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diff --git a/25639-8.txt b/25639-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3f5f196 --- /dev/null +++ b/25639-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5819 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Graded Memory Selections, by Various, Edited +by S. D. Waterman, John William McClymonds, and Charles C. Hughes + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Graded Memory Selections + + +Author: Various + +Editor: S. D. Waterman, John William McClymonds, and Charles C. Hughes + +Release Date: May 29, 2008 [eBook #25639] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRADED MEMORY SELECTIONS*** + + +E-text prepared by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, and the Project Gutenberg +Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) + + + +GRADED MEMORY SELECTIONS + +Arranged by + +S. D. WATERMAN, +Superintendent of Schools, Berkeley, Cal. + +J. W. McCLYMONDS, +Superintendent of Schools, Oakland, Cal. + +C. C. HUGHES, +Superintendent of Schools, Alameda, Cal. + + + + + + + +Educational Publishing Company +Boston +New York Chicago San Francisco + +Copyrighted +by Educational Publishing Company +1903. + + + + +PREFACE. + + +It is unfortunately true that the terms education and culture are not +synonymous. Too often we find that the children in our public schools, +while possessed of the one, are signally lacking in the other. This is +a state of things that cannot be remedied by teaching mere facts. The +Greeks, many years ago, found the true method of imparting the latter +grace and we shall probably not be able to discover a better one +to-day. Their youths learned Homer and the other great poets as a part +of their daily tasks, and by thus constantly dwelling upon and storing +in their minds the noblest and most beautifully expressed thought in +their literature, their own mental life became at once refined and +strong. + +The basis of all culture lies in a pure and elevated moral nature, and +so noted an authority as President Eliot, of Harvard University, has +said that the short memory gems which he learned as a boy in school, +have done him more good in the hour of temptation than all the sermons +he ever heard preached. A fine thought or beautiful image, once stored +in the mind, even if at first it is received indifferently and with +little understanding, is bound to recur again and again, and its +companionship will have a sure, if unconscious, influence. The mind +that has been filled in youth with many such thoughts and images will +surely bear fruit in fine and gracious actions. + +To the teachers who are persuaded of this truth, the present +collection of poems has much to recommend it. The selections have been +chosen both for their moral influence and for their permanent value as +literature. They have been carefully graded to suit the needs of every +class from the primary to the high school. Either the whole poem or a +sufficiently long quotation has been inserted to give the child a +complete mental picture. + +The teacher will thus escape the difficulty of choosing among a too +great abundance of riches, or the still greater one of finding for +herself, with few resources, what serves her purpose. This volume has +a further advantage over other books of selections. It is so moderate +in price that it will be possible to place it in the hands of the +children themselves. + +The compilers desire to thank Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Charles +Scribner's Sons, Bowen, Merrill & Co., Whittaker & Ray Co., and +Doubleday & McClure Co., for their kindness in permitting the use of +copyrighted material. + + S. D. WATERMAN. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + + FIRST GRADE. + + The Baby _George Macdonald_ + The Little Plant _Anon._ + Sleep, Baby, Sleep _E. Prentiss_ + One, Two, Three _Margaret Johnson_ + Three Little Bugs in a Basket _Alice Cary_ + Whenever a Little Child is Born _Agnes L. Carter_ + Sweet and Low _Alfred Tennyson_ + The Ferry for Shadowtown _Anon._ + My Shadow _R. L. Stevenson_ + Quite Like a Stocking _Anon._ + The Owl and the Pussy-Cat _Edward Lear_ + Forget-me-not _Anon._ + Who Stole the Bird's Nest? _Anon._ + Two Little Hands _Anon._ + The Dandelion _Anon._ + A Million Little Diamonds _M. Butts_ + Daisy Nurses _Anon._ + At Little Virgil's Window _Edwin Markham_ + Dandelions _Anon._ + Memory Gems _Selected_ + + SECOND GRADE. + + Seven Times One _Jean Ingelow_ + Christmas Eve _Anon._ + Morning Song _Alfred Tennyson_ + Suppose, My Little Lady _Phoebe Cary_ + The Day's Eye _Anon._ + The Night Wind _Eugene Field_ + The Blue-bird's Song _Anon._ + Suppose _Anon._ + Autumn Leaves _Anon._ + If I Were a Sunbeam _Lucy Larcom_ + Meadow Talk _Caroline Leslie_ + The Old Love _Charles Kingsley_ + Bed in Summer _R. L. Stevenson_ + Three Companions _Dinah M. Craik_ + The Wind _R. L. Stevenson_ + The Minuet _Mary Mapes Dodge_ + Wynken, Blynken and Nod _Eugene Field_ + Pretty Is That Pretty Does _Alice Cary_ + Lullaby _J. G. Holland_ + + THIRD GRADE. + + Discontent _Sarah O. Jewett_ + Our Flag _Anon._ + Song from "Pippa Passes" _Robert Browning_ + Little Brown Hands _M. H. Krout_ + Winter and Summer _Anon._ + The Brook _Alfred Tennyson_ + The Wonderful World _W. B. Rands_ + Don't Give Up _Phoebe Cary_ + We Are Seven _Wordsworth_ + The Land of Counterpane _R. L. Stevenson_ + The Brown Thrush _Lucy Larcom_ + The Silver Boat _Anon._ + The Dandelion _Anon._ + Afternoon in February _Longfellow_ + Nikolina _Celia Thaxter_ + Lost _Celia Thaxter_ + Robin or I? _Sarah E. Sprague_ + + FOURTH GRADE. + + Psalm XXIII _Bible_ + The Mountain and the Squirrel _Ralph W. Emerson_ + Abou Ben Adhem _Leigh Hunt_ + Bugle Song _Alfred Tennyson_ + Little Boy Blue _Eugene Field_ + Pittypat and Tippytoe _Eugene Field_ + Red Riding Hood _Whittier_ + The Sandpiper and I _Celia Thaxter_ + In School Days _Whittier_ + Take Care _Alice Cary_ + A Life Lesson _James W. Riley_ + + FIFTH GRADE. + + The Village Blacksmith _Longfellow_ + Love of Country _Scott_ + The Daffodils _Wordsworth_ + A Child's Thought of God _Mrs. Browning_ + From My Arm-chair _Longfellow_ + A Song of Easter _Celia Thaxter_ + The Joy of the Hills _Edwin Markham_ + In Blossom Time _Ina Coolbrith_ + The Stars and the Flowers _Longfellow_ + Meadow Larks _Ina Coolbrith_ + The Arrow and the Song _Longfellow_ + The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz _Longfellow_ + + SIXTH GRADE. + + Break, Break, Break _Alfred Tennyson_ + Columbus--Westward _Joaquin Miller_ + The Day is Done _Longfellow_ + The Landing of the Pilgrims _Mrs. Hemans_ + He Prayeth Best _Coleridge_ + Each and All _Emerson_ + Paul Revere's Ride _Longfellow_ + Battle Hymn of the Republic _Julia Ward Howe_ + The Barefoot Boy _Whittier_ + Lincoln, the Great Commoner _Edwin Markham_ + Opportunity _Edward R. Sill_ + A Song _James W. Riley_ + To a Friend _Halleck_ + + SEVENTH GRADE. + + Psalm CXXI _Bible_ + Rain in Summer _Longfellow_ + A Psalm of Life _Longfellow_ + Hymn on the Fight at Concord _R. W. Emerson_ + To a Water-fowl _William C. Bryant_ + The Heritage _James R. Lowell_ + Elegy Written in a Country + Churchyard _Thomas Gray_ + Gradatim _J. G. Holland_ + God Save the Flag _O. W. Holmes_ + Life _Edward R. Sill_ + + EIGHTH GRADE. + + Hymn to the Night _Longfellow_ + The Builders _Longfellow_ + Polonius' Advice to Laertes _Shakespeare_ + Thanatopsis _W. C. Bryant_ + The American Flag _Jos. R. Drake_ + Speech at the Dedication of the + National Cemetery at Gettysburg _Abraham Lincoln_ + To a Skylark _Shelley_ + The Launching of the Ship _Longfellow_ + Recessional _Rudyard Kipling_ + The Ladder of St. Augustine _Longfellow_ + The Chambered Nautilus _O. W. Holmes_ + + BRIEF MEMORY GEMS AND PROVERBS. + + First and Second Grades + Third and Fourth Grades + Fifth and Sixth Grades + Seventh and Eighth Grades + Poor Richard's Sayings + + + + +GRADED Memory Selections + + + + +FIRST GRADE + + +THE BABY. + + Where did you come from, baby dear? + Out of the everywhere into the here. + Where did you get your eyes so blue? + Out of the sky as I came through. + + What makes the light in them sparkle and spin? + Some of the starry spikes left in. + Where did you get that little tear? + I found it waiting when I got here. + + What makes your forehead so smooth and high? + A soft hand stroked it as I went by. + What makes your cheek like a warm, white rose? + I saw something better than any one know. + + Whence that three-corner'd smile of bliss? + Three angels gave me at once a kiss. + Where did you get this pearly ear? + God spoke, and it came out to hear. + + Where did you get those arms and hands? + Love made itself into hooks and bands. + Feet, whence did you come, you darling things? + From the same box as the cherubs' wings. + + How did they all come just to be you? + God thought of me and so I grew. + But how did you come to us, you dear? + God thought of you, and so I am here. + + --_George Macdonald._ + + +THE LITTLE PLANT. + + In the heart of a seed, buried deep, so deep, + A dear little plant lay fast asleep. + "Wake," said the sunshine, "and creep to the light." + "Wake," said the voice of the rain-drops bright. + The little plant heard and rose to see + What the wonderful outside world might be. + + --_Anon._ + + +SLEEP, BABY, SLEEP! + + Sleep, baby, sleep! + Thy father watches his sheep; + Thy mother is shaking the dreamland tree, + And down comes a little dream on thee. + Sleep, baby, sleep! + + Sleep, baby, sleep! + The large stars are the sheep; + The little stars are the lambs, I guess; + And the gentle moon is the shepherdess. + Sleep, baby, sleep! + + Sleep, baby, sleep! + Our Saviour loves His sheep; + He is the Lamb of God on high, + Who for our sakes came down to die. + Sleep, baby, sleep! + + --_E. Prentiss (from the German)._ + + +ONE, TWO, THREE. + + One, two, three, a bonny boat I see, + A silver boat and all afloat upon a rosy sea. + One, two, three, the riddle tell to me. + The moon afloat is the bonny boat, the sunset is the sea. + + --_Margaret Johnson._ + + +THREE LITTLE BUGS IN A BASKET. + + Three little bugs in a basket, + And hardly room for two; + And one was yellow, and one was black, + And one like me or you; + The space was small, no doubt, for all, + So what should the three bugs do? + + Three little bugs in a basket, + And hardly crumbs for two; + And all were selfish in their hearts, + The same as I or you. + So the strong one said, "We will eat the bread, + And that's what we will do!" + + Three little bugs in a basket, + And the beds but two could hold; + And so they fell to quarreling-- + The white, the black, and the gold-- + And two of the bugs got under the rugs, + And one was out in the cold. + + He that was left in the basket, + Without a crumb to chew, + Or a thread to wrap himself withal, + When the wind across him blew, + Pulled one of the rugs from one of the bugs, + And so the quarrel grew. + + So there was war in the basket; + Ah! pity 'tis, 'tis true! + But he that was frozen and starved, at last + A strength from his weakness drew, + And pulled the rugs from both the bugs, + And killed and ate them, too! + + Now when bugs live in a basket, + Though more than it well can hold, + It seems to me they had better agree-- + The black, the white, and the gold-- + And share what comes of beds and crumbs, + And leave no bug in the cold. + + --_Alice Cary._ + + +WHENEVER A LITTLE CHILD IS BORN. + + Whenever a little child is born, + All night a soft wind rocks the corn, + One more butter-cup wakes to the morn, + Somewhere. + One more rose-bud shy will unfold, + One more grass-blade push through the mould, + One more bird's song the air will hold, + Somewhere. + + --_Agnes L. Carter._ + + +SWEET AND LOW. + + Sweet and low, sweet and low, + Wind of the western sea, + Low, low, breathe and blow, + Wind of the western sea! + Over the rolling waters go, + Come from the dying moon, and blow, + Blow him again to me; + While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. + + Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, + Father will come to thee soon; + Rest, rest, on mother's breast, + Father will come to thee soon; + Father will come to his babe in the nest, + Silver sails all out of the west, + Under the silver moon; + Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. + + --_Alfred Tennyson._ + + +THE FERRY FOR SHADOWTOWN. + + Sway to and fro in the twilight gray; + This is the ferry for Shadowtown; + It always sails at the end of the day, + Just as the darkness closes down. + + Rest little head, on my shoulder, so; + A sleepy kiss is the only fare; + Drifting away from the world, we go, + Baby and I in the rocking-chair. + + See where the fire-logs glow and spark, + Glitter the lights of the shadowland, + The raining drops on the window, hark! + Are ripples lapping upon its strand. + + There, where the mirror is glancing dim, + A lake lies shimmering, cool and still. + Blossoms are waving above its brim, + Those over there on the window-sill. + + Rock slow, more slow in the dusky light, + Silently lower the anchor down: + Dear little passenger, say "Good-night." + We've reached the harbor of Shadowtown. + + --_Anon._ + + +MY SHADOW. + + I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, + And what can be the use of him is more than I can see. + He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head; + And I see him jump before me when I jump into my bed. + + The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow-- + Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow; + For he sometimes shoots up taller like an India-rubber ball, + And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all. + + He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play, + And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. + He stays so close beside me, he's a coward, you can see; + I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me! + + One morning, very early, before the sun was up, + I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup; + But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head, + Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed. + + --_Robert Louis Stevenson._ + + +QUITE LIKE A STOCKING. + + Just as morn was fading amid her misty rings, + And every stocking was stuffed with childhood's precious things, + Old Kris Kringle looked round and saw on the elm tree bough + High hung, an oriole's nest, lonely and empty now. + + "Quite like a stocking," he laughed, "hung up there in the tree, + I didn't suppose the birds expected a visit from me." + Then old Kris Kringle who loves a joke as well as the best, + Dropped a handful of snowflakes into the oriole's empty nest. + + --_Anon._ + + +THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT. + + The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea + In a beautiful pea-green boat; + They took some honey, and plenty of money + Wrapped up in a five-pound note. + The Owl looked up to the moon above, + And sang to a small guitar, + "O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love! + What a beautiful Pussy you are-- + You are, + What a beautiful Pussy you are!" + + Pussy said to the owl, "You elegant fowl! + How wonderfully sweet you sing! + Oh, let us be married--too long we have tarried-- + But what shall we do for a ring?" + They sailed away for a year and a day + To the land where the Bong-tree grows, + And there in a wood, a piggy-wig stood + With a ring in the end of his nose-- + His nose, + With a ring in the end of his nose. + + "Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling + Your ring?" Said the piggy, "I will." + So they took it away, and were married next day + By the turkey who lives on the hill. + They dined upon mince and slices of quince, + Which they ate with a runcible spoon, + And hand in hand on the edge of the sand + They danced by the light of the moon-- + The moon, + They danced by the light of the moon. + + --_Edward Lear._ + + +FORGET-ME-NOT. + + When to the flowers so beautiful the Father gave a name + Back came a little blue-eyed one, all timidly it came; + And, standing at the Father's feet and gazing in His face + It said, in low and trembling tones and with a modest grace, + "Dear God, the name Thou gavest me, alas, I have forgot." + The Father kindly looked Him down and said, "Forget-me-not." + + --_Anon._ + + +WHO STOLE THE BIRD'S NEST. + + "To-whit! To-whit! To-whee! + Will you listen to me? + Who stole four eggs I laid, + And the nice nest I made?" + + "Not I," said the cow, "moo-oo! + Such a thing I'd never do. + I gave you a wisp of hay, + But I did not take your nest away: + Not I," said the cow, "moo-oo! + Such a thing I'd never do." + + "Bob-o-link! Bob-o-link! + Now, what do you think? + Who stole a nest away + From the plum tree to-day?" + + "Not I," said the dog, "bow-wow! + I wouldn't be so mean, I vow. + I gave some hairs the nest to make, + But the nest I did not take. + Not I," said the dog, "bow-wow! + I wouldn't be so mean, I vow." + + "Coo-oo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo! + Let me speak a word or two: + Who stole that pretty nest, + From little Yellow-breast?" + + "Not I," said the sheep; "oh, no, + I would not treat a poor bird so; + I gave wool the nest to line, + But the nest was none of mine. + Baa! Baa!" said the sheep; "oh no; + I wouldn't treat a poor bird so." + + "Caw! Caw!" cried the crow, + "I should like to know + What thief took away + A bird's nest to-day." + + "Cluck! Cluck!" said the hen, + "Don't ask me again; + Why, I haven't a chick + Would do such a trick. + We all gave her a feather, + And she wove them together. + I'd scorn to intrude + On her and her brood. + Cluck! Cluck!" said the hen, + "Don't ask me again." + + "Chirr-a-whirr! Chirr-a-whirr! + All the birds make a stir. + Let us find out his name, + And all cry, 'For shame!'" + + "I would not rob a bird!" + Said little Mary Green, + "I think I never heard + Of anything so mean!" + + "It's very cruel, too," + Said little Alice Neal, + "I wonder if he knew + How sad the bird would feel." + + A little boy hung down his head, + And went and hid behind the bed: + For he stole that pretty nest + From little Yellow-Breast; + And he felt so full of shame + He did not like to tell his name. + + --_Anon._ + + +TWO LITTLE HANDS. + + Two little hands so soft and white, + This is the left--this is the right. + Five little fingers stand on each, + So I can hold a plum or a peach. + But if I should grow as old as you + Lots of little things these hands can do. + + --_Anon._ + + +THE DANDELION. + + O dandelion yellow as gold, + What do you do all day? + I just wait here in the tall green grass + Till the children come to play. + O dandelion yellow as gold, + What do you do all night? + I wait and wait till the cool dews fall + And my hair grows long and white. + + And what do you do when your hair is white + And the children come to play? + They take me up in their dimpled hands + And blow my hair away. + + --_Anon._ + + +A MILLION LITTLE DIAMONDS. + + A million little diamonds + Twinkled on the trees; + And all the little maidens said, + "A jewel, if you please!" + + But while they held their hands outstretched + To catch the diamonds gay, + A million little sunbeams came + And stole them all away. + + --_M. T. Butts._ + + +DAISY NURSES. + + The daisies white are nursery maids with frills upon their caps; + And daisy