The squirrel's nest is a hole in the tree;
Bye, baby, bye.

And there he sleeps as snug as can be;
Bye, baby, bye.

The robin's nest is high overhead,

Where the leafy boughs of the maple spread,
But the baby's nest is a little white bed.
Bye, baby, bye.

--- E. S. Bumstead — St. Nicholas

A

THE SONG IN THE NIGHT.

LITTLE bird sang in the dead of the night,

When the moon peeped out through a cloud;

He sang, for his heart was so full of delight,

It seemed almost throbbing aloud.

"Hush! hush!" cried the old birds; "you foolish young thing,

To wake up and sing for the moon!

Come, tuck your silly head under your wing;
You'll rouse our good neighbors too soon."

But the little bird flew to the top of the tree,
And looked up into the sky.

Our time for singing is short," quoth he,
"And sing in the night will I."

— James Buckham - St. Nicholas.

SLEEP,

Ꮪ

JAPANESE LULLABY.

LEEP, little pigeon, and fold your wings, -
Little blue pigeon with velvet eyes;

Sleep to the singing of mother-bird swinging-
Swinging the nest where her little one lies.

Away out yonder I see a star,

Silvery star with a tinkling song;
To the soft dew falling I hear it calling-
Calling and tinkling the night along.

In through the window a moonbeam comes, →→→
Little gold moonbeam with misty wings;
All silently creeping, it asks, “Is he sleeping
Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?"

Up from the sea there floats the sob

Of the waves that are breaking upon the shore, As though they were groaning in anguish, and moaningBemoaning the ship that shall come in no more.

But sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings,
Little blue pigeon with mournful eyes;
Am I not singing?—see, I am swinging
Swinging the nest where my darling lies.

- Eugene Field — A Little Book of Western Verse.

CRADLE SONG.

BLUE eyes close in slumber;
O birdie on your nest

Sing to my sleepless darling

A little song of rest.

O wind among the roses,

Soft through the window creep, And with your murmur music Hush baby off to sleep.

O bee, that such soft wooing
Makes for the lily's sake,
Come, sing your song of summer
To little wide-awake.

O cricket on the hearthstone
Chirp low, and soft, and long,
Till little, restless baby

Grows drowsy with your song.

And whisper to my darling
That mother's heart will keep
A watch o'er every movement
While baby is asleep.

- Caris Brooke.

CHILDHOOD FANCIES.

'HE twilight gray is falling;

THE

Now list and you shall hear

The footsteps of the sylphid fays,

This is their hour of cheer.

List to the gentle patter

On each wee blade of grass, As it is bent, and back again, Whene'er the fairies pass.

Upon the tips of grasses

They cross the meadow lawn,

And laugh and dance and play and sing, From twilight hour till dawn.

They light their myriad lanterns,
And hang them in the arch
Of blue that canopies o'erhead,
And by their light they march.

They sometimes miss a fairy,
And take a lantern down

To search for her, and mortals say:
"A firefly flits around."

On leaves they hang their diamonds,
Their pearls in every flower;
Their gauzy veils upon the grass
They spread for fairy bower.

Their slender wings are hanging
On every shrub, across;

Their seats are dainty cushion-beds
Of green and springy moss.

Their shrubbery of coral

Is gray and scarlet-tipped; Their hair upon the maize is hung Each summer, when 'tis clipped.

The mushroom forms their table,
Their dishes, acorn cups;
The ant-hills are their barracks high;
Their cannon, "hemlock pops.'

Their scarfs of plush are lying
On ripening grape and peach;
Their sea-shells 'neath the apple-trees,
Each spring bestrews their beach.

They paint the leaves in autumn;
They make a tiny rink

Of every puddle, fen, and dike,
And skate from wave to brink.

They brown the nuts in forests,
The burrs they open wide;
They lure the feathers from the clouds,
And pile them up, to slide.

They build along the wayside

Their fairy palisades,

The "hoar-frost" some have christened it,

And hold West Point parades.