I.

Awake, my pet!

What! slumbering yet, When the day's so warm and bright?

The flowers that wept Before they slept O'er the darkness of yesternight, Have listened long To the lark's wild song, And awoke with the morning light.

II.

Again and again Through the window-pane The jasmine flowers kept peeping, And in at the door, And along the floor, The sunny rays came creeping, So I opened wide The sash, and tried To tell them you were sleeping.

III.

Awake, my dear, The winter drear Has fled with all things dreary, But quickly by The spring will fly, And soon the birds will weary.-- Awake while yet The dew is wet And day is young, my deary.

THE PINK PARASOL.

The pink parasol had tender whalebone ribs and a slender stick of cherry-wood. It lived with the wilful child in the white-house, just beyond the third milestone. All about the trees were green, and the flowers grew tall; in the pond behind the willows the ducks swam round and round and dipped their heads beneath the water.

Every bird and bee, every leaf and flower, loved the child and the pink parasol as they wandered in the garden together, listening to the birds and seeking the shady spots to rest in, or walking up and down the long trim pathway in the sunshine. Yet the child tired of it all, and before the summer was over, was always standing by the gate, watching the straight white road that stretched across the plain.

"If I might but see the city, with the busy streets and the eager crowds," he was always saying to himself.

Then all that lived in the garden knew that the child would not be with them long. At last the day came when he flung down the pink parasol, and, without even one last look at the garden, ran out at the gate.

The flowers died, and the swallows journeyed south; the trees stretched higher and higher, to see the child come back across the plain, but he never came. "Ah, dear child!" they sighed many a time, "why are you staying? and are your eyes as blue as ever; or have the sad tears dimmed them? and is your hair golden still? and your voice, is it like the singing of the birds? And your heart--oh! my dear, my dear, what is in your heart now, that once was so full of summer and the sun?"

The pink parasol lay on the pathway, where the child left it, spoilt by the rain, and splashed by the gravel, faded and forgotten. At last, a gipsy lad, with dark eyes, a freckled face, and little gold rings in his ears, came by; he picked up the pink parasol, hid it under his coat, and carried it to the gipsy tent. There it stayed till one day the cherry-wood stick was broken into three pieces, and the pink parasol was put on the fire to make the water boil for the gipsy's tea.

THE SISTERS.

The little sisters went into the room to play at ball.

"We must be careful not to wake the white cat," the tall one said, softly.

"Or to spoil the roses," the fat one whispered; "but throw high, dear sister, or we shall never hit the ceiling."

"You dear children," thought the white cat, "why do you come to play here at all? Only just round the corner are the shady trees, and the birds singing on the branches, and the sunshine is flecking the pathway. Who knows but what, out there, your ball might touch the sky?

Here you will only disturb me, and perhaps spoil the roses; and at best you can but hit the ceiling!"

THE WHITE RABBITS.

All the white rabbits but two, my dears, All the white rabbits but two, Away they all sailed in a c.o.c.kle-sh.e.l.l boat, Painted a beautiful blue.

All the white rabbits so snowy and sleek, Away they went down to the sh.o.r.e; Little they thought, so happy and meek, They'd never come up from it more.

Oh, the white rabbits they wept and they sobbed, Till the boat it shook up in the sails; Oh, the white rabbits they sobbed and they shook From their poor loppy ears to their tails.

Away they all sailed to a desolate land Where never a lettuce-leaf grew, All the white rabbits but two, my dears, All the white rabbits but two.

THE WOODEN HORSE.

"Come and have a ride," the big brother said.

"I am afraid," the little one answered; "the horse's mouth is wide open."

"But it's only wooden. That is the best of a horse that isn't real. If his mouth is ever so wide open, he cannot shut it. So come," and the big brother lifted the little one up, and dragged him about.

"Oh, do stop!" the little one cried out in terror; "does the horse make that noise along the floor?"

"Yes."

"And is it a real noise?"

"Of course it is," the big brother answered.

"But I thought only real things could make real things," the little one said; "where does the imitation horse end and the real sound begin?"

At this the big brother stood still for a few minutes.

"I was thinking about real and imitation things," he said presently.

"It's very difficult to tell which is which sometimes. You see they get so close together that the one often grows into the other, and some imitated things become real and some real ones become imitation as they go on. But I should say that you are a real coward for not having a ride."

"No, I am not," the little one laughed; and, getting astride the wooden horse, he sat up bravely. "Oh, Jack, dear," he said to his brother, "we will always be glad that we are real boys, or we too might have been made with mouths we were never able to shut!"

THE DUCK POND.

So little Bridget took the baby on her right arm and a jug in her left hand, and went to the farm to get the milk. On her way she went by the garden-gate of a large house that stood close to the farm, and she told the baby a story:--

"Last summer," she said, "a little girl, bigger than you, for she was just able to walk, came to stay in that house--she and her father and mother. All about the road just here, the ducks and the chickens from the farm, and an old turkey, used to walk about all the day long, but the poor little ducks were very unhappy, for they had no pond to swim about in, only that narrow ditch through which the streamlet is flowing. When the little girl's father saw this, he took a spade, and worked and worked very hard, and out of the ditch and the streamlet he made a little pond for the ducks, and they swam about and were very happy all through the summer days. Every morning I used to stand and watch, and presently the garden-gate would open, and then the father would come out, leading the little girl by the hand, and the mother brought a large plateful of bits of broken bread. The little girl used to throw the bread to the ducks, and they ran after it and ate it up quickly, while she laughed out with glee, and the father and the mother laughed too just as merrily. Baby, the father had blue eyes, and a voice that you seemed to hear with your heart.