buds are little babes they tend upon their laps. + Sing "Heigh-ho!" while the winds sweep low, + Both nurses and babies are nodding JUST SO. + + The daisy babies never cry, the nurses never scold; + They never crush the dainty frills about their cheeks of gold; + But pure and white, in gay sunlight + They're nid-nodding--pretty sight. + + The daisies love the golden sun, upon the clear blue sky, + He gazes kindly down on them and winks his jolly eye; + While soft and low, all in a row, + Both nurses and babies are nodding JUST SO. + + --_Anon._ + + +DANDELIONS. + + There surely is a gold mine somewhere underneath the grass, + For dandelions are popping out in every place you pass. + But if you want to gather some you'd better not delay, + For the gold will turn to silver soon and all will blow away. + + --_Anon._ + + +AT LITTLE VIRGIL'S WINDOW. + + There are three green eggs in a small brown pocket, + And the breeze will swing and the gale will rock it, + Till three little birds on the thin edge teeter, + And our God be glad and our world be sweeter. + + --_Edwin Markham._ + + +MEMORY GEMS. + + Do thy duty, that is best, + Leave unto the Lord the rest. + + + Whene'er a task is set for you, + Don't idly sit and view it-- + Nor be content to wish it done; + Begin at once and do it. + + + Beautiful hands are those that do + Work that is earnest, brave and true, + Moment by moment, the long day through. + + --_Sel._ + + + + +SECOND GRADE + + +SEVEN TIMES ONE. + + There's no dew left on the daisies and clover, + There's no rain left in heaven; + I've said my "seven times" over and over, + Seven times one are seven. + + I am old, so old I can write a letter; + My birthday lessons are done; + The lambs play always, they know no better-- + They are only one times one. + + O moon! in the night I have seen you sailing + And shining so round and low; + You were bright, ah bright! but your light is failing,-- + You are nothing now but a bow. + + You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven, + That God has hidden your face? + I hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven, + And shine again in your place. + + O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow; + You've powdered your legs with gold! + O brave marshmary buds, rich and yellow, + Give me your money to hold! + + And show me your nest with the young ones in it,-- + I will not steal it away; + I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet,-- + I am seven times one to-day! + + --_Jean Ingelow._ + + +CHRISTMAS EVE. + + God bless the little stockings all over the land to-night + Hung in the choicest corners, in the glory of crimson light. + The tiny scarlet stockings, with a hole in the heel and toe, + Worn by the wonderful journeys that the darlings have to go. + And Heaven pity the children, wherever their homes may be, + Who wake at the first gray dawning, an empty stocking to see. + + --_Anon._ + + +MORNING SONG. + + What does little birdie say + In her nest at peep of day? + "Let me fly," says little birdie, + "Mother, let me fly away." + + "Birdie, rest a little longer, + Till the little wings are stronger." + So she rests a little longer, + Then she flies away. + + What does little baby say, + In her bed at peep of day? + Baby says, like little birdie, + "Let me rise and fly away." + + "Baby, sleep a little longer, + Till the little limbs are stronger. + If she sleeps a little longer, + Baby, too, shall fly away." + + --_Alfred Tennyson._ + + +SUPPOSE, MY LITTLE LADY. + + Suppose, my little lady, + Your doll should break her head; + Could you make it whole by crying + Till your eyes and nose are red? + + And wouldn't it be pleasanter + To treat it as a joke, + And say you're glad 'twas Dolly's, + And not your head, that broke? + + Suppose you're dressed for walking, + And the rain comes pouring down; + Will it clear off any sooner + Because you scold and frown? + + And wouldn't it be nicer + For you to smile than pout, + And so make sunshine in the house + When there is none without? + + Suppose your task, my little man, + Is very hard to get; + Will it make it any easier + For you to sit and fret? + + And wouldn't it be wiser, + Than waiting like a dunce, + To go to work in earnest, + And learn the thing at once? + + --_Phoebe Cory._ + + +THE DAY'S EYE. + + What does the daisy see + In the breezy meadows tossing? + It sees the wide blue fields o'er head + And the little cloud flocks crossing. + + What does the daisy see + Round the sunny meadows glancing? + It sees the butterflies' chase + And the filmy gnats at their dancing. + + What does the daisy see + Down in the grassy thickets? + The grasshoppers green and brown, + And the shining, coal-black crickets. + + It sees the bobolink's nest, + That no one else can discover, + And the brooding mother-bird + With the floating grass above her. + + --_Anon._ + + +THE NIGHT WIND. + + Have you ever heard the wind go "Yoooooo"? + 'Tis a pitiful sound to hear; + It seems to chill you through and through + With a strange and speechless fear. + 'Tis the voice of the wind that broods outside + When folks should be asleep, + And many and many's the time I've cried + To the darkness brooding far and wide + Over the land and the deep: + "Whom do you want, O lonely night, + That you wail the long hours through?" + And the night would say in its ghostly way: + "Yoooooo! Yoooooooooo! Yoooooooooo!" + + My mother told me long ago + When I was a little lad + That when the night went wailing so, + Somebody had been bad; + And then when I was snug in bed, + Whither I had been sent, + With the blankets pulled up round my head, + I'd think of what my mother said, + And wonder what boy she meant. + And, "Who's been bad to-day?" I'd ask + Of the wind that hoarsely blew, + And the voice would say in its meaningful way: + "Yoooooo! Yoooooooooo! Yoooooooooo!" + + That this was true, I must allow-- + You'll not believe it though, + Yes, though I'm quite a model now, + I was not always so. + And if you doubt what things I say, + Suppose you make the test; + Suppose that when you've been bad some day, + And up to bed you're sent away + From mother and the rest-- + Suppose you ask, "Who has been bad?" + And then you'll hear what's true; + For the wind will moan in its ruefulest tone: + "Yoooooo! Yoooooooooo! Yoooooooooo!" + + --_Eugene Field._ + + +THE BLUE BIRD'S SONG. + + Little white snowdrop, I pray you arise: + Bright yellow crocus, come, open your eyes: + Sweet little violets hid from the cold, + Put on your mantles of purple and gold. + Daffodils, daffodils, say, do you hear? + Summer is coming and springtime is here. + + --_Anon._ + + +SUPPOSE. + + Suppose the little cowslip + Should hang its golden cup, + And say, "I'm such a tiny flower, + I'd better not grow up;" + How many a weary traveler + Would miss its fragrant smell, + And many a little child would grieve + To lose it from the dell. + + Suppose the little breezes, + Upon a summer's day, + Should think themselves too small + To cool the traveler on his way; + Who would not miss the smallest + And softest ones that blow, + And think they made a great mistake, + If they were talking so? + + Suppose the little dewdrop + Upon the grass should say, + "What can a little dewdrop do? + I'd better roll away." + The blade on which it rested, + Before the day was done, + Without a drop to moisten it, + Would wither in the sun. + + How many deeds of kindness + A little child can do, + Although it has but little strength, + And little wisdom, too! + It wants a loving spirit, + Much more than strength, to prove + How many things a child may do + For others by its love. + + --_Anon._ + + +AUTUMN LEAVES. + + "Come, little leaves," said the wind one day; + "Come over the meadows with me, and play, + Put on your dresses of red and gold, + Summer is gone and the days grow cold." + + Soon the leaves heard the wind's loud call, + Down they fell fluttering, one and all. + Over the brown fields they danced and flew, + Singing the soft little songs they knew. + + Dancing and flying, the little leaves went; + Winter had called them, and they were content. + Soon fast asleep in their earthy beds, + The snow laid a white blanket over their heads. + + --_Anon._ + + +IF I WERE A SUNBEAM. + + "If I were a sunbeam, + I know what I'd do: + I would seek white lilies + Rainy woodlands through: + I would steal among them, + Softest light I'd shed, + Until every lily + Raised its drooping head. + + "If I were a sunbeam, + I know where I'd go: + Into lowliest hovels, + Dark with want and woe: + Till sad hearts looked upward, + I would shine and shine; + Then they'd think of heaven, + Their sweet home and mine." + + Art thou not a sunbeam, + Child whose life is glad + With an inner radiance + Sunshine never had? + Oh, as God has blessed thee, + Scatter rays divine! + For there is no sunbeam + But must die, or shine. + + --_Lucy Larcom._ + + +MEADOW TALK. + + A bumble bee, yellow as gold + Sat perched on a red-clover top, + When a grasshopper, wiry and old, + Came along with a skip and a hop. + "Good morrow" cried he, "Mr. Bumble Bee, + You seem to have come to stop." + + "We people that work," said the bee with a jerk, + "Find a benefit sometimes in stopping, + Only insects like you, who have nothing to do + Can keep perpetually hopping." + The grasshopper paused on his way + And thoughtfully hunched up his knees: + "Why trouble this sunshiny day," + Quoth he, "with reflections like these? + I follow the trade for which I was made + We all can't be wise bumble-bees; + There's a time to be sad and a time to be glad, + A time for both working and stopping, + For men to make money, for you to make honey, + And for me to keep constantly hopping." + + --_Caroline Leslie._ + + +THE OLD LOVE. + + I once had a sweet little doll, dears, + The prettiest doll in the world; + Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears, + And her hair was so charmingly curled: + But I lost my poor little doll, dears, + As I played on the heath one day, + And I cried for her more than a week, dears, + And I never could find where she lay. + + I found my poor little doll, dears, + As I played on the heath one day; + Folks say she is terribly changed, dears, + For her paint is all washed away; + And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears, + And her hair not the least bit curled: + Yet for old time's sake, she is still to me + The prettiest doll in the world. + + --_Charles Kingsley._ + + +BED IN SUMMER. + + In winter I get up at night + And dress by yellow candle-light. + In summer, quite the other way, + I have to go to bed by day. + + I have to go to bed and see + The birds still hopping on the tree, + Or hear the grown-up people's feet + Still going past me in the street. + + And does it not seem hard to you, + When all the sky is clear and blue, + And I should like so much to play, + To have to go to bed by day? + + --_Robert Louis Stevenson._ + + +THREE COMPANIONS. + + We go on our walk together-- + Baby and dog and I-- + Three little merry companions, + 'Neath any sort of sky: + Blue as our baby's eyes are, + Gray like our old dog's tail; + Be it windy or cloudy or stormy, + Our courage will never fail. + + Baby's a little lady; + Dog is a gentleman brave; + If he had two legs as you have, + He'd kneel to her like a slave; + As it is, he loves and protects her, + As dog and gentleman can. + I'd rather be a kind doggie, + I think, than a cruel man. + + --_Dinah Mulock-Craik._ + + +THE WIND. + + I saw you toss the kites on high, + And blow the birds about the sky; + And all around I heard you pass + Like ladies' skirts across the grass-- + O wind, a-blowing all day long, + O wind, that sings so loud a song! + + I saw the different things you did, + But always you yourself you hid. + I felt you push, I heard you call, + I could not see yourself at all-- + O wind, a-blowing all day long, + O wind, that sings so loud a song! + + O you, that are so strong and cold, + O blower, are you young or old? + Are you a beast of field and tree, + Or just a stronger child than me? + O wind, a-blowing all day long, + O wind, that sings so loud a song! + + --_Robert Louis Stevenson._ + + + Hearts like doors can open with ease + To very, very little keys; + And ne'er forget that they are these: + "I thank you, sir," and "If you please." + + --_Sel._ + + +THE MINUET.[1] + + Grandma told me all about it, + Told me so I couldn't doubt it, + How she danced, my grandma danced; long ago-- + How she held her pretty head, + How her dainty skirt she spread, + How she slowly leaned and rose--long ago. + + Grandma's hair was bright and sunny, + Dimpled cheeks, too, oh, how funny! + Really quite a pretty girl--long ago. + Bless her! why, she wears a cap, + Grandma does and takes a nap + Every single day: and yet + Grandma danced the minuet--long ago. + + "Modern ways are quite alarming," + Grandma says, "but boys were charming" + (Girls and boys she means of course) "long ago." + Brave but modest, grandly shy; + She would like to have us try + Just to feel like those who met + In the graceful minuet--long ago. + + --_Mary Mapes Dodge._ + + [1] From "Along the Way," copyright 1879 by Mary Mapes Dodge, + and published by Chas. Scribner's Sons. + + +WYNKEN, BLYNKEN AND NOD.[2] + + Wynken, Blynken and Nod one night + Sailed off in a wooden shoe, + Sailed on a river of crystal light + Into a sea of dew. + "Where are you going?" "What do you wish?" + The old Moon asked the three. + "We come to fish for the herring fish + That live in the beautiful sea, + Nets of silver and gold have we," + Said Wynken, Blynken and Nod. + + The old Moon laughed and sang a song + As they rocked in the wooden shoe, + And the wind that sped them all night long + Ruffled the waves of dew. + The little stars were the herring fish + That lived in that beautiful sea,-- + "Now cast your nets whenever you wish, + Never afeard are we!" + So cried the stars to the fishermen three-- + Wynken, Blynken and Nod. + + All night long their nets they threw + To the stars in the twinkling foam. + Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe + Bringing the fishermen home. + 'Twas all so pretty a sail it seemed + As if it could not be, + And some folks thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed + Of sailing that beautiful sea. + But I can name you the fishermen three-- + Wynken, Blynken and Nod. + + Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes + And Nod is a little head, + And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies + Is a wee one's trundle bed. + So shut your eyes while mother sings + Of wonderful sights that be, + And you shall see the beautiful things + As you rock on the misty sea,-- + Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three-- + Wynken, Blynken and Nod. + + --_Eugene Field._ + + [2] From "Love Songs of Childhood." Copyright, 1894, by + Eugene Field. Reprinted by permission of the publishers, + Chas. Scribner's Sons. + + +PRETTY IS THAT PRETTY DOES. + + The spider wears a plain brown dress, + And she is a steady spinner; + To see her, quiet as a mouse, + Going about her silver house, + You would never, never, never guess + The way she gets her dinner. + + She looks as if no thought of ill + In all her life had stirred her; + But while she moves with careful tread, + And while she spins her silken thread, + She is planning, planning, planning still + The way to do some murder. + + My child, who reads this simple lay, + With eyes down-dropt and tender, + Remember the old proverb says + That pretty is which pretty does, + And that worth does not go nor stay + For poverty nor splendor. + + 'Tis not the house, and not the dress, + That makes the saint or sinner. + To see the spider sit and spin, + Shut with her walls of silver in, + You would never, never, never guess + The way she gets her dinner. + + --_Alice Cary._ + + +LULLABY.[3] + + Over the cradle the mother hung, + Softly crooning a slumber song: + And these were the simple words she sung + All the evening long. + + "Cheek or chin, or knuckle or knee + Where shall the baby's dimple be? + Where shall the angel's finger rest + When he comes down to the baby's nest? + Where shall the angel's touch remain + When he awakens my babe again?" + + Still as she bent and sang so low, + A murmur into her music broke: + And she paused to hear, for she could but know + The baby's angel spoke. + + "Cheek or chin, or knuckle or knee, + Where shall the baby's dimple be? + Where shall my finger fall and rest + When I come down to the baby's nest? + Where shall my finger touch remain + When I awaken your babe again?" + + Silent the mother sat and dwelt + Long in the sweet delay of choice, + And then by her baby's side she knelt, + And sang with a pleasant voice: + + "Not on the limb, O angel dear! + For the charm with its youth will disappear; + Not on the cheek shall the dimple be, + For the harboring smile will fade and flee; + But touch thou the chin with an impress deep, + And my baby the angel's seal shall keep." + + --_J. G. Holland._ + + [3] From "The Complete Poetical Writings of J. G. Holland," + copyright 1879-1881 by Charles Scribner's Sons. + + + + +THIRD GRADE + + +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 this buttercup who wished she was a daisy. + + For daisies grow so slim and tall! She always had a passion + For wearing frills about her neck in just the daisies' fashion. + And buttercups 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 buttercup 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 God wished for a buttercup, just here where you are growing." + + --_Sarah Orne Jewett._ + + +OUR FLAG. + + There are many flags in many lands, + There are flags of every hue, + But there is no flag in any land + Like our own Red, White and Blue. + I know where the prettiest colors are, + I'm sure, if I only knew + How to get them here, I could make a flag + Of glorious Red, White and Blue. + + I would cut a piece from the evening sky + Where the stars were shining through, + And use it just as it was on high + For my stars and field of Blue. + Then I want a part of a fleecy cloud + And some red from a rainbow bright, + And I'd put them together, side by side + For my stripes of Red and White. + + Then "Hurrah for the Flag!" our country's flag, + Its stripes and white stars too; + There is no flag in any land + Like our own "Red, White and Blue." + + --_Anon._ + + +SONG FROM "PIPPA PASSES." + + The year's at the spring, + And day's at the morn; + Morning's at seven; + The hill-side's dew-pearled; + The lark's on the wing; + The snail's on the thorn: + God's in his heaven-- + All's right with the world. + + --_Robert Browning._ + + +LITTLE BROWN HANDS. + + They drive home the cows from the pasture, + Up through the long shady lane, + Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-fields, + That are yellow with ripening grain. + They find, in the thick, waving grasses, + Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows. + They gather the earliest snowdrops, + And the first crimson buds of the rose. + + They toss the new hay in the meadow; + They gather the elder-bloom white; + They find where the dusky grapes purple + In the soft-tinted October light. + They know where the apples hang ripest, + And are sweeter than Italy's wines; + They know where the fruit hangs the thickest + On the long, thorny blackberry-vines. + + They gather the delicate sea-weeds, + And build tiny