And the mother-sheep and her little one
Side by side lay down in the sun;
And they went to sleep on the hillside warm,
While my little lammie lies here on my arm.
I went to the kitchen, and what did I see
But the old gray cat with her kittens three!
I heard her whispering soft; said she,
"My kittens, with tails so cunningly curled,
Are the prettiest things that can be in the world.
The bird on the tree,
May love their babies exceedingly,
But I love my kittens there,
Under the rocking chair.
I love my kittens with all my might,
I love them at morning, noon, and night,
Now I'll take up my kitties, the kitties I love,
And we'll lie down together beneath the warm stove."
Let the kittens sleep under the stove so warm,
While my little darling lies here on my arm.
I went to the yard, and I saw the old hen
Go clucking about with her chickens ten;
She clucked and she scratched and she bustled away,
And what do you think I heard the hen say?
I heard her say, "The sun never did shine
On anything like to these chickens of mine!
You may hunt the full moon and the stars if you please,
But you never will find ten such chickens as these;
My dear downy darlings, my sweet little things,
Come, nestle now cosily under my wings."
So the hen said,
And the chickens all sped,
As fast as they could, to their nice feather bed, And there let them sleep in their feathers so warm, While my little chick lies here on my arm.
ERE we go to the branches high!
Here we come to the grasses low!
For the spiders and flowers and birds and I
Love to swing when the breezes blow.
Swing, little bird, on the topmost bough;
Swing, little spider, with rope so fine;
Swing, little flower, for the wind blows now,
But none of you have such a swing as mine.
Dear little bird, come sit on my toes;
I'm just as careful as I can be;
And oh, I tell you, nobody knows
What fun we'd have if you'd play with me!
Come and swing with me, birdie dear,
Bright little flower, come swing in my hair;
But you, little spider, creepy and queer,—
You'd better stay and swing over there!
The sweet little bird, he sings and sings,
But he doesn't even look in my face;
The bright little blossom swings and swings,
But still it swings in the self-same place.
Let them stay where they like it best;
Let them do what they'd rather do;
My swing is nicer than all the rest,
But maybe it's rather small for two.
Here we go to the branches high!
Here we come to the grasses low!
For the spiders and flowers and birds and I
Love to swing when the breezes blow.
Swing, little bird, on the topmost bough;
Swing, little spider, with rope so fine;
Swing little flower, for the wind blows now;
But none of you have such a swing as mine.
- Eudora S. Bumstead - St. Nicholas.
GOOD-NIGHT AND GOOD-MORNING.
FAIR little girl sat under a tree,
Sewing as long as her eyes could see;
Then smoothed her work and folded it right,
And said, "Dear work, good-night, good-night!"
Such a number of crows came over her head,
Crying "Caw, caw!" on their way to bed,
She said, as she watched their curious flight,
"Little black things, good-night, good-night!
The horses neighed, and the oxen lowed,
The sheep's" Bleat, bleat!" came over the road;
All seeming to say, with a quiet delight,
"Good little girl, good-night, good-night!"
She did not say to the sun, "Good-night!
Though she saw him there like a ball of light;
For she knew he had God's time to keep
All over the world, and never could sleep.
The tall, pink fox-glove bowed his head;
The violets curtsied, and went to bed;
And good little Lucy tied up her hair,
And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer.
And, while on her pillow she softly lay,
She knew nothing more till again it was day;
And all things said to the beautiful sun,
"Good-morning, good-morning; our work is begun!
N a village of Bank-Swallows
You will find so many a nest,
"That you scarce can tell their number
Nor which one of them is best."
In the sand-hill, see the openings,
Round or oval, odd-shaped, some,
Size and form depending, often,
On how loose the sands become.
When with their short bills they pecked it,
Clinging fast with claws the while,
Till they made an open doorway
Suiting them in size and style.
Once within, they peck and peck it,
Sometimes quite a yard or more,
While the nest is snugly builded,
Farthest from the outer door.
But, so wise are they, this archway,
From the entrance to the nest,
Is inclining ever upward,
That no rain within may rest.
So the pink-white eggs are laid there,
Safe from harm, till baby-birds
Chirrup forth to take their places,
'Mongst the self-sustaining herds.
Parent-birds care less for young ones,
Than do other swallow-kind; -
Push them off half-fledged and timid,
Each his food and home to find.
Thus they, many a time, fall prey to
Hawks and crows, their enemies;
Even the nest sometimes is entered
By the snakes and fleas and flies.
Swallows migrate in the winter,
From the cold to warmer climes, Flying back as spring approaches, To the haunts of former times.
"Ne'er one swallow makes a summer,"
Is a saying everywhere;
But when swallows come in myriads,
Blessed summer-time is here.
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