As close she sat by her mother— And did her piece on the sampler You are safe in the crystal heavens, But before you went you had troubles The gold-brown hair with sorrow And your tears fell here, slow-staining When you put it away, its wearer By a sword-thrust learning the secrets But you wore your grief like a glory; Who wrought in your patient childhood, "Elizabeth, aged nine." Out of the way in a corner, With hasp and padlock and key, Stands the oaken chest of my fathers, That came from over the sea. The hillside herbs above it Shake odors faint and fine, And here on its lid is a garland For love is of the immortal, And patience is sublime, And trouble's a thing of every day, And childhood sweet and sunny, A BALLAD OF ST. SWITHUN'S DAY. E. H. HICKEY. THREE little noses are flattened against the pane; with main. "O Saint Swithun, Saint Swithun," the children say, 'Surely you've christened the apples enough to-day." 66 "Rain, rain," say the children, "be off to Spain! Never, never, we charge you, come back again! We want to run in the garden, and down comes the rain! O Saint Swithun, Saint Swithun," the children plead, "We want our run in the garden, we do indeed. "Dear Saint Swithun, our lessons have been so long; Dreadful sums, Saint Swithun, that would come wrong! We wanted to dance a little or sing a song, And now we are free, Saint Swithun, we're kept in doors, For, because you are christening the apples, it pours and pours. "Good Saint Swithun, our lessons are over and done; Kind Saint Swithun, we're longing to take a run; When you were young, Saint Swithun, you liked some fun. O Saint Swithun, Saint Swithun," the children cry, "We don't mind the rain, not an atom. Away we should get From the schoolroom, bare-headed, bare-footed, out into the wet, If only they'd let us - but that they have never done yet; And you might as well ask them to cook us and eat us, you see, For in some things grown-up folk and children can't Now hurrah for Saint Swithun! The rain is o'er; Out comes the sun in his glory - they make for the door Six little feet a-patter, a joyous uproar; "Hey! for Saint Swithun, Saint Swithun," the children shout; "Hats and boots-not a moment to lose till we're out." Hark to the birds and the children! Oh, merry and sweet Rings out the laugh of the children, and quick are their feet. Hey, for the sunshine of summer, its light and its heat! Where are ye now, little children? Oh, far away, Though Saint Swithun is christening the apples again to-day! CHILDREN ON THE SHORE. ANONYMOUS. WE are building little homes on the sands, We do not mind the tide coming in,- Another pretty house in its stead; When it makes such a dazzle of the world Nor look where the flying drops are hurl'd. The shells that we gather are so fair, We can't build the library to-day; There are just one or two we won't refuse, And don't lose an instant of the day, Oh, children—thus working with the heart! Can never make your toil be in vain; LITTLE children, love one another. -ST. JOHN IN PATMOS. |