castles of sand; + They pick up the beautiful sea-shells-- + Fairy barks that have drifted to land. + They wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops + Where the oriole's hammock-nest swings; + And at night-time are folded in slumber + By a song that a fond mother sings. + + Those who toil bravely are strongest; + The humble and poor become great; + And so from these brown-handed children + Shall grow mighty rulers of state. + The pen of the author and statesman-- + The noble and wise of the land-- + The sword, and the chisel, and palette, + Shall be held in the little brown hand. + + --_M. H. Krout._ + + +WINTER AND SUMMER. + + Oh, I wish the Winter would go, + And I wish the Summer would come, + Then the big brown farmers will hoe, + And the little brown bee will hum. + + Then the robin his fife will trill, + And the wood-piper beat his drum; + And out of their tents on the hill + The little green troops will come. + + Then around and over the trees + With a flutter and flirt we'll go, + A rollicking, frolicking breeze, + And away with a frisk ho! ho! + + --_Anon._ + + +THE BROOK. + + I come from haunts of coot and hern, + I make a sudden sally, + And sparkle out among the fern, + To bicker down the valley. + + By thirty hills I hurry down, + Or slip between the ridges, + By twenty thorps, a little town, + And half a hundred bridges. + + Till last by Philip's farm I flow + To join the brimming river; + For men may come, and men may go, + But I go on forever. + + I chatter over stony ways, + In little sharps and trebles; + I bubble into eddying bays; + I babble on the pebbles. + + With many a curve my bank I fret + By many a field and fallow, + And many a fairy foreland set + With willow-weed and mallow. + + I chatter, chatter as I flow + To join the brimming river, + For men may come, and men may go, + But I go on forever. + + I wind about, and in and out, + With here a blossom sailing, + And here and there a lusty trout, + And here and there a grayling, + + And here and there a foamy flake + Upon me as I travel, + With many a silvery waterbreak + Above the golden gravel, + + And draw them all along and flow + To join the brimming river, + For men may come, and men may go, + But I go on forever. + + I steal by lawns and grassy plots, + I slide by hazel covers, + I move the sweet forget-me-nots + That grow for happy lovers. + + I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, + Among my skimming swallows; + I make the netted sunbeam dance + Against my sandy shallows. + + I murmur under moon and stars + In brambly wildernesses; + I linger by my shingly bars; + I loiter round my cresses; + + And out again I curve and flow + To join the brimming river, + For men may come and men may go + But I go on forever. + + --_Tennyson._ + + +THE WONDERFUL WORLD. + + Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World, + With the wonderful water around you curled, + And the wonderful grass upon your breast-- + World, you are beautifully dressed. + + The wonderful air is over me, + And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree, + It walks on the water, and whirls the mills, + And talks to itself on the tops of the hills. + + You, friendly Earth, how far do you go, + With the wheatfields that nod and the rivers that flow, + With cities and gardens, and cliffs, and isles, + And people upon you for thousands of miles? + + Ah, you are so great, and I am so small, + I tremble to think of you, World, at all; + And yet, when I said my prayers, to-day, + A whisper inside me seemed to say, + "You are more than the earth, though you are such a dot: + You can love and think, and the Earth can not!" + + --_W. B. Rands._ + + +DON'T GIVE UP. + + If you've tried and have not won, + Never stop for crying; + All that's great and good is done + Just by patient trying. + + Though young birds, in flying, fall, + Still their wings grow stronger; + And the next time they can keep + Up a little longer. + + Though the sturdy oak has known + Many a blast that bowed her, + She has risen again, and grown + Loftier and prouder. + + If by easy work you beat, + Who the more will prize you? + Gaining victory from defeat, + That's the test that tries you! + + --_Phoebe Cary._ + + +WE ARE SEVEN. + + --A simple child, + That lightly draws its breath, + And feels its life in every limb, + What should it know of death? + + I met a little cottage girl: + She was eight years old, she said; + Her hair was thick with many a curl + That clustered round her head. + + She had a rustic, woodland air, + And she was wildly clad: + Her eyes were fair, and very fair-- + Her beauty made me glad. + + "Sisters and brothers, little Maid, + How many may you be?" + "How many? Seven in all," she said, + And wondering looked at me. + + "And where are they? I pray you tell." + She answered, "Seven are we; + And two of us at Conway dwell, + And two are gone to sea. + + "Two of us in the churchyard lie, + My sister and my brother; + And in the churchyard cottage, I + Dwell near them with my mother." + + "You say that two at Conway dwell, + And two are gone to sea, + Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell, + Sweet Maid, how this may be." + + Then did the little maid reply, + "Seven boys and girls are we; + Two of us in the churchyard lie, + Beneath the churchyard tree." + + "You run about, my little Maid, + Your limbs they are alive; + If two are in the churchyard laid + Then ye are only five." + + "Their graves are green, they may be seen," + The little Maid replied, + "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, + And they are side by side. + + "My stockings there I often knit, + My kerchief there I hem; + And there upon the ground I sit + And sing a song to them. + + "And often after sunset, sir, + When it is light and fair, + I take my little porringer, + And eat my supper there. + + "The first that died was sister Jane; + In bed she moaning lay, + Till God released her of her pain; + And then she went away. + + "So in the churchyard she was laid; + And when the grass was dry, + Together round her grave we played, + My brother John and I. + + "And when the ground was white with snow + And I could run and slide, + My brother John was forced to go, + And he lies by her side." + + "How many are you, then," said I, + "If they two are in heaven?" + Quick was the little Maid's reply, + "O master! we are seven." + + "But they are dead; those two are dead! + Their spirits are in heaven!" + 'Twas throwing words away: for still + The little Maid would have her will, + And said, "Nay, we are seven!" + + --_Wordsworth._ + + +THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE. + + When I was sick and lay abed, + I had two pillows at my head, + And all my toys beside me lay + To keep me happy all the day. + + And sometimes for an hour or so + I watched my leaden soldiers go, + With different uniforms and drills, + Among the bedclothes, through the hills; + + And sometimes sent my ships in fleets + All up and down among the sheets; + Or brought my trees and houses out, + And planted cities all about. + + I was the giant great and still, + That sits upon the pillow-hill, + And sees before him, dale and plain, + The pleasant land of counterpane. + + --_Robert Louis Stevenson._ + + +THE BROWN THRUSH. + + There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree, + "He's singing to me! He's singing to me!" + And what does he say, little girl, little boy? + "Oh, the world's running over with joy! + Don't you hear? Don't you see? + Hush! Look! In my tree, + I'm as happy as happy can be!" + + And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see, + And five eggs hid by me in the juniper tree? + Don't meddle! Don't touch! little girl, little boy, + Or the world will lose some of its joy! + Now I'm glad! Now I'm free! + And I always shall be, + If you never bring sorrow to me." + + So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree, + To you and to me, to you and to me: + And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy, + "Oh, the world's running over with joy! + But long it won't be, + Don't you know? don't you see? + Unless we are as good as can be!" + + --_Lucy Larcom._ + + +THE SILVER BOAT. + + There is a boat upon a sea; + It never stops for you or me. + The sea is blue, the boat is white; + It sails through winter and summer night. + + The swarthy child in India land + Points to the prow with eager hand; + The little Lapland babies cry + For the silver boat a-sailing by. + + It fears no gale, it fears no wreck; + It never meets a change or check + Through weather fine or weather wild. + The oldest saw it when a child. + + Upon another sea below + Full many vessels come and go; + Upon the swaying, swinging tide + Into the distant worlds they ride. + + And strange to tell, the sea below, + Where countless vessels come and go, + Obeys the little boat on high + Through all the centuries sailing by. + + --_Anon._ + + +THE DANDELION. + + Bright little dandelion, + Downy, yellow face, + Peeping up among the grass + With such gentle grace; + Minding not the April wind + Blowing rude and cold; + Brave little dandelion, + With a heart of gold. + + Meek little dandelion, + Changing into curls + At the magic touch of these + Merry boys and girls. + When they pinch thy dainty throat, + Strip thy dress of green, + On thy soft and gentle face + Not a cloud is seen. + + Poor little dandelion, + Now all gone to seed, + Scattered roughly by the wind + Like a common weed. + Thou hast lived thy little life + Smiling every day; + Who could do a better thing + In a better way? + + --_Anon._ + + +AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. + + The day is ending, + The night is descending; + The marsh is frozen, + The river dead. + + Through clouds like ashes, + The red sun flashes + On village windows + That glimmer red. + + The snow recommences; + The buried fences + Mark no longer + The road o'er the plain; + + While through the meadows, + Like fearful shadows, + Slowly passes + A funeral train. + + The bell is pealing, + And every feeling + Within me responds + To the dismal knell. + + Shadows are trailing, + My heart is bewailing + And tolling within + Like a funeral bell. + + --_Longfellow._ + + +NIKOLINA.[4] + + Oh, tell me, little children, have you seen her-- + The tiny maid from Norway, Nikolina? + Oh, her eyes are blue as corn-flowers 'mid the corn, + And her cheeks are rosy red as skies of morn. + + Oh, buy the baby's blossoms if you meet her, + And stay with gentle looks and words to greet her; + She'll gaze at you and smile and clasp your hand, + But not one word of yours can understand. + + "Nikolina!" Swift she turns if any call her, + As she stands among the poppies, hardly taller; + Breaking off their flaming scarlet cups for you, + With spikes of slender larkspur, brightly blue. + + In her little garden many a flower is growing-- + Red, gold and purple, in the soft wind blowing; + But the child that stands amid the blossoms gay + Is sweeter, quainter, brighter, lovelier even than they. + + Oh, tell me, little children, have you seen her-- + This baby girl from Norway, Nikolina? + Slowly she's learning English words to try + And thank you if her flowers you buy. + + --_Celia Thaxter._ + + [4] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by + permission of the publishers. + + +LOST![5] + + "Lock the dairy door!" Oh, hark, the cock is crowing proudly! + "Lock the dairy door!" and all the hens are cackling loudly. + "Chickle, chackle, chee!" they cry; "we haven't got the key," they cry, + "Chickle, chackle, chee! Oh, dear! wherever can it be?" they cry. + + Up and down the garden walks where all the flowers are blowing, + Out about the golden fields where tall the wheat is growing, + Through the barn and up the road, they cackle and they clatter; + Cry the children, "Hear the hens! Why, what can be the matter?" + + What scraping and what scratching, what bristling and what hustling, + The cock stands on the fence, the wind his ruddy plumage rustling. + Like a soldier grand he stands, and like a trumpet glorious, + Sounds his shout both far and near, imperious and victorious. + + But to the Partlets down below who cannot find the key, they hear, + "Lock the dairy door;" that's all his challenge says to them, my dear. + Why they had it, how they lost it, must remain a mystery; + I that tell you, never heard the first part of the history. + + But if you listen, dear, next time the cock crows proudly + "Lock the dairy door!" you'll hear him tell the biddies loudly: + "Chickle, chackle, chee!" they cry; "we haven't got the key!" they cry; + "Chickle, chackle, chee! Oh, dear! wherever can it be?" they cry. + + --_Celia Thaxter._ + + [5] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by + permission of the publishers. + + +ROBIN OR I?[6] + + Robin comes with early spring, + Dressed up in his very best; + Very pretty is his suit-- + Brownish coat and reddish vest. + + Robin takes my cherry tree + For his very, very own; + Never asking if he may-- + There he makes his dainty home. + + Robin eats my cherries, too, + In an open, shameless way; + Feeds his wife and babies three-- + Giving only songs for pay. + + Bolder thief than robin is + Would be hard, indeed, to find; + But he sings so sweet a tune + That I really do not mind! + + "Cheer up! Cheer up!" Robin sings; + "Cheer up! Cheer up!" all day long; + Shine or shower, all the same, + "Cheer up! Cheer up!" is his song. + + Eating, singing, Robin lives + There within my cherry tree; + When I call him "robber!" "thief!" + Back he flings a song to me! + + "May I have some cherries, please?" + Robin never thinks to say; + Yet, who has the heart--have you? + Saucy Rob to drive away? + + --_Sarah E. Sprague._ + + [6] All rights reserved. + + + + +FOURTH GRADE + + +PSALM XXIII. + +1. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. + +2. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside +the still waters. + +3. He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness +for His name's sake. + +4. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I +will fear no evil: for Thou art with me, Thy rod and Thy staff they +comfort me. + +5. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; +Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. + +6. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; +and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. + + --_Bible._ + + +THE MOUNTAIN AND THE SQUIRREL. + + The Mountain and the Squirrel + Had a quarrel, + And the former called the latter "Little Prig." + + Bun replied: + "You are doubtless very big; + But all sorts of things and weather + Must be taken in together, + To make up a year, + And a sphere; + + And I think it no disgrace + To occupy my place. + If I'm not so large as you, + You're not so small as I, + And not half so spry. + + I'll not deny you make + A very pretty squirrel track. + Talents differ; all is well and wisely put: + If I cannot carry forests on my back, + Neither can you crack a nut." + + --_Ralph Waldo Emerson._ + + +ABOU BEN ADHEM. + + Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) + Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, + And saw, within the moonlight in his room, + Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, + An angel writing in a book of gold; + Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, + And to the presence in the room he said, + "What writest thou?" The vision raised its head, + And, with a look made of all sweet accord, + Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." + "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," + Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, + But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then, + Write me as one who loves his fellow-men." + + The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night + It came again, with a great wakening light, + And showed the names whom love of God had blest; + And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. + + --_James Henry Leigh Hunt._ + + +BUGLE SONG. + + The splendor falls on castle walls + And snowy summits old in story; + The long light shakes across the lakes, + And the wild cataract leaps in glory. + Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying; + Blow, bugle; answer, echoes--dying, dying, dying! + + O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, + And thinner, clearer, farther going! + O sweet and far, from cliff and scar, + The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! + Blow! let us hear the purple glens replying; + Blow, bugle; answer, echoes--dying, dying, dying! + + O love! they die in yon rich sky: + They faint on hill, or field or river; + Our echoes roll from soul to soul, + And grow forever and forever. + Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying; + And answer, echoes, answer--dying, dying, dying. + + --_Tennyson._ + + +LITTLE BOY BLUE.[7] + + The little toy dog is covered with dust, + But sturdy and stanch he stands; + And the little toy soldier is red with rust, + And his musket moulds in his hands. + Time was when the little toy dog was new, + And the soldier was passing fair; + And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue + Kissed them and put them there. + + "Now, don't you go till I come," he said; + "And don't you make any noise!" + So toddling off to his trundle-bed + He dreamed of the pretty toys; + And as he was dreaming, an angel's song + Awakened our Little Boy Blue-- + Oh, the years are many, the years are long, + But the little toy friends are true. + + Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, + Each in the same old place, + Awaiting the touch of a little hand, + The smile of a little face. + And they wonder, as waiting these long years through, + In the dust of that little chair, + What has become of our Little Boy Blue + Since he kissed them and put them there. + + --_Eugene Field._ + + [7] From "Love Songs of Childhood." Copyright, 1894, by + Eugene Field. Reprinted by permission of the publishers, + Chas. Scribner's Sons. + + +PITTYPAT AND TIPPYTOE.[8] + + All day long they come and go-- + Pittypat and Tippytoe; + Footprints up and down the hall; + Playthings scattered on the floor, + Finger marks along the wall, + Tell-tale smudges on the door;-- + By these presents you shall know + Pittypat and Tippytoe. + + How they riot at their play; + And a dozen times a day + In they troop demanding bread-- + Only buttered bread will do, + And that butter must be spread + Inches thick, with sugar, too; + And I never can say "No, + Pittypat and Tippytoe." + + Sometimes there are griefs to soothe, + Sometimes ruffled brows to smooth, + For (I much regret to say) + Tippytoe and Pittypat + Sometimes interrupt their play + With an internecine spat; + Fie, for shame; to quarrel so-- + Pittypat and Tippytoe. + + Oh, the thousand worrying things + Every day recurrent brings; + Hands to scrub and hair to brush, + Search for playthings gone amiss, + Many a wee complaint to hush, + Many a little bump to kiss; + Life seems one vain fleeting show + To Pittypat and Tippytoe. + + And when day is at an end + There are little duds to mend; + Little frocks are strangely torn, + Little shoes great holes reveal, + Little hose but one day worn, + Rudely yawn at toe and heel; + Who but _you_ could work such woe, + Pittypat and Tippytoe? + + But when comes this thought to me + "Some there are who childless be," + Stealing to their little beds, + With a love I cannot speak, + Tenderly I stroke their heads-- + Fondly kiss each velvet cheek. + God help those who do not know + A Pittypat and Tippytoe. + + On the floor and down the hall, + Rudely smutched upon the wall, + There are proofs of every kind + Of the havoc they have wrought; + And upon my heart you'd find + Just such trade marks, if you sought; + Oh, how glad I am 'tis so, + Pittypat and Tippytoe. + + --_Eugene Field._ + + [8] From "Love Songs of Childhood." Copyright, 1894, by + Eugene Field. Reprinted by permission of the publishers, + Chas. Scribner's & Sons. + + +RED RIDING-HOOD.