This is the way the daylight dies:
Cows are lowing in the lane,
Fireflies wink o'er hill and plain;
Yellow, red, and purple skies —
This is the way the daylight dies.

- Selected.

MUSIC OF NATURE.

HAVE you heard the waters singing,

Little May,

Where the willows green are leaning

O'er their way?

Do you know how low and sweet,
O'er the pebbles at their feet,
Are the words the waves repeat,
Night and day?

Have you heard the robins singing,
Little one,

Where the rosy day is breaking –
When 'tis done?

Have

you heard the wooing breeze,
In the blossomed orchard trees,
And the drowsy hum of bees
In the sun?

All the earth is full of music,

Little May;

Bird and bee and water singing

On its way.

Let their silver voices fall

On thy heart with happy call:

"Praise the Lord who loveth all,
Night and day."

- Selected.

UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE.

R the greenwood tree,

UNDER

Who loves to lie with me,

And tune his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat?

Come hither, come hither, come hither;

Here shall we see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun,

And loves to live in the sun,

Seeking the food he eats,

And pleased with what he gets?

Come hither, come hither, come hither;

Here shall we see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

- William Shakespeare

SUMMER WOODS.

OME ye unto the summer woods
There entereth no annoy;

COME ye unto the

All greenly wave the chestnut leaves,
And the earth is full of joy.

There come the little gentle birds,
Without a fear of ill,

Down to the murmuring water's edge,
And freely drink their fill;

And dash about and splash about,
The merry little things,

And look askance with bright black eyes,
And flirt their dripping wings.

There's enough for every one,
And they lovingly agree;

We might learn a lesson all of us,
Beneath the greenwood tree.

- Mary Howitt.

IN THE MEADOW.

HE meadow is a battle-field

THE

Where summer's army comes;

Each soldier with a clover shield,
The honey-bees with drums.
Boom, rat-ta! they march, and pass
The captain tree who stands
Saluting with a sword of grass
And giving them commands.

'Tis only when the breezes blow
Across the woody hills,

They shoulder arms, and, to and fro,
March in their full-dress drills.
Boom, rat-ta! they wheel in line
And wave their gleaming spears;
"Charge!" cries the captain, giving sign,
And every soldier cheers.

But when the day is growing dim,
They gather in their camps
And sing a good thanksgiving hymn
Around the firefly lamps.
Rat-tat-ta! the bugle-notes
Call "good-night" to the sky;
I hope they all have overcoats
To keep them warm and dry.

O

THE RIVER.

TELL me, pretty river!

Whence do thy waters flow?

And whither art thou roaming,

So pensive and so slow?

"My birthplace was the mountain, My nurse, the April showers; My cradle was a fountain,

O'ercurtained by wild flowers.

- Selected

"One morn I ran away,

A madcap, hoyden rillAnd many a prank that day I play'd adown the hill!

"And then, mid meadowy banks,
I flirted with the flowers
That stoop'd with glowing lips
To woo me to their bowers.

"But these bright scenes are o'er, And darkly flows my wave

I hear the ocean's roar,

And there must be my grave!"

-Samuel G. Goodrich

THE CLOUDS.

IGH above us, slowly sailing

HIGH

Little clouds so soft and white,
You are like the wings of angels,
Watching o'er us day and night.

When the summer sun is shining
And the sky is blue above,
Then you look at us and send us
Radiant smiles of joy and love.

In the morning very early

From his soft and lowly nest Soars the lark with joyous carol

Till he nestles in your breast.