=The Dissatisfied Angler Boy=

I'm sorry they let me go down to the brook; I'm sorry they gave me the line and the hook; And wish I had staid at home with my book!

I'm sure 'twas no pleasure to see That poor little harmless, suffering thing Silently writhe at the end of the string, Or to hold the pole, while I felt him swing In torture,--and all for me!

'Twas a beautiful speckled and glossy trout; And when from the water I drew him out, On the gra.s.sy bank as he floundered about, It made me shivering cold, To think I had caused so much needless pain; And I tried to relieve him, but all in vain: O never, as long as I live, again May I such a sight behold!

But, what would I give, once more to see The brisk little swimmer alive and free, And darting about as he used to be, Unhurt, in his native brook!

'Tis strange that people can love to play, By taking innocent lives away!

I wish I had stayed at home to-day With sister, and read my book.

=The Stove and the Grate-Setter=

Old Winter is coming, to play off his tricks-- To make your ears tingle--your fingers to numb!

So I, with my trowel, new mortar and bricks, To guard you against him, already am come.

An ounce of prevention in time, I have found, Is worth pounds of remedy taken too late!

And proof that the sense of my maxim is sound, Will shine where I fasten stove, furnace or grate.

The Summer leaves now whirling fast from the trees, By Autumn's chill blast are tossed yellow and sere; And soon, with the breath of his nostrils to freeze Each thing he can puff at, will Winter be here!

But hardly he'll dare to steal in at the door, Your elbows to bite with his keen cutting air, And give you an ague, where I've been before, To set the defence I to-day can prepare.

And when he comes bl.u.s.tering on from the north, To give you blue faces, and shakes by the chin, You'll find what the craft of the mason was worth, As you from abroad to your parlor step in!

For all will around be so pleasant and warm,-- Your hearth bright and cheering--your coal in a glow; You'll not heed the winds whistling up the rough storm To sift o'er your dwellings its clouds full of snow!

You'll then think of me;--how I handled to-day The cold stone and iron--the brick and the lime: And all, but the surer foundation to lay For comfort to give in the drear winter time.

I lay you, against this old Winter, a charm.

To make him, at least, keep himself out of doors!

'Twould melt--should he enter--his hard hand and arm.

When loud for admission he threatens and roars.

If grat.i.tude then should come, warming your _heart_, As peaceful you sit by your warm _fireside_; Perhaps it may teach you some good to impart To those, where the gifts you enjoy are denied.

For He in whose favor all blessedness is; And out of whose kingdom no treasure is sure, Was poor when on earth;--and the poor still are his: His charge to his friends is "_Remember the poor_."

Nor would his disciple be higher than He, Who once on the dwellings of men, for his bread, In lowliness wrought! but contentedly, we Will work by the light that our Master has shed.

=Song of the Bees=

We watch for the light of the morn to break, And color the eastern sky With its blended hues of saffron and lake; Then say to each other, "Awake! awake!

For our winter's honey is all to make, And our bread for a long supply!"

Then off we hie to the hill and the dell-- To the field, the meadow, and bower: In the columbine's horn we love to dwell,-- To dip in the lily with snow-white bell,-- To search the balm in its odorous cell, The mint, and rosemary flower.

We suck the bloom of the eglantine,-- Of the pointed thistle and brier; And follow the track of the wandering vine, Whether it trail on the earth, supine, Or round the aspiring tree-top twine, And reach for a state still higher.

As each, on the good of the others bent, Is busy, and cares for all, We hope for an evening with hearts content,-- That Winter may find us without lament For a Summer that's gone, with its hours misspent, And a harvest that's past recall!

=The Summer is Come=

CHILDHOOD'S RURAL SONG.

The Summer is come With the insect's hum, And the birds that merrily sing.

And sweet are the hours, And the fruits and flowers, That Summer has come to bring.

All nature is glad, And the earth is clad In her brightest and best array: So, we with delight Will our songs unite, Our tribute of joy to pay.

The swallow is out, And she sails about In air, for the careless fly: Then she takes a sip With her h.o.r.n.y lip As she skims where the waters lie.

And the lamb bounds light In his fleece of white, But he doesn't know what to think, In the streamlet clear, Where he sees appear His face as he stoops to drink.

For, never before Has he gambolled o'er The summer-dressed, flowery earth; And he skips in play, As he fain would say "'Tis a season of feast and mirth."

And we have to-day Been rambling away To gather the flowers most fair, Which we sat beneath An old oak to wreath While fanned by the balmy air.

Now the sun goes down Like a golden crown That's sliding behind a hill; So we dance the while To his farewell smile; And well dance as the dews distil.

Then, we'll dance to-night While the fire-fly's light Is sparkling among the gra.s.s; And we'll step our tune To the silver moon, As over the green we pa.s.s.

O, Summer is sweet!

But her joys are fleet; We catch them but on the wing: Yet never the less Would our hearts confess The blessings she comes to bring.

=The Morning-Glory=

Come here and sit thee down by me!

I've read a tale, I'll tell to thee; And precious will the moral be, Though simple is the story.

It is about a brilliant flower, With beauty scarce possessed of power Its opening to survive an hour-- An airy Morning-Glory.

'Tis common parlance names it thus; But 'twas a gay convolvulus: Yet we'll not stop to here discuss Its species or its genus.

We'll just suppose a blooming vine With many leaf and bud to shine, And curling tendrils thrown to twine And form a bower, between us.

And we'll suppose a happy boy, With face lit up by hope and joy, Who thinks that nothing shall destroy His vine, his pride and pleasure, Is standing near, with kindling eye, As if its very look would pry The cup apart, therein to spy The growing floral treasure.