[9] + + On the wide lawn the snow lay deep, + Ridged o'er with many a drifty heap; + The wind that through the pine trees sung + The naked elm-boughs tossed and swung; + While through the window, frosty-starred, + Against the sunset purple barr'd, + We saw the somber crow flit by, + The hawks gray flock along the sky, + The crested blue-jay flitting swift, + The squirrel poising on the drift, + Erect, alert, his broad gray tail, + Set to the north wind like a sail. + + It came to pass, our little lass, + With flattened face against the glass, + And eyes in which the tender dew + Of pity shone, stood gazing through + The narrow space her rosy lips + Had melted from the frost's eclipse. + "Oh, see!" she cried, "The poor blue-jays! + What is it that the black crow says? + The squirrel lifts his little legs + Because he has no hands, and begs; + He's asking for nuts, I know; + May I not feed them on the snow?" + + Half lost within her boots, her head + Warm-sheltered in her hood of red, + Her plaid skirt close about her drawn, + She floundered down the wintry lawn; + Now struggling through the misty veil + Blown round her by the shrieking gale; + Now sinking in a drift so low + Her scarlet hood could scarcely show + Its dash of color on the snow. + + She dropped for bird and beast forlorn + Her little store of nuts and corn, + And thus her timid guests bespoke: + "Come, squirrel, from your hollow oak-- + Come, black old crow; come, poor blue-jay, + Before your supper's blown away! + Don't be afraid, we all are good! + And I'm mamma's Red Riding-Hood!" + + O Thou whose care is over all, + Who heedest even the sparrow's fall, + Keep in the little maiden's breast + The pity, which is now its guest! + Let not her cultured years make less + The childhood charm of tenderness. + But let her feel as well as know, + Nor harder with her polish grow! + Unmoved by sentimental grief + That wails along some printed leaf, + But, prompt with kindly word and deed + To own the claims of all who need, + Let the grown woman's self make good + The promise of Red Riding-Hood! + + --_Whittier._ + + [9] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by + permission of the publishers. + + +THE SANDPIPER AND I.[10] + + Across the lonely beach we flit, + One little sandpiper and I, + And fast I gather, bit by bit, + The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry. + The wild waves reach their hands for it, + The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, + As up and down the beach we flit, + One little sandpiper and I. + + I watch him as he skims along, + Uttering his sweet and mournful cry; + He starts not at my fitful song, + Nor flash of fluttering drapery. + He has no thought of any wrong, + He scans me with a fearless eye; + Stanch friends are we, well-tried and strong, + The little sandpiper and I. + + Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night, + When the loosed storm breaks furiously? + My driftwood fire will burn so bright! + To what warm shelter can'st thou fly? + I do not fear for thee, though wroth + The tempest rushes through the sky; + For are we not God's children, both, + Thou, little sandpiper, and I? + + --_Celia Thaxter._ + + [10] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by + permission of the publishers. + + +IN SCHOOL DAYS.[11] + + Still sits the school-house by the road, + A ragged beggar sleeping; + Around it still the sumachs grow + And blackberry vines are creeping. + + Within, the master's desk is seen, + Deep-scarred by raps official; + The warping floor, the battered seats, + The jack-knife's carved initial. + + The charcoal frescoes on the wall, + Its door's worn sill, betraying + The feet that, creeping slow to school, + Went storming out to playing. + + Long years ago a winter's sun + Shone over it at setting; + Lit up its western window-panes, + And low eaves' icy fretting. + + It touched the tangled golden curls, + And brown eyes full of grieving + Of one who still her steps delayed, + When all the school were leaving. + + For near her stood the little boy + Her childish favor singled; + His cap pulled low upon his face + Where pride and shame were mingled. + + Pushing with restless feet the snow + To right, to left, he lingered-- + As restlessly her tiny hands + The blue-checked apron fingered. + + He saw her lift her eyes; he felt + The soft hand's light caressing, + And heard the tremble of her voice, + As if a fault confessing. + + "I'm sorry that I spelt the word, + I hate to go above you, + Because"--the brown eyes lower fell-- + "Because, you see, I love you." + + Still memory to a gray-haired man + That sweet child-face is showing. + Dear girl! the grasses on her grave + Have forty years been growing. + + He lives to learn in life's hard school + How few who pass above him + Lament their triumph and his loss, + Like her--because they love him. + + --_Whittier._ + + [11] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by + permission of the publishers. + + +TAKE CARE. + + Little children, you must seek + Rather to be good than wise, + For the thoughts you do not speak + Shine out in your cheeks and eyes. + + If you think that you can be + Cross and cruel and look fair, + Let me tell you how to see + You are quite mistaken there. + + Go and stand before the glass, + And some ugly thought contrive, + And my word will come to pass + Just as sure as you're alive! + + What you have and what you lack, + All the same as what you wear, + You will see reflected back; + So, my little folks, take care! + + And not only in the glass + Will your secrets come to view; + All beholders, as they pass, + Will perceive and know them, too. + + Goodness shows in blushes bright, + Or in eyelids dropping down, + Like a violet from the light; + Badness in a sneer or frown. + + Out of sight, my boys and girls, + Every root of beauty starts; + So think less about your curls, + More about your minds and hearts. + + Cherish what is good, and drive + Evil thoughts and feelings far; + For, as sure as you're alive, + You will show for what you are. + + --_Alice Cary._ + + +A LIFE LESSON.[12] + + There! little girl; don't cry! + They have broken your doll, I know; + And your tea-set blue, + And your play-house, too, + Are things of the long ago; + But childish troubles will soon pass by. + There! little girl; don't cry! + + There! little girl; don't cry! + They have broken your slate, I know; + And the glad wild ways + Of your school-girl days + Are things of the long ago; + But life and love will soon come by. + There! little girl; don't cry! + + There! little girl; don't cry! + They have broken your heart, I know; + And the rainbow gleams + Of your youthful dreams + Are things of the long ago; + But heaven holds all for which you sigh. + There! little girl; don't cry! + + --_James Whitcomb Riley._ + + [12] From "Afterwhiles," copyrighted 1887, by Bowen-Merrill + Co. Must not be reprinted without permission from the + publishers. + + + + +FIFTH GRADE + + +THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. + + Under a spreading chestnut-tree + The village smithy stands; + The smith, a mighty man is he, + With large and sinewy hands; + And the muscles of his brawny arms + Are strong as iron bands. + + His hair is crisp, and black, and long; + His face is like the tan; + His brow is wet with honest sweat; + He earns whate'er he can, + And looks the whole world in the face, + For he owes not any man. + + Week in, week out, from morn to night, + You can hear his bellows blow; + You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, + With measured beat and slow, + Like a sexton ringing the village bell + When the evening sun is low. + + And children, coming home from school, + Look in at the open door; + They love to see the flaming forge, + And hear the bellows roar, + And catch the burning sparks that fly + Like chaff from a threshing-floor. + + He goes on Sunday to the church, + And sits among his boys; + He hears the parson pray and preach, + He hears his daughter's voice + Singing in the village choir, + And it makes his heart rejoice. + + It sounds to him like her mother's voice, + Singing in Paradise! + He needs must think of her once more-- + How in the grave she lies; + And, with his hard, rough hand, he wipes + A tear out of his eyes. + + Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, + Onward through life he goes; + Each morning sees some task begin, + Each evening sees its close; + Something attempted, something done, + Has earned a night's repose. + + Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, + For the lesson thou hast taught! + Thus at the flaming forge of life, + Our fortunes must be wrought; + Thus, on its sounding anvil, shaped + Each burning deed and thought! + + --_Longfellow._ + + +LOVE OF COUNTRY + + Breathes there a man with soul so dead, + Who never to himself hath said, + This is my own, my native land! + Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd, + As home his footsteps he hath turn'd, + From wandering on a foreign strand! + If such there breathe, go, mark him well; + For him no Minstrel raptures swell; + High though his titles, proud his name, + Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; + Despite those titles, power, and pelf, + The wretch, concenter'd all in self, + Living, shall forfeit fair renown, + And doubly dying, shall go down + To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, + Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung. + + --_Scott._ + + +THE DAFFODILS. + + I wandered lonely as a cloud + That floats on high o'er vales and hills, + When all at once I saw a crowd, + A host, of golden daffodils; + Beside the lake, beneath the trees, + Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. + + Continuous as the stars that shine + And twinkle on the milky way, + They stretched in never-ending line + Along the margin of a bay: + Ten thousand saw I at a glance, + Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. + + The waves beside them danced; but they + Outdid the sparkling waves in glee: + A poet could not but be gay, + In such a jocund company: + I gazed--and gazed--but little thought + What wealth the show to me had brought: + + For oft, when on my couch I lie + In vacant or in pensive mood, + They flash upon that inward eye + Which is the bliss of solitude; + And then my heart with pleasure fills, + And dances with the daffodils. + + --_Wordsworth._ + + +A CHILD'S THOUGHT OF GOD. + + They say that God lives very high: + But if you look above the pines + You cannot see God. And why? + + And if you dig down in the mines + You never see him in the gold, + Though, from him, all that's glory shines. + + God is so good, he wears a fold + Of heaven and earth across his face-- + Like secrets kept for love untold. + + But still I feel that his embrace + Slides down by thrills, through all things made, + Through sight and sound of every place: + + As if my tender mother laid + On my shut lids her kisses' pressure, + Half waking me at night; and said, + "Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser?" + + --_Mrs. Browning._ + + +FROM MY ARM-CHAIR.[13] + + Am I a king that I should call my own + This splendid ebon throne? + Or by what reason or what right divine, + Can I proclaim it mine? + + Only, perhaps, by right divine of song + It may to me belong: + Only because the spreading chestnut tree + Of old was sung by me. + + Well I remember it in all its prime, + When in the summer time + The affluent foliage of its branches made + A cavern of cool shade. + + There by the blacksmith's forge, beside the street, + Its blossoms white and sweet + Enticed the bees, until it seemed alive, + And murmured like a hive. + + And when the winds of autumn, with a shout, + Tossed its great arms about, + The shining chestnuts, bursting from the sheath, + Dropped to the ground beneath. + + And now some fragments of its branches bare, + Shaped as a stately chair, + Have, by a hearth-stone found a home at last, + And whisper of the past. + + The Danish king could not in all his pride + Repel the ocean tide. + But, seated in this chair, + I can in rhyme + Roll back the tide of time. + + I see again, as one in vision sees, + The blossoms and the bees, + And hear the children's voices call, + And the brown chestnuts fall. + + I see the smithy with its fires aglow, + I hear the bellows blow, + And the shrill hammers on the anvil beat + The iron white with heat. + + And thus, dear children, have ye made for me + This day a jubilee, + And to my more than three-score years and ten + Brought back my youth again. + + The heart hath its own memory, like the mind + And in it are enshrined + The precious keepsakes, into which is wrought + The giver's loving thought. + + Only your love and your remembrance could + Give life to this dead wood, + And make these branches, leafless now so long, + Blossom again in song. + + --_Longfellow._ + + [13] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by + permission of the publishers. + + +A SONG OF EASTER.[14] + + Sing, children, sing, + And the lily censers swing; + Sing that life and joy are waking and that + Death no more is king. + Sing the happy, happy tumult of the slowly bright'ning Spring; + Sing, little children, sing, + Sing, children, sing, + Winter wild has taken wing. + + Fill the air with the sweet tidings till the frosty echoes ring. + Along the eaves, the icicles no longer cling; + And the crocus in the garden lifts its bright face to the sun; + And in the meadow, softly the brooks begin to run; + And the golden catkins, swing + In the warm air of the Spring-- + Sing, little children, sing. + + Sing, children, sing, + The lilies white you bring + In the joyous Easter morning, for hopes are blossoming, + And as earth her shroud of snow from off her breast doth fling, + So may we cast our fetters off in God's eternal Spring; + So may we find release at last from sorrow and from pain, + Soon may we find our childhood's calm, delicious dawn again. + Sweet are your eyes, O little ones, that look with smiling grace, + Without a shade of doubt or fear into the future's face. + + Sing, sing in happy chorus, with happy voices tell + That death is life, and God is good, and all things shall be well. + That bitter day shall cease + In warmth and light and peace, + That winter yields to Spring-- + Sing, little children, sing. + + --_Celia Thaxter._ + + [14] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by + permission of the publishers. + + +THE JOY OF THE HILLS.[15] + + I ride on the mountain tops, I ride; + I have found my life and am satisfied. + Onward I ride in the blowing oats, + Checking the field lark's rippling notes-- + Lightly I sweep from steep to steep; + O'er my head through branches high + Come glimpses of deep blue sky; + The tall oats brush my horse's flanks: + Wild poppies crowd on the sunny banks; + A bee booms out of the scented grass; + A jay laughs with me as I pass. + + I ride on the hills, I forgive, I forget + Life's hoard of regret-- + All the terror and pain of a chafing chain. + Grind on, O cities, grind! I leave you a blur behind. + I am lifted elate--the skies expand; + Here the world's heaped gold is a pile of sand. + Let them weary and work in their narrow walls; + I ride with the voices of waterfalls. + I swing on as one in a dream--I swing. + Down the very hollows, I shout, I sing. + The world is gone like an empty word; + My body's a bough in the wind,--my heart a bird. + + --_Edwin Markham._ + + [15] By permission from Edwin Markham's "Joy of the Hills + and Other Poems," copyright by Doubleday & McClure, New + York. + + +IN BLOSSOM TIME. + + Its O my heart, my heart, + To be out in the sun and sing, + To sing and shout in the fields about, + In the balm and blossoming. + + Sing loud, O bird in the tree; + O bird, sing loud in the sky, + And honey-bees, blacken the clover-beds; + There are none of you as glad as I. + + The leaves laugh low in the wind, + Laugh low with the wind at play; + And the odorous call of the flowers all + Entices my soul away. + + For oh, but the world is fair, is fair, + And oh, but the world is sweet; + I will out in the old of the blossoming mould, + And sit at the Master's feet. + + And the love my heart would speak, + I will fold in the lily's rim, + That the lips of the blossom more pure and meek + May offer it up to Him. + + Then sing in the hedgerow green, O thrush, + O skylark, sing in the blue; + Sing loud, sing clear, that the King may hear, + And my soul shall sing with you. + + --_Ina Coolbrith._ + + +THE STARS AND THE FLOWERS.