THE PIGEON HOUSE. LOOK! here's a pretty pigeon house! In every narrow cell A pigeon with his little wife And family may dwell. Their beds are only made of straw, Because they don't dispute and fret How soft and low their cooing sounds, Then far into the woods and fields, Blades and Flowers. NOW THE SUN IS SINKING. OW the sun is sinking Now In the golden west; Birds and bees and children All have gone to rest; And the merry streamlet, With a voice of sweetness Sings its evening song. Cowslip, daisy, violet, In their little beds, All among the grasses Then they'll all, sweet darlings, Lie in happy dreams, Till the rosy morning Wakes them with its beams. - Selected. LULLABY. HROUGH Sleepy-land doth a river flow; THE On its further bank white daisies grow; To the meadows green, on the other side. The boatman comes to carry the sheep His eyelids droop, and his eyes beneath Are drowsy from counting, "One, two, three," How many sheep does the baby see? Lullaby, sing lullaby! One little sheep has gone over the stream, Only two sheep, but he's bringing one more; Four little, five little sheep now are over; - E. Cavazza — St. Nicholas. TWINKLE, TWINKLE, LITTLE STAR. WINKLE, twinkle, little star; TWIN How I wonder what you are! Up above the world so high, When the blazing sun is gone, In the dark blue sky you keep, And your bright and tiny spark Though I know not what you are, Twinkle, twinkle, little star. - Jane Taylor. THE STARS ARE COMING. Sin the fair blue sky; EE, the stars are coming Mother, look, they brighten: No, my child, the lustre Mother, if I study, Sure he'll make me know Child, what God created Thine it is to worship, Thine to love his name. THE GOD'S FATHER-CARE. HERE is no birdling in the nest the breeze rocks in the tree, All featherless and fluttering, with eyes that cannot see, But brooding mother-wings are there to keep it snug and warm, And shelter it most lovingly from sunshine and from storm. To every flitting butterfly the flower-cups open wide; Beneath the green leaf's canopy the meanest worm may hide; Each tiny insect finds or builds some little house or cell, And in and out goes happily, contented there to dwell. Now who has thought of all these things? Who planned and made them all? The One who counts the shining stars, and suffers none to fall; His tender Father-love is stretched o'er everything we see, And faileth never, night or day, to care for you and me. After the German of Hey - C. M. Harris. |