_To His Saviour, a Child; A Present by a Child_

Go, pretty child, and bear this flower Unto thy little Saviour; And tell him, by that bud now blown, He is the Rose of Sharon known.

When thou hast said so, stick it there Upon his bib or stomacher; And tell him, for good hansel too, That thou hast brought a whistle new, Made of a clean strait oaten reed, To charm his cries at time of need.

Tell him, for coral thou hast none, But if thou hadst, he should have one; But poor thou art, and known to be Even as moneyless as he.

Lastly, if thou canst win a kiss From those mellifluous lips of his; Then never take a second on, To spoil the first impression.

Robert Herrick.

_What Would You See?_

What would you see if I took you up To my little nest in the air?

You would see the sky like a clear blue cup Turned upside downwards there.

What would you do if I took you there To my little nest in the tree?

My child with cries would trouble the air, To get what she could but see.

What would you get in the top of the tree For all your crying and grief?

Not a star would you clutch of all you see-- You could only gather a leaf.

But when you had lost your greedy grief, Content to see from afar, You would find in your hand a withering leaf, In your heart a shining star.

George Macdonald.

_Corn-Fields_

When on the breath of Autumn's breeze, From pastures dry and brown, Goes floating, like an idle thought, The fair, white thistle-down,-- Oh, then what joy to walk at will Upon the golden harvest-hill!

What joy in dreaming ease to lie Amid a field new shorn; And see all round, on sunlit slopes, The piled-up shocks of corn; And send the fancy wandering o'er All pleasant harvest-fields of yore!

I feel the day; I see the field; The quivering of the leaves; And good old Jacob, and his horse,-- Binding the yellow sheaves!

And at this very hour I seem To be with Joseph in his dream!

I see the fields of Bethlehem, And reapers many a one Bending unto their sickles' stroke, And Boaz looking on; And Ruth, the Moabitess fair, Among the gleaners stooping there!

Again, I see a little child, His mother's sole delight,-- G.o.d's living gift of love unto The kind, good Shunamite; To mortal pangs I see him yield, And the lad bear him from the field.

The sun-bathed quiet of the hills, The fields of Galilee, That eighteen hundred years ago Were full of corn, I see; And the dear Saviour take his way 'Mid ripe ears on the Sabbath-day.

Oh golden fields of bending corn, How beautiful they seem!

The reaper-folk, the piled-up sheaves, To me are like a dream; The sunshine, and the very air Seem of old time, and take me there!

Mary Howitt.

_Little Christel_

I

Slowly forth from the village church,-- The voice of the choristers hushed overhead,-- Came little Christel. She paused in the porch, Pondering what the preacher had said.

_Even the youngest, humblest child Something may do to please the Lord;_ "Now, what," thought she, and half-sadly smiled, "Can I, so little and poor, afford?--

_"Never, never a day should pa.s.s, Without some kindness, kindly shown,_ The preacher said"--Then down to the gra.s.s A skylark dropped, like a brown-winged stone.

"Well, a day is before me now; Yet, what," thought she, "can I do, if I try?

If an angel of G.o.d would show me how!

But silly am I, and the hours they fly."

Then the lark sprang singing up from the sod, And the maiden thought, as he rose to the blue, "He says he will carry my prayer to G.o.d; But who would have thought the little lark knew?"

II

Now she entered the village street, With book in hand and face demure, And soon she came, with sober feet, To a crying babe at a cottage door.

It wept at a windmill that would not move, It puffed with round red cheeks in vain, One sail stuck fast in a puzzling groove, And baby's breath could not stir it again.

So baby beat the sail and cried, While no one came from the cottage door; But little Christel knelt down by its side, And set the windmill going once more.

Then babe was pleased, and the little girl Was glad when she heard it laugh and crow; Thinking, "Happy windmill, that has but to whirl, To please the pretty young creature so."

III

No thought of herself was in her head, As she pa.s.sed out at the end of the street, And came to a rose-tree tall and red, Drooping and faint with the summer heat.

She ran to a brook that was flowing by, She made of her two hands a nice round cup, And washed the roots of the rose-tree high, Till it lifted its languid blossoms up.

"O happy brook!" thought little Christel, "You have done some good this summer's day, You have made the flowers look fresh and well!"

Then she rose and went on her way.