[16] + + Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, + One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, + When he called the flowers so blue and golden + Stars that in earth's firmament do shine. + + Stars they are wherein we read our history, + As astrologers and seers of eld; + Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery, + Like the burning stars that they beheld. + + Wondrous truths and manifold as wondrous, + God hath written in those stars above; + But not less in the bright flowerets under us + Stands the revelation of His love. + + Bright and glorious is that revelation, + Written all over this great world of ours + Making evident our own creation, + In these stars of earth, these golden flowers. + + And the poet, faithful and far-seeing, + Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part + Of the selfsame universal Being, + Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. + + Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, + Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, + Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining; + Buds that open only to decay; + + Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, + Flaunting gaily in the golden light; + Large desires with most uncertain issues, + Tender wishes blossoming at night. + + These in flowers and men are more than seeming, + Workings are they of the selfsame powers, + Which the poet, in no idle dreaming, + Seeth in himself and in the flowers. + + Everywhere about us are they glowing, + Some like stars to tell us Spring is born: + Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing, + Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn. + + Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, + And in summer's green-emblazoned field, + But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing, + In the center of his blazoned shield. + + Not alone in meadows and green alleys + On the mountaintop and by the brink + Of sequestered pool in woodland valleys, + Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink; + + Not alone in her vast dome of glory, + Not on graves of birds or beasts alone, + But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, + On the tombs of heroes carved in stone; + + In the cottage of the rudest peasant, + In ancestral homes whose crumbling towers, + Speaking of the Past unto the Present, + Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers. + + In all places, then, and in all seasons, + Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings; + Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, + How akin they are to human things. + + And with childlike, credulous affection + We behold their tender buds expand; + Emblems of our own great resurrection, + Emblems of the bright and better land. + + --_Longfellow_ + + [16] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by + permission of the publishers. + + +MEADOW-LARKS. + + Sweet, sweet, sweet! Oh, happy that I am! + (Listen to the meadow-larks, across the fields that sing!) + Sweet, sweet, sweet! O subtle breath of balm, + O winds that blow, O buds that grow, O rapture of the spring! + + Sweet, sweet, sweet! O skies, serene and blue, + That shut the velvet pastures in, that fold the mountain's crest! + Sweet, sweet, sweet! What of the clouds ye knew? + The vessels ride a golden tide, upon a sea at rest. + + Sweet, sweet, sweet! Who prates of care and pain? + Who says that life is sorrowful? O life so glad, so fleet! + Ah! he who lives the noblest life finds life the noblest gain, + The tears of pain a tender rain to make its waters sweet. + + Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy world that is! + Dear heart, I hear across the fields my mateling pipe and call + Sweet, sweet, sweet! O world so full of bliss, + For life is love, the world is love, and love is over all! + + --_Ina Coolbrith._ + + +THE ARROW AND THE SONG. + + I shot an arrow into the air, + It fell to earth, I knew not where; + For, so swiftly it flew, the sight + Could not follow it in its flight. + + I breathed a song into the air, + It fell to earth, I knew not where; + For who has sight so keen and strong, + That it can follow the flight of song? + + Long, long afterward, in an oak + I found the arrow, still unbroke; + And the song, from beginning to end, + I found again in the heart of a friend. + + --_Longfellow._ + + +THE FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY OF AGASSIZ.[17] + + It was fifty years ago, + In the pleasant month of May, + In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, + A child in its cradle lay. + + And Nature, the old nurse, took + The child upon her knee, + Saying: "Here is a story-book + Thy Father has written for thee." + + "Come, wander with me," she said, + "Into regions yet untrod; + And read what is still unread + In the manuscripts of God." + + And he wandered away and away + With Nature, the dear old nurse, + Who sang to him night and day + The rhymes of the universe. + + And whenever the way seemed long, + Or his heart began to fail, + She would sing a more wonderful song, + Or tell a more marvelous tale. + + So she keeps him still a child, + And will not let him go, + Though at times his heart beats wild + For the beautiful Pays de Vaud; + + Though at times he hears in his dreams + The Ranz des Vaches of old, + And the rush of mountain streams + From glaciers clear and cold; + + And the mother at home says, "Hark! + For his voice I listen and yearn; + It is growing late and dark, + And my boy does not return!" + + --_Longfellow._ + + [17] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by + permission of the publishers. + + + + +SIXTH GRADE + + +BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. + + Break, break, break, + On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! + And I would that my tongue could utter + The thoughts that arise in me. + + Oh, well for the fisherman's boy, + That he shouts with his sister at play! + Oh, well for the sailor lad, + That he sings in his boat on the bay! + + And the stately ships go on + To their haven under the hill; + But oh, for the touch of a vanished hand, + And the sound of a voice that is still! + + Break, break, break, + At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! + But the tender grace of a day that is dead + Will never come back to me. + + --_Alfred, Lord Tennyson._ + + +COLUMBUS--WESTWARD.[18] + + Behind him lay the gray Azores, + Behind the Gates of Hercules; + Before him not the ghost of shores, + Before him only shoreless seas. + The good mate said: "Now we must pray, + For lo, the very stars are gone. + Brave Adm'r'l speak; what shall I say?" + "Why say: 'Sail on! sail on! sail on!'" + + "My men grow mutinous day by day; + My men grow ghastly wan and weak." + The stout mate thought of home; a spray + Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. + "What shall I say, brave Adm'r'l, say, + If we sight naught but seas at dawn?" + "Why you shall say at break of day: + 'Sail on! sail on! sail on! sail on!'" + + They sailed and sailed, as the winds might blow, + Until at last the blanched mate said: + "Why, not even God would know + Should I and all my men fall dead. + These very winds forget their way, + For God from these dread seas is gone. + Now speak, brave Adm'r'l; speak and say"-- + He said: "Sail on! sail on! sail on!" + + They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate: + "This mad sea shows its teeth to-night. + He curls his lips, he lies in wait, + With lifted teeth, as if to bite! + Brave Adm'r'l, say but one good word; + What shall we do when hope is gone?" + The words leapt as a leaping sword: + "Sail on! sail on! sail on! sail on!" + + Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, + And peered through darkness. Ah, that night + Of all dark nights! And then a speck-- + A light! A light! A light! A light! + It grew, a starlit flag unfurled! + It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. + He gained a world; he gave that world + Its grandest lesson: "On! sail on!" + + --_Joaquin Miller._ + + [18] In a recent critical article, in the London _Athenæum_ + is the sentence: "In point of power, workmanship and + feeling, among all the poems written by Americans, we are + inclined to give first place to the 'Port of Ships' (or + 'Columbus') by Joaquin Miller." + + +THE DAY IS DONE. + + The day is done, and the darkness + Falls from the wings of Night, + As a feather is wafted downward + From an eagle in his flight. + + I see the lights of the village + Gleam through the rain and the mist, + And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, + That my soul cannot resist: + + A feeling of sadness and longing, + That is not akin to pain, + And resembles sorrow only + As the mist resembles the rain. + + Come, read to me some poem, + Some simple and heartfelt lay, + That shall soothe this restless feeling, + And banish the thoughts of day. + + Not from the grand old masters, + Not from the bards[19] sublime, + Whose distant footsteps echo + Through the corridors of Time. + + For, like strains of martial music, + Their mighty thoughts suggest + Life's endless toil and endeavor; + And to-night I long for rest. + + Read from some humbler poet, + Whose songs gushed from his heart, + As showers from the clouds of summer, + Or tears from the eyelids start; + + Who, through long days of labor; + And nights devoid of ease, + Still heard in his soul the music + Of wonderful melodies. + + Such songs have power to quiet + The restless pulse of care, + And come like the benediction[20] + That follows after prayer. + + Then read from the treasured volume + The poem of thy choice, + And lend to the rhyme of the poet + The beauty of thy voice. + + And the night shall be filled with music, + And the cares that infest the day, + Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, + And as silently steal away. + + --_Longfellow._ + + [19] _bards_, ancient poets. + + [20] _benediction_, blessing. + + + +THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS. + + The breaking waves dashed high on a stern and rock-bound coast, + And the woods against a stormy sky their giant branches tossed; + And the heavy night hung dark the hills and waters o'er, + When a band of exiles moored their bark on the wild New England shore. + + Not as the conqueror comes, they the true-hearted, came; + Not with the roll of stirring drums, and the trumpet that sings of fame; + Not as the flying come, in silence and in fear; + They shook the depths of the desert gloom with their hymns of lofty cheer. + + Amidst the storm they sang, and the stars heard, and the sea; + And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang with the anthems of the free! + The ocean eagle soared from his nest by the white wave's foam, + And the rocking pines of the forest roared--this was their welcome home! + + There were men with hoary hair amidst that pilgrim band; + Why had they come to wither there away from their childhood's land? + There was woman's fearless eye, lit by her deep love's truth; + There was manhood's brow serenely high, and the fiery heart of youth. + + What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? + The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? They sought a faith's pure shrine! + Ay, call it holy ground, the soil where first they trod: + They left unstained, what there they found, Freedom to worship God. + + --_Mrs. Hemans._ + + +HE PRAYETH BEST. + + "He prayeth best, who loveth best + All things both great and small; + For the dear God who loveth us, + He made and loveth all." + + --_Coleridge._ + + +EACH AND ALL. + + Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown, + Of thee from the hilltop looking down; + The heifer that lows in the upland farm, + Far heard, lows not thine ear to charm, + The sexton, tolling his bell at noon, + Deems not that great Napoleon + Stops his horse, and lists with delight, + Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height; + Nor knowest thou what argument + Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. + All are needed by each one; + Nothing is fair or good alone. + I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, + Singing at dawn on the alder bough; + I brought him home, in his nest, at even, + He sings the song, but it cheers not now, + For I did not bring the river and sky; + He sang to my ear, they sang to my eye. + The delicate shells lay on the shore; + The bubbles of the latest wave + Fresh pearls to their enamel gave, + And the bellowing of the savage sea + Greeted their safe escape to me. + I wiped away the weeds and foam, + I fetched my sea-born treasures home; + But the poor, unsightly, noisome things + Had left their beauty on the shore + With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar. + The lover watched his graceful maid, + As mid the virgin train she strayed, + Nor knew her beauty's best attire + Was woven still by the snow-white quire. + At last she came to his hermitage, + Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage; + The gay enchantment was undone, + A gentle wife, but fairy none. + When I said, "I covet truth; + Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat; + I leave it behind with the games of youth." + As I spoke, beneath my feet + The ground pine curled its pretty leaf, + Running over the club-moss burrs; + I inhaled the violet's breath; + Around me stood the oaks and firs, + Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground. + Over me soared the eternal sky, + Full of light and of deity; + Again I saw, again I heard, + The rolling river, the morning bird; + Beauty through my senses stole: + I yielded myself to the perfect whole. + + --_Emerson._ + + +PAUL REVERE'S RIDE. + + Listen, my children, and you shall hear + Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere. + On the eighteenth of April in Seventy-five; + Hardly a man is now alive + Who remembers that famous day and year. + + He said to his friend, "If the British march + By land or sea from the town[21] to-night, + Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch + Of the North Church tower as a signal light-- + One if by land, and two if by sea, + And I on the opposite shore[22] will be, + Ready to ride and spread the alarm + Through every Middlesex village and farm, + For the country folk to be up and to arm." + + Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar + Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, + Just as the moon rose over the bay, + Where swinging wide at her moorings lay + The Somerset, British man-of-war; + A phantom ship, with each mast and spar + Across the moon like a prison bar, + And a huge black hulk that was magnified + By its own reflection in the tide. + + Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street, + Wanders and watches with eager ears, + Till in the silence around him he hears + The muster of men at the barrack door, + The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, + And the measured tread of the grenadiers[23] + Marching down to their boats on the shore. + + Then he climbed to the tower of the church, + Up the wooden stairs with stealthy tread, + To the belfry chamber overhead, + And startled the pigeons from their perch, + On the sombre rafters, that round him made + Masses and moving shapes of shade-- + Up the light ladder, slender and tall, + To the highest window in the wall, + Where he paused to listen and look down + A moment on the roofs of the town, + And the moonlight flowing over all. + + Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, + Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride + On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere + Now he patted his horse's side, + Now gazed at the landscape far and near, + Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, + And turned and tightened his saddle girth; + But mostly he watched with eager search + The belfry-tower of the old North Church, + As it rose above the graves on the hill, + Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. + + And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height + A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! + He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, + But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight + A _second_ lamp in the belfry burns! + + * * * * * + + A hurry of hoofs in the village street, + A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, + And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark + Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet; + That was all! And yet through the gloom and the light, + The fate of a nation was riding that night. + + It was twelve by the village clock + When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. + He heard the crowing of the cock, + And the barking of the farmer's dog, + And felt the damp of the river fog, + That rises when the sun goes down. + + It was one by the village clock, + When he rode into Lexington. + He saw the gilded weathercock + Swim in the moonlight as he passed, + And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, + Gaze at him with a spectral stare, + As if they already stood aghast + At the bloody work they would look upon. + + It was two by the village clock, + When he came to the bridge in Concord town. + He heard the bleating of the flock, + And the twitter of the birds among the trees, + And felt the breath of the morning breeze + Blowing over the meadows brown. + + * * * * * + + So through the night rode Paul Revere; + And so through the night went his cry of alarm + To every Middlesex village and farm-- + A cry of defiance and not of fear, + A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, + And a word that shall echo forever more! + For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, + Through all our history, to the last, + In the hour of darkness and peril and need, + The people will waken and listen to hear + The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, + And the midnight message of Paul Revere. + + --_Longfellow._ + + [21] Boston. + + [22] Charlestown. + + [23] _grenadiers_, British soldiers. + + +BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. + + Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; + He is tramping out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; + He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword; + His truth is marching on. + + I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; + They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps; + I have read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps: + His day is marching on. + + I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel; + "As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal; + Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel; + Since God is marching on." + + He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; + He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment seat; + Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, my feet! + Our God is marching on. + + In the beauty of the lilies, Christ was born across the sea, + With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me; + As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, + While God is marching on. + + --_Julia Ward Howe._ + + +THE BAREFOOT BOY.[24] + + Blessings on thee, little man, + Barefoot boy with cheeks of tan! + With thy turned up pantaloons + And thy merry whistled tunes; + With thy red lips, 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! + + Oh, for boyhood's painless play, + Sleep that wakes in laughing day, + Health that mocks the doctor's rules, + Knowledge never learned in schools, + Of the wild bee's morning chase, + Of the wild flower's time and place, + How the tortoise bears his shell, + How the woodchuck digs his cell, + + 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 clusters shine, + Of the black wasp's cunning way, + Mason of his walls of clay. + + 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. + + 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. + + I was monarch: pomp and joy + Waited on the barefoot boy! + + --_Whittier._ + + [24] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by + permission of the publishers. + + +LINCOLN, THE GREAT COMMONER.[25] + + When the Norn-mother saw the Whirl-wind Hour, + Greatening and darkening as it hurried on, + She bent the strenuous heavens and came down + To make a man to meet the mortal need. + She took the tried clay of the common road, + Clay warm yet with the genial heat of earth, + Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy: + Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff, + It was a stuff to wear for centuries, + A man that matched the mountains and compelled + The stars to look our way and honor us. + + The color of the ground was in him, the red Earth + The tang and odor of the primal things-- + The rectitude and patience of the rocks: + The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn; + The courage of the bird that dares the sea; + The justice of the rain that loves all leaves; + The pity of the snow that hides all scars; + The loving kindness of the wayside well; + The tolerance and equity of light + That gives as freely to the shrinking weed + As to the great oak flaring to the wind-- + To the grave's low hill as to the Matterhorn + That shoulders out the sky. + + And so he came + From prairie cabin up to Capitol, + One fair Ideal led our chieftain on. + Forevermore he burned to do his deed + With the fine stroke and gesture of a king. + He built the rail pile as he built the State, + Pouring his splendid strength through every blow, + The conscience of him testing every blow, + To make his deed the measure of a man. + + So came the captain with the mighty heart; + And when the step of earthquake shook the house, + Wrenching the rafters from their ancient hold, + He held the ridge-pole up and spiked again + The rafters of the Home. He held his place-- + Held the long purpose like a growing tree-- + Held on through blame and faltered not at praise. + And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down + As when a kingly cedar green with boughs + Goes down with a great shout upon the hills. + + --_Edwin Markham._ + + [25] Copyrighted by Doubleday & McClure. Reprinted by + permission of the publishers. + + +OPPORTUNITY.