growing."

Sarah Orne Jewett.

_The Nightingale and the Glowworm_

A nightingale that all day long Had cheered the village with his song, Nor yet at eve his note suspended, Nor yet when eventide was ended, Began to feel, as well he might, The keen demands of appet.i.te; When looking eagerly around, He spied far off, upon the ground, A something shining in the dark, And knew the glowworm by his spark; So, stooping down from hawthorn top, He thought to put him in his crop.

The worm, aware of his intent, Harangued him thus, right eloquent: "Did you admire my lamp," quoth he, "As much as I your minstrelsy, You would abhor to do me wrong, As much as I to spoil your song: For 'twas the self-same Power Divine Taught you to sing, and me to shine; That you with music, I with light, Might beautify and cheer the night."

The songster heard this short oration, And warbling out his approbation, Released him, as my story tells, And found a supper somewhere else.

William Cowper.

_Thanksgiving Day_

Over the river and through the wood, To grandfather's house we go; The horse knows the way To carry the sleigh Through the white and drifted snow.

Over the river and through the wood-- Oh, how the wind does blow!

It stings the toes And bites the nose, As over the ground we go.

Over the river and through the wood, To have a first-rate play.

Hear the bells ring, "Ting-a-ling-ding!"

Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!

Over the river and through the wood Trot fast, my dapple-gray!

Spring over the ground, Like a hunting-hound!

For this is Thanksgiving Day.

Over the river and through the wood, And straight through the barn-yard gate.

We seem to go Extremely slow,-- It is so hard to wait!

Over the river and through the wood-- Now grandmother's cap I spy!

Hurrah for the fun!

Is the pudding done?

Hurrah for the pumpkin-pie!

Lydia Maria Child.

_A Thanksgiving Fable_