[26] + + This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream: + There spread a cloud of dust along a plain + And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged + A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords + Shocked upon swords and shields, a prince's banner + Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes. + + A craven hung along the battle's edge, + And thought: "Had I a sword of keener steel-- + That blue blade that the king's son bears--but this + Blunt thing!" He snapped and flung it from his hand, + And lowering crept away and left the field. + + Then came the king's son wounded, sore bestead, + And weaponless, and saw the broken sword, + Hilt buried in the dry and trodden sand, + And ran and snatched it, and with battle shout + Lifted afresh, he hewed his enemy down, + And saved a great cause on that heroic day. + + --_Edward Rowland Sill._ + + [26] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by + permission of the publishers. + + +A SONG.[27] + + There is ever a song somewhere, my dear; + There is ever a something sings alway: + There's the song of the lark when the skies are clear, + And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray. + + The sunshine showers across the grain, + And the bluebird trills in the orchard tree; + And in and out, when the eaves drip rain, + The swallows are twittering ceaselessly. + + There is ever a song somewhere, my dear. + Be the skies above or dark or fair, + There is ever a song that our hearts may hear-- + There is ever a song somewhere, my dear-- + There is ever a song somewhere! + + There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, + In the mid-night black, or the mid-day blue; + The robin pipes when the sun is here, + And the cricket chirps the whole night through. + + The buds may blow, and the fruit may grow, + And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sear; + But whether the sun, or the rain, or the snow, + There is ever a song somewhere, my dear. + + There is ever a song somewhere, my dear. + Be the skies above or dark or fair, + There is ever a song that our hearts may hear-- + There is ever a song somewhere, my dear-- + There is ever a song somewhere! + + --_James Whitcomb Riley._ + + [27] From "Afterwhiles," copyrighted 1887, by Bowen-Merrill + Co. Must not be reprinted without permission from the + publishers. + + +TO A FRIEND. + + Green be the turf above thee, + Friend of my better days! + None knew thee but to love thee, + Nor named thee but to praise. + + Tears fell, when thou wert dying, + From eyes unused to weep, + And long, where thou art lying, + Will tears the cold turf steep. + + When hearts, whose truth was proven, + Like thine are laid in earth, + There should a wreath be woven + To tell the world their worth. + + --_Fitz-Greene Halleck._ + + + + +SEVENTH GRADE + + +PSALM CXXI. + +1. I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help. + +2. My help cometh from the Lord, which made Heaven and earth. + +3. He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: He that keepeth thee will +not slumber. + +4. Behold, He that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep. + +5. The Lord is thy keeper: The Lord is thy shade on thy right hand. + +6. The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night. + +7. The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: He shall preserve thy +soul. + +8. The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this +time forth, and even for evermore. + + --_Bible._ + + +RAIN IN SUMMER. + + How beautiful is the rain! + After the dust and heat, + In the broad and fiery street, + In the narrow lane, + How beautiful is the rain! + + How it clatters upon the roofs + Like the tramp of hoofs! + How it gushes and struggles out + From the throat of the overflowing spout. + + Across the window-pane + It pours and pours, + And swift and wide, + With a muddy tide, + Like a river down the gutter roars + The rain, the welcome rain! + + The sick man from his chamber looks + At the twisted brooks; + He can feel the cool + Breath of each little pool; + His fevered brain + Grows calm again, + And he breathes a blessing on the rain! + + From the neighboring school + Come the boys + With more than their wonted noise + And commotion; + And down the wet streets + Sail their mimic[28] fleets, + Till the treacherous pool + Engulfs them in its whirling + And turbulent ocean. + + In the country on every side, + Where, far and wide, + Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, + Stretches the plain, + To the dry grass and the drier grain + How welcome is the rain! + + In the furrowed land + The toilsome and patient oxen stand, + Lifting the yoke-encumbered[29] head, + With their dilated nostrils spread, + They silently inhale + The clover-scented gale, + And the vapors that arise + From the well-watered and smoking soil + For this rest in the furrow after toil, + Their large and lustrous eyes + Seem to thank the Lord, + More than man's spoken word. + + Near at hand, + From under the sheltering trees, + The farmer sees + His pastures and his fields of grain, + As they bend their tops + To the numberless beating drops + Of the incessant rain. + He counts it as no sin + That he sees therein + Only his own thrift and gain. + + These and far more than these, + The Poet sees! + He can behold + Aquarius[30] old + Walking the fenceless fields of air + And, from each ample fold + Of the clouds about him rolled, + Scattering everywhere + The showery rain, + As the farmer scatters his grain. + + He can behold + Things manifold + That have not yet been wholly told, + Have not been wholly sung nor said. + For his thought, which never stops, + Follows the water-drops + Down to the graves of the dead, + Down through chasms and gulfs profound + To the dreary fountain-head + Of lakes and rivers under ground, + And sees them, when the rain is done, + On the bridge of colors seven, + Climbing up once more to heaven, + Opposite the setting sun. + + Thus the seer,[31] + With vision clear, + Sees forms appear and disappear, + In the perpetual round of strange + Mysterious change + From birth to death, from death to birth; + From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth, + Till glimpses more sublime + Of things unseen before + Unto his wondering eyes reveal + The universe, as an immeasurable wheel + Turning forevermore + In the rapid and rushing river of time. + + --_Longfellow._ + + [28] _mimic_, copies (toys). + + [29] _encumbered_, burdened. + + [30] _Aquarius_, water-bearer. + + [31] _seer_, prophet, wise man. + + +A PSALM OF LIFE. + + Tell me not in mournful numbers, + Life is but an empty dream! + For the soul is dead that slumbers, + And things are not what they seem. + + Life is real! life is earnest! + And the grave is not its goal; + Dust thou art, to dust returnest, + Was not spoken of the soul. + + Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, + Is our destined end or way; + But to act, that each to-morrow + Find us farther than to-day. + + Art is long, and Time is fleeting, + And our hearts though stout and brave, + Still, like muffled drums, are beating + Funeral marches to the grave. + + In the world's broad field of battle, + In the bivouac of life, + Be not like dumb, driven cattle-- + Be a hero in the strife! + + Trust no future, howe'er pleasant; + Let the dead past bury its dead! + Act, act in the living present, + Heart within, and God o'erhead! + + Lives of great men all remind us + We can make our lives sublime, + And, departing, leave behind us + Footprints on the sands of time: + + Footprints that perhaps another, + Sailing o'er life's solemn main, + A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, + Seeing, shall take heart again. + + Let us, then, be up and doing, + With a heart for any fate; + Still achieving, still pursuing, + Learn to labor and to wait. + + --_Longfellow._ + + +HYMN ON THE FIGHT AT CONCORD. + + By the rude bridge that arched the flood, + Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, + Here once the embattled farmers stood, + And fired the shot heard round the world. + + The foe long since in silence slept, + Alike the conqueror silent sleeps, + And Time the ruined bridge has swept + Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. + + On this green bank, by this soft stream, + We set to-day the votive stone, + That memory may their deed redeem, + When, like our sires, our sons are gone. + + Spirit that made those heroes dare + To die, and leave their children free, + Bid Time and Nature gently spare + The shaft we raise to them and thee. + + --_R. W. Emerson._ + + +TO A WATERFOWL. + + Whither, 'midst falling dew, + While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, + Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue + Thy solitary way? + + Vainly the fowlers' eye + Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, + As, darkly seen against the crimson sky, + Thy figure floats along. + + Seek'st thou the plashy brink + Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, + Or where the rocking billows rise and sink + On the chafed ocean side? + + There is a Power whose care + Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, + The desert and illimitable air, + Lone wandering, but not lost. + + All day thy wings have fanned, + At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, + Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, + Though the dark night is near. + + And soon that toil shall end; + Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, + And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend + Soon o'er thy sheltered nest. + + Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven + Hath swallow'd up thy form; yet, on my heart, + Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, + And shall not soon depart. + + He who, from zone to zone, + Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, + In the long way that I must tread alone, + Will lead my steps aright. + + --_Bryant._ + + +THE HERITAGE. + + The 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 banks 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 hands 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 enjoyment 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 God, + Prove title 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. + + --_Lowell._ + + +ELEGY + +WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. + + The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, + The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, + The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, + And leaves the world to darkness and to me. + + Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, + And all the air a solemn stillness holds, + Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, + And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds: + + Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r + The moping owl does to the moon complain + Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r, + Molest her ancient solitary reign. + + Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, + Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, + Each in his narrow cell forever laid, + The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. + + The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, + The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, + The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, + No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. + + For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, + Or busy housewife ply her evening care: + No children run to lisp their sire's return, + Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. + + Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, + Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: + How jocund did they drive their team afield! + How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! + + Let not ambition mock their useful toil, + Their homely joys and destiny obscure; + Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, + The short and simple annals of the poor. + + The boast of heraldry; the pomp of pow'r, + And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, + Await alike the inevitable hour-- + The paths of glory lead but to the grave. + + Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, + If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, + Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, + The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. + + Can storied urn or animated bust + Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? + Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, + Or flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death? + + Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid + Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; + Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, + Or waked to ecstacy the living lyre. + + But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, + Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; + Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, + And froze the genial current of the soul. + + Full many a gem of purest ray serene + The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: + Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, + And waste its sweetness on the desert air, + + Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast + The little tyrant of his fields withstood, + Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest, + Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. + + Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, + The threats of pain and ruin to despise, + To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, + And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes + + Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone + Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd: + Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, + And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, + + The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, + To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, + Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride + With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. + + Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, + Their sober wishes never learned to stray; + Along the cool, sequester'd vale of life + They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. + + Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect + Some frail memorial still erected nigh, + With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, + Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. + + Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, + The place of fame and elegy supply: + And many a holy text around she strews, + That teach the rustic moralist to die. + + For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, + This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, + Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, + Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind? + + On some fond breast the parting soul relies, + Some pious drops the closing eye requires; + Ev'n from the tomb the voice of nature cries, + Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires. + + For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonor'd Dead, + Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; + If chance, by lonely contemplation led, + Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate, + + Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, + "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn + Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, + To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. + + "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, + That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, + His listless length at noontide would he stretch, + And pore upon the brook that babbles by + + "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, + Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove; + Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, + Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. + + "One morn I missed him on the custom'd hill, + Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree; + Another came; nor yet beside the rill, + Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. + + "The next, with dirges due in sad array, + Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne-- + Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, + Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." + + + THE EPITAPH. + + Here rests his head upon the lap of earth + A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown + Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth, + And melancholy mark'd him for her own. + + Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, + Heav'n did a recompense as largely send: + He gave to mis'ry all he had, a tear, + He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. + + No farther seek his merits to disclose, + Or draw his frailties from their dread abode + (There they alike in trembling hope repose) + The bosom of his father and his God. + + --_Thomas Gray._ + + +GRADATIM.[32] + + Heaven is not gained at a single bound; + But we build the ladder by which we rise + From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, + And we mount to its summit round by round. + + I count this thing to be grandly true, + That a noble deed is a step toward God-- + Lifting the soul from the common sod + To a purer air and a broader view. + + We rise by things that are 'neath our feet; + By what we have mastered of good and gain; + By the pride deposed and the passion slain, + And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet. + + We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust, + When the morning calls us to life and light, + But our hearts grow weary, and, ere the night, + Our lives are trailing the sordid dust. + + We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray, + And we think that we mount the air on wings + Beyond the recall of sensual things, + While our feet still cling to the heavy clay. + + Wings for the angels, but feet for men! + We may borrow the wings to find the way-- + We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and pray, + But our feet must rise, or we fall again. + + Only in dreams is a ladder thrown + From the weary earth to the sapphire walls; + But the dream departs, and the vision falls, + And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone. + + Heaven is not reached at a single bound: + But we build the ladder by which we rise + From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, + And we mount to its summit round by round. + + --_J. G. Holland._ + + [32] From "The Complete Poetical Writings Of J. G. Holland," + copyright 1879-1881 by Charles Scribner's Sons. + + +GOD SAVE THE FLAG.[33] + + Washed in the blood of the brave and the blooming, + Snatched from the altars of insolent foes, + Burning with star-fires, but never consuming, + Flashed its broad ribbons of lily and rose. + + Vainly the prophets of Baal would rend it, + Vainly his worshipers pray for its fall; + Thousands have died for it, millions defend it, + Emblem of justice and mercy to all. + + Justice that reddens the sky with her terrors, + Mercy that comes with her white-handed train, + Soothing all passions, redeeming all errors, + Sheathing the saber and breaking the chain. + + Born on the deluge of old usurpations, + Drifted our Ark o'er the desolate seas, + Bearing the rainbow of hope to the nations + Torn from the storm-cloud and flung to the breeze! + + God bless the flag and its loyal defenders + While its broad folds o'er the battle-fields wave, + Till the dim star-wreaths rekindle its splendors + Washed from its stains in the blood of the brave! + + --_Oliver Wendell Holmes._ + + [33] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by + permission of the publishers. + + +LIFE.[34] + + Forenoon and afternoon and night--Forenoon and afternoon and night, + Forenoon, and--what! + The empty song repeats itself. No more? + Yea, that is life: Make this forenoon sublime, + This afternoon a psalm, this night a prayer, + And Time is conquered and thy crown is won. + + --_Edward Rowland Sill._ + + [34] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by + permission of the publishers. + + + + +EIGHTH GRADE + + +HYMN TO THE NIGHT. + + I heard the trailing garments of the Night + Sweep through her marble halls! + I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light + From the celestial walls! + + I felt her presence, by its spell of might, + Stoop o'er me from above; + The calm, majestic presence of the Night, + As of the one I love. + + I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, + The manifold soft chimes, + That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, + Like some old poet's rhymes. + + From the cool cisterns of the midnight air + My spirit drank repose; + The fountain of perpetual peace flows there-- + From those deep cisterns flows. + + O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear + What man has borne before! + Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, + And they complain no more. + + Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! + Descend with broad-winged flight, + The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, + The best beloved Night! + + --_Longfellow._ + + +THE BUILDERS. + + All are architects of Fate, + Working in these walls of Time; + Some with massive deeds and great, + Some with ornaments of rhyme. + + Nothing useless is, or low; + Each thing in its place is best; + And what seems but idle show + Strengthens and supports the rest. + + For the structure that we raise, + Time is with materials filled; + Our to-days and yesterdays + Are the blocks with which we build. + + Truly shape and fasten these; + Leave no yawning gaps between; + Think not, because no man sees, + Such things will remain unseen. + + In the elder days of art, + Builders wrought with greatest care + Each minute and unseen part; + For the gods see everywhere. + + Let us do our work as well + Both the unseen and the seen; + Make the house where God may dwell + Beautiful, entire, and clean. + + Else our lives are incomplete, + Standing in these walls of Time, + Broken stairways, where the feet + Stumble as they seek to climb. + + Build to-day, then, strong and sure, + With a firm and ample base; + And ascending and secure + Shall to-morrow find its place. + + Thus alone can we attain + To those turrets, where the eye + Sees the world as one vast plain, + And one boundless reach of sky. + + --_Longfellow._ + + +POLONIUS' ADVICE TO LAERTES. + + Give thy thoughts no tongue, + Nor any unproportioned thought his act. + Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. + The friends thou hast and their adoption tried, + Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel; + But do not dull thy palm with entertainment + Of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade. + Beware + Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in, + Bear it that the opposer may beware of thee. + Give every man thine ear; but few thine voice; + Take each man's censure; but reserve thy judgment. + Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, + But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy; + For the apparel oft proclaims the man; + And they in France, of the best rank and station, + Are of a most select and generous chief in that. + Neither a borrower nor a lender be; + For a loan oft loses both itself and friend. + And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. + This above all--to thine own self be true, + And it must follow, as the night the day, + Thou can'st not then be false to any man. + + --_Shakespeare._ + + +THANATOPSIS. + + To him who in the love of nature holds + Communion with her visible forms, she speaks + A various language; for his gayer hours + She has a voice of gladness, and a smile + And eloquence of beauty, and she glides + Into his darker musings, with a mild + And healing sympathy, that steals away + Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts + Of the last bitter hour come like a blight + Over thy spirit, and sad images + Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, + And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, + Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart-- + Go forth, under the open sky, and list + To Nature's teachings, while from all around-- + Earth and her waters, and the depths of air-- + Comes a still voice--Yet a few days, and thee + The all-beholding sun shall see no more + In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, + Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, + Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist + Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim + Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, + And, lost each human trace, surrendering up + Thine individual being shalt thou go + To mix forever with the elements. + To be a brother to the insensible rock + And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain + Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak + Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. + Yet not to thine eternal resting-place + Shalt thou retire alone--nor couldst thou wish + Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down + With patriarchs of the infant world--with kings, + The powerful of the earth--the wise, the good, + Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, + All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills + Book-ribbed and ancient as the sun--the vales + Stretching in pensive quietness between; + The venerable woods--rivers that move + In majesty, and the complaining brooks + That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, + Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste-- + Are but the solemn decorations all + Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, + The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, + Are shining on the sad abodes of death, + Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread + The globe are but a handful to the tribes + That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings + Of morning--and the Barcan desert pierce, + Or lose thyself in the continuous woods + Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, + Save his own dashings--yet--the dead are there; + And millions in those solitudes, since first + The flight of years began, have laid them down + In their last sleep--the dead reign there alone. + So shalt thou rest--and what if thou withdraw + Unheeded by the living--and no friend + Take note of thy departure? All that breathe + Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh + When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care + Plod on, and each one as before will chase + His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave + Their mirth and their employment, and shall come + And make their bed with thee. As the long train + Of ages glide away, the sons of men, + The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes + In the full strength of years, matron, and maid, + And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man, + Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, + By those, who in their turn shall follow them. + So live, that when thy summons comes to join + The innumerable caravan, that moves + To that mysterious realm, where each shall take + His chamber in the silent halls of death, + Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, + Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed + By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, + Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch + About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. + + --_Bryant._ + + +THE AMERICAN FLAG. + + When Freedom, from her mountain height, + Unfurled her standard to the air, + She tore the azure robe of night, + And set the stars of glory there. + She mingled with its gorgeous dyes + The milky baldric of the skies, + And striped its pure, celestial white + With streakings of the morning light; + Then, from his mansion in the sun, + She called her eagle bearer down, + And gave into his mighty hand + The symbol of her chosen land. + + Majestic monarch of the cloud! + Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, + To hear the tempest trumpings loud + And see the lightning lances driven, + When strive the warriors of the storm, + And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven-- + Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given + To guard the banner of the free; + To hover in the sulphur smoke, + To ward away the battle-stroke; + And bid its blending shine afar, + Like rainbows on the clouds of war, + The harbingers of victory! + + Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, + The sign of hope and triumph high! + When speaks the signal trumpet tone, + And the long line comes gleaming on, + Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, + Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, + Each soldier eye shall brightly turn + To where thy sky-born glories burn, + And, as his springing steps advance, + Catch war and vengeance from the glance; + And when the cannon-mouthings loud + Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud, + And gory sabres rise and fall, + Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, + Then shall thy meteor glances glow, + And cowering foes shall shrink beneath + Each gallant arm that strikes below + That lovely messenger of death. + + Flag of the seas! on ocean wave + Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave, + When death, careering on the gale, + Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, + And frightened waves rush wildly back + Before the broadside's reeling rack; + Each dying wanderer of the sea + Shall look at once to heaven and thee, + And smile to see thy splendors fly + In triumph o'er his closing eye. + + Flag of the free heart's hope and home, + By angel hands to valor given, + Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, + And all thy hues were born in heaven. + Forever float that standard sheet! + Where breathes the foe but falls before us, + With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, + And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us! + + --_Joseph Rodman Drake._ + + +SPEECH AT THE DEDICATION OF THE NATIONAL CEMETERY AT GETTYSBURG. + +NOVEMBER 18, 1863. + +Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon this +continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the +proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a +great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so +conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great +battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that +field as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives +that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that +we should do this. But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot +consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and +dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our power to +add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we +say here; but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, +the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which +they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for +us, to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us, that +from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for +which they gave the last full measure of devotion; that we here highly +resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain; that this nation, +under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of +the people, by the people, and for the people, shall not perish from +the earth. + + --_President Lincoln._ + + +TO A SKYLARK. + + Hail to thee, blithe spirit-- + Bird thou never wert-- + That from heaven, or near it + Pourest thy full heart + In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. + + Higher still and higher + From the earth thou springest, + Like a cloud of fire: + The blue deep thou wingest, + And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. + + In the golden lightning + Of the setting sun, + O'er which clouds are bright'ning, + Thou dost float and run; + Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun. + + The pale purple even + Melts around thy flight; + Like a star of heaven, + In the broad daylight, + Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. + + Keen as are the arrows + Of that silvery sphere, + Whose intense lamp narrows + In the white dawn clear, + Until we hardly see, we feel, that it is there. + + All the earth and air + With thy voice is loud, + As, when night is bare, + From one lonely cloud + The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd. + + What thou art we know not; + What is most like thee! + From rainbow clouds there flow not + Drops so bright to see, + As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. + + Like a poet hidden + In the light of thought, + Singing hymns unbidden, + Till the world is wrought + To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not; + + Like a high-born maiden + In a palace tower, + Soothing her love-laden + Soul in secret hour + With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower; + + Like a glow-worm golden, + In a dell of dew, + Scattering unbeholden + Its aerial hue + Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view; + + Like a rose embowered + In its own green leaves, + By warm winds deflower'd, + Till the scent it gives + Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. + + Sound of vernal showers + On the twinkling grass, + Rain-awakened flowers, + All that ever was + Joyous, and fresh and clear, thy music doth surpass. + + Teach us, sprite or bird, + What sweet thoughts are thine; + I have never heard + Praise of lore or wine + That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. + + Chorus hymeneal, + Or triumphant chant, + Match'd with thine, would be all + But an empty vaunt-- + A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. + + What object are the fountains + Of thy happy strain? + What fields, or waves, or mountains? + What shapes of sky or plain? + What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of pain? + + With thy clear, keen joyance + Languor cannot be; + Shadow of annoyance + Never came near thee; + Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. + + Waking, or asleep, + Thou of death must deem + Things more true and deep + Than we mortals dream, + Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? + + We look before and after, + And pine for what is not; + Our sincerest laughter + With some pain is fraught; + Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. + + Yet if we could scorn + Hate, and pride and fear, + If we were things born + Not to shed a tear, + I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. + + Better than all measures + Of delightful sound, + Better than all treasures + That in books are found, + Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! + + Teach me half the gladness + That thy brain must know, + Such harmonious madness + From my lips would flow, + The world should listen then, as I am listening now. + + --_Percy Bysshe Shelley._ + + +THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP. + + Then the Master, + With a gesture of command, + Waved his hand; + And at the word, + Loud and sudden there was heard, + All around them and below, + The sound of hammers, blow on blow, + Knocking away the shores and spurs. + And see! she stirs! + She starts--she moves--she seems to feel + The thrill of life along her keel, + And, spurning with her foot the ground, + With one exulting, joyous bound, + She leaps into the ocean's arms! + + And lo! from the assembled crowd + There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, + That to the ocean seemed to say, + "Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray. + Take her to thy protecting arms, + With all her youth and all her charms!" + + How beautiful she is! How fair + She lies within those arms, that press + Her form with many a soft caress + Of tenderness and watchful care! + Sail forth into the sea, O ship! + Through wind and wave, right onward steer! + The moistened eye, the trembling lip, + Are not the signs of doubt or fear. + + Sail forth into the sea of life, + O gentle, loving, trusting wife, + And safe from all adversity + Upon the bosom of that sea + Thy comings and thy goings be! + For gentleness and love and trust + Prevail o'er angry wave and gust; + And in the wreck of noble lives + Something immortal still survives! + + Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State! + Sail on, O Union, strong and great! + Humanity with all its fears, + With all the hopes of future years, + Is hanging breathless on thy fate! + + We know what Master laid thy keel, + What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, + Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, + What anvils rang, what hammers beat, + In what a forge and what a heat + Were shaped the anchors of thy hope! + + Fear not each sudden sound and shock, + 'Tis of the wave and not the rock; + 'Tis but the flapping of the sail, + And not a rent made by the gale! + In spite of rock and tempest's roar, + In spite of false lights on the shore, + Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! + + Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, + Our hearts our hopes, our prayers, our tears, + Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, + Are all with thee,--are all with thee! + + --_Longfellow._ + + +RECESSIONAL. + + God of our fathers, known of old-- + Lord of our far-flung battle line-- + Beneath Whose awful Hand we hold + Dominion over palm and pine-- + Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, + Lest we forget--lest we forget! + + The tumult and the shouting dies-- + The captains and the kings depart, + Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, + An humble and a contrite heart. + Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, + Lest we forget--lest we forget! + + Far-called our navies melt away-- + On dune and headland sinks the fire-- + Lo, all our pomp of yesterday + Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! + Judge of the nations, spare us yet, + Lest we forget--lest we forget! + + If, drunk with sight of power, we loose + Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-- + Such boasting as the Gentiles use, + Or lesser breeds without the Law-- + Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, + Lest we forget--lest we forget! + + For heathen heart that puts her trust + In reeking tube and iron shard-- + All valiant dust that builds on dust, + And guarding calls not Thee to guard-- + For frantic boast and foolish word, + Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord! + Amen. + + --_Kipling._ + + +THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE. + + Saint Augustine! well hast thou said, + That of our vices we can frame + A ladder, if we will but tread + Beneath our feet each deed of shame. + + All common things, each day's events, + That with the hour begin and end, + Our pleasures and our discontents, + Are rounds by which we may ascend. + + The low desire, the base design, + That makes another's virtues less; + The revel of the ruddy wine, + And all occasions of excess; + + The longing for ignoble things; + The strife for triumph more than truth; + The hardening of the heart, that brings + Irreverence for the dreams of youth; + + All thoughts of ill; all evil deeds, + That have their root in thoughts of ill; + Whatever hinders or impedes + The action of the nobler will. + + All these must first be trampled down + Beneath our feet, if we would gain + In the bright fields of fair renown + The right of eminent domain. + + We have not wings, we cannot soar; + But we have feet to scale and climb + By slow degrees, by more and more, + The cloudy summits of our time. + + The mighty pyramids of stone + That wedge-like cleave the desert airs, + When nearer seen, and better known, + Are but gigantic flights of stairs. + + The distant mountains, that uprear + Their solid bastions to the skies, + Are crossed by pathways, that appear + As we to higher levels rise. + + The heights by great men reached and kept + Were not attained by sudden flight, + But they, while their companions slept, + Were toiling upward in the night. + + Standing on what too long we bore + With shoulders bent and downcast eyes, + We may discern--unseen before-- + A path to higher destinies. + + Nor deem the irrevocable Past + As wholly wasted, wholly vain, + If, rising on its wrecks, at last + To something nobler we attain. + + --_Longfellow._ + + +THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS.[35] + + This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, + Sails the unshadowed main,-- + The venturous bark that flings + On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings + In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, + And coral reefs lie bare, + Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. + + Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; + Wrecked is the ship of pearl! + And every chambered cell, + Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, + As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, + Before thee lies revealed,-- + Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! + + Year after year beheld the silent toil + That spread his lustrous coil; + Still, as the spiral grew, + He left the past year's dwelling for the new, + Stole with soft step its shining archway through, + Built up its idle door, + Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. + + Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, + Child of the wandering sea. + Cast from her lap, forlorn! + From thy dead lips a clearer note is born + Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! + While on mine ear it rings, + Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:-- + + Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, + As the swift seasons roll! + Leave thy low-vaulted past! + Let each new temple, nobler than the last, + Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, + Till thou at length art free, + Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! + + --_Oliver Wendell Holmes._ + + [35] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by + permission of the publishers. + + + + +PRESIDENT WILLIAM McKINLEY + +TO THE YOUNG PEOPLE OF OAKLAND, CAL. MAY 24, 1901 + +"There is nothing better for the United States than EDUCATED +CITIZENSHIP; and, my young friends, there never was a time in all our +history when knowledge was so essential to success as now. Everything +requires knowledge. What we want of the young people now is exact +knowledge. You want to know whatever you undertake to do a little +better than anybody else. And if you will do that, then there is +nothing that is not within your reach. + +And what you want besides education is CHARACTER--CHARACTER! There is +nothing that will serve a young man or an old man so well as good +character. And did you ever think that it is just as easy to form a +good habit as it is to form a bad one; and it is just as hard to break +a good habit as it is to break a bad one? So get the good ones and +keep them. With EDUCATION and CHARACTER you will not only achieve +individual success, but you will contribute largely to the progress of +your country." + + + + +BRIEF MEMORY GEMS AND PROVERBS. + + +FIRST AND SECOND GRADES. + + + If at first you don't succeed, + Try, try again. + + + Be kind and be gentle + To those who are old, + For dearer is kindness + And better than gold. + + + Sing, pretty birds, and build your nests, + The fields are green, the skies are clear; + Sing, pretty birds, and build your nests, + The world is glad to have you here. + + +A friend in need is a friend indeed. + + + If a task is once begun, + Never leave it till it's done; + Be the labor great or small, + Do it well or not at all. + + + Whatever way the wind doth blow, + Some heart is glad to have it so, + So blow it east, or blow it west, + The wind that blows--that wind is best. + + + Dare to do right! dare to be true! + For you have a work no other can do; + Do it so bravely, so kindly, so well, + Angels will hasten the story to tell. + + + To do to others as I would + That they should do to me + Will make me honest, kind and good, + As children ought to be. + + + God make my life a little light, + Within the world to glow: + A little flame that burneth bright + Wherever I may go. + + +Better be an hour too early than a minute too late. + + + "Help one another," the snowflakes said, + As they cuddled down in their fleecy bed, + "One of us here would not be felt, + One of us here would quickly melt; + But I'll help you and you help me, + And then what a splendid drift there'll be." + + + By-and-by is a very bad boy, + Shun him at once and forever; + For they who travel with By-and-by + Soon come to the house of Never. + + + Politeness is to do and say + The kindest things in the kindest way. + + + And isn't it, my boy or girl, + The wisest, bravest plan, + Whatever comes, or doesn't come, + To do the best you can? + + +THIRD AND FOURTH GRADES. + + + Beautiful hands are those that do + Work that is earnest, brave and true + Moment by moment, the long day through. + + + Kind hearts are gardens, + Kind thoughts are roots, + Kind words are blossoms, + Kind deeds are fruits; + Love is the sweet sunshine + That warms into life, + For only in darkness + Grow hatred and strife. + + + Be good, dear child, and let who will be clever; + Do noble deeds, not dream them all day long; + And so make life, death, and that vast forever + One grand, sweet song. + + --_Kingsley._ + + + Whene'er a task is set for you + Don't idly sit and view it,-- + Nor be content to wish it done; + Begin at once and do it. + + +Look up and not down, look forward and not back, look out and not in, +and lend a hand. + + --_Hale._ + + + This world is not so bad a world + As some would like to make it; + Though whether good or whether bad, + Depends on how we take it. + + --_M. W. Beck._ + + + Let us, then, be up and doing, + With a heart for any fate; + Still achieving, still pursuing, + Learn to labor and to wait. + + --_Longfellow._ + + + Dare to be true, nothing can need a lie; + A fault which needs it most grows two thereby. + + --_George Herbert._ + + + If wisdom's ways you'd wisely seek, + Five things observe with care,-- + _Of_ whom you speak, _to_ whom you speak, + And _how_, and _when_, and _where._ + + + Cowards are cruel, but the brave + Love mercy, and delight to save. + + --_Gay._ + + +If there is a virtue in the world at which we should always aim, it is +cheerfulness. + + --_Bulwer Lytton._ + + + 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view + And clothes the mountain with its azure hue. + + --_Campbell._ + + + Give fools their gold and knaves their power, + Let fortune's bubble rise and fall; + Who sows a field, or trains a flower, + Or plants a tree is more than all. + + --_Whittier._ + + + Our to-days and yesterdays + Are the blocks with which we build. + + --_Longfellow._ + + +Too low they build who build beneath the stars. + + --_Young._ + + + Errors, like straws upon the surface flow; + He who would seek for pearls must dive below. + + --_Dryden._ + + + The cross, if rightly borne, shall be + No burden, but support to thee. + + --_Whittier._ + + + Oh, deem it not an idle thing + A pleasant word to speak; + The face you wear, the thoughts you bring, + A heart may heal or break. + + Lives of great men all remind us + We can make our lives sublime,-- + And, departing, leave behind us + Footprints on the sands of time. + + One by one thy duties wait thee, + Let thy whole strength go to each; + Let no future dreams elate thee,-- + Learn thou first what these can teach. + + +FIFTH AND SIXTH GRADES. + + + Count that day lost whose low descending sun + Views from thy hand no worthy action done. + + --_Robart._ + + + Honor and shame from no condition rise; + Act well your part; there all the honor lies. + + --_Pope._ + + +Success does not consist in never making blunders, but in never making +the same one a second time. + + --_Shaw._ + + +Whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well. + + --_Chesterfield._ + + +One cannot always be a hero, but one can always be a man. + + --_Goethe._ + + + The heights by great men reached and kept, + Were not attained by sudden flight; + But they, while their companions slept, + Were toiling upward in the night. + + --_Longfellow._ + + + All that's great and good is done + Just by patient trying. + + --_Phoebe Cary._ + + + No star is lost we ever once have seen: + We always may be what we might have been. + + --_Adelaide Proctor._ + + +Often in a wooden house a golden room we find. + + --_Longfellow._ + + + Too much of joy is sorrowful, + So cares must needs abound, + The vine that bears too many flowers + Will trail upon the ground. + + --_Alice Cary._ + + +Life is too short for aught but high endeavor. + + --_Ella Wheeler Wilcox._ + + +To climb steep hills requires slow pace at first. + + --_Shakespeare._ + + + Cloud and sun together make the year; + Without some storms no rainbow could appear. + + --_Alice Cary._ + + + The noblest service comes from nameless hands, + And the best servant does his work unseen. + + --_Oliver Wendell Holmes._ + + + He who seeks to pluck the stars + Will lose the jewels at his feet. + + --_Phoebe Cary._ + + + For he who is honest is noble, + Whatever his fortunes or birth. + + --_Alice Cary._ + + + There's never a leaf or a blade too mean + To be some happy creature's palace. + + --_James Russell Lowell._ + + + No endeavor is in vain. + Its reward is in the doing; + And the rapture of pursuing + Is the prize the vanquished gain. + + --_Longfellow._ + + + Press on! if once and twice thy feet + Slip back and stumble, harder try. + + --_Benjamin._ + + + Dare to do right; dare to be true; + The failings of others can never save you; + Stand by your conscience, your honor, your faith-- + Stand like a hero, and battle till death! + + +He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth +his spirit, than he that taketh a city. + + --_Bible._ + + + He prayeth best who loveth best + All things, both great and small; + For the dear God who loveth us, + He made and loveth all. + + --_Coleridge._ + + + Hours are golden links, God's token, + Reaching heaven, but one by one + Take them; lest the chain be broken + Ere the pilgrimage be done. + + --_A. A. Proctor._ + + + There is a lesson in each flower, + A story in each stream and bower; + On every herb on which we tread, + Are written words which, rightly read, + Will lead us from earth's fragrant sod + To hope and holiness and God. + + Oh, many a shaft at random sent, + Finds mark the archer little meant! + And many a word at random spoken, + May soothe, or wound, a heart that's broken. + + --_Scott._ + + +SEVENTH AND EIGHTH GRADES. + + + To thine own self be true, + And it must follow, as the night the day, + Thou canst not then be false to any man. + + --_Shakespeare._ + + + Be noble! and the nobleness that lies + In other men, sleeping but never dead, + Will rise in majesty to meet thine own. + + --_Lowell._ + + +What must of necessity be done, you can always find out how to do. + + --_Ruskin._ + + He fails not who makes truth his cause, + Nor bends to win the crowd's applause, + He fails not--he who stakes his all + Upon the right and dares to fall. + + --_Richard Watson Gilder._ + + + Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! + Let the dead Past bury its dead! + Act,--act in the living Present! + Heart within and God o'erhead! + + --_Longfellow._ + + + Tell me not in mournful numbers, + Life is but an empty dream! + For the soul is dead that slumbers, + And things are not what they seem. + + --_Longfellow._ + + +Be just and fear not; let all the ends thou aimest at, be thy +country's, thy God's, and truth's. + + --_Shakespeare._ + + + For of all sad words of tongue or pen-- + The saddest are these: "It might have been!" + + --_Whittier._ + + + Truth crushed to earth shall rise again; + The eternal years of God are hers; + But error, wounded, writhes with pain, + And dies among his worshippers. + + --_Bryant._ + + + Flower in the crannied wall, + I pluck you out of the crannies;-- + Hold you here, root and all, in my hand, + Little flower,--but if I could understand + What you are, root and all--and all in all, + I should know what God and man is. + + --_Tennyson._ + + +Life is the beat possible thing we can make of it. + + --_Curtis._ + + + Without a sign his sword the brave man draws, + And asks no omen but his country's cause. + + --_Pope._ + + + There's a divinity that shapes our ends, + Rough-hew them how we will. + + --_Shakespeare._ + + + To be, or not to be: that is the question: + Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer + The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, + Or to take up arms against a sea of troubles, + And by opposing, end them? + + --_Shakespeare._ + + +Whatever makes men good Christians, makes them good citizens. + + --_Webster._ + + +Our grand business is, not to see what lies dimly at a distance, but +to do what lies clearly at hand. + + --_Thomas Carlyle._ + + +With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the +right as God gives us to see the right. + + --_Lincoln._ + + + Full many a gem of purest ray serene + The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; + Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, + And waste its sweetness on the desert air. + + --_Gray._ + + +POOR RICHARD'S SAYINGS. + + +God helps them that help themselves. + + +The sleeping fox catches no poultry. + + +What we call time enough always proves little enough. + + +Sloth makes all things difficult, but industry all easy. + + +Drive thy business, let not that drive thee. + + +Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and +wise. + + +Industry needs not wish. + + +He that lives upon hope will die fasting. + + +He that hath a trade hath an estate, and he that hath a calling hath +an office of profit and honor. + + +Have you somewhat to do to-morrow, do it to-day. + + +God gives all things to industry: then plough deep while sluggards +sleep, and you will have corn to sell and to keep. + + +Keep thy shop, and thy shop will keep thee. + + +If you would have your business done, go; if not, send. + + + He that by the plough would thrive, + Himself must either hold or drive. + + +Silks and satins, scarlet and velvets put out the kitchen fire. + + +For want of a nail the shoe was lost; for want of a shoe the horse was +lost; and for want of a horse the rider was lost. + + +Many a little makes a mickle. + + +Fools make feasts, and wise men eat them. + + +Wise men learn by others' harms, fools scarcely by their own. + + +When the well is dry they know the worth of water. + + +Pride is as loud a beggar as want, and a great deal more saucy. + + +A little neglect may breed great mischief. + + + Vessels large may venture more, + But little boats should keep near shore. + + + What is a butterfly? at best + He's but a caterpillar drest; + The gaudy fop's his picture just. + + +For age and want save while you may. + + +No morning sun lasts a whole day. + + +Rather go to bed supperless than rise in debt. + + +Get what you can, and what you get, hold, 'Tis the stone that will +turn all your lead into gold. + + +Experience keeps a dear school; but fools will learn in no other, and +scarce in that; for it is true we may give advice, but we cannot give +conduct. + + +The key, often used, is always bright. + + +But dost thou love life? then do not waste time, for that's the stuff +life is made of. + + +Lost time is never found again. + + +There are no gains without pains. + + +At the workingman's house hunger looks in, but dares not enter. + + +Diligence is the mother of good luck. + + +The cat in gloves catches no mice. + + +By industry and patience the mouse ate into the cable. + + +Since thou art not sure of a minute, throw not away an hour. + + +A workingman on his legs is higher than a gentleman on his knees. + + +It is folly for the frog to swell in order to equal the ox. + + +It is easier to build two chimneys than to keep one in fuel. + + +A fool and his money are soon parted. + + +Troubles spring from idleness, and grievous toils from needless ease. + + +If you would be wealthy think of saving as well as of getting. + + + + + * * * * * + + + + +Transcriber's note: + + Typographical errors and misprints were corrected. + + The Table of Contents was extended to include the speech by + McKinley and the subheadings in the final section "Brief + Memory Gems and Proverbs." + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRADED MEMORY SELECTIONS*** + + +******* This file should be named 25639-8.txt or 25639-8.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/5/6/3/25639 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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