THE WIND AND THE MOON*

BY GEORGE MACDONALD

Said the wind to the moon,

"I'll blow you out.

You stare in the air

Like a ghost in the chair,

Always looking what I'm about,

I hate to be watched; I'll blow you out."

The wind blew hard, and out went the moon.

So deep

On a heap

Of cloudless sleep

The wind lay down, and slumbered soon,
Muttering low, "I've done for that moon!"

He turned in his bed; she was there again,

On high

In the sky,

With her ghost eye.

The moon shone white, and alive and plain.
Said the wind, "I'll blow you out again."

The wind blew hard, and the moon grew dim.
"With my sledge

And my wedge

I have knocked off her edge;

If only I blow right fierce and grim

The creature will soon be dimmer than dim."

*By permission of Chatto & Windus, publishers of Dr. George MacDonald's Poetical Works.

He blew, and he blew, and she thinned to a thread.

One good puff more where the last was bred,
And glimmer, glum will go the thread!"

He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone;
In the air

Nowhere

Was a moonbeam bare;

Far off and harmless the shy stars shone;
Sure and certain, the moon was gone!

The wind he took to his revels again:

On down,

In town,

Like a merry, mad clown,

He leapt and halloed with whistle and roar. "What's that?" The glimmering moon once more!

He flew in a rage-he danced and he blew.

But in vain

Was the pain

Of his bursting brain,

For broader yet the moon-scrap grew,

The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew.

Slowly she grew-till she filled the night,

And shone

On the throne

In the sky, alone,

A matchless, wonderful, silvery light,
Radiant and lovely, the queen of the night.

Said the wind: "What a marvel of strength am I! With my breath,

Good faith!

I blew her to death;

First blew her away, right out of the sky;
Then blew her in-what strength have I!"

But the moon knew nothing about the affair;
For high
In the sky,

With her one white eye,

Motionless, miles above the air,

She had never heard the great wind blare.

LIFE AND DEATH

BY ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER

"What is Life, father?"

"A battle, my child,

Where the strongest lance may fail,
Where the wariest eyes may be beguiled,
And the stoutest heart may quail.
Where the foes are gathered on every hand,
And rest not day or night,

And the feeble little ones must stand
In the thickest of the fight."

"What is Death, father?"

"The rest, my child,

When the strife and the toil are o'er;
The angel of God, who, calm and mild,
Says we need fight no more;
Who, driving away the demon band,
Bids the din of the battle cease;

Takes banner and spear from our falling hand,
And proclaims an eternal peace.'

"Let me die, father! I tremble, and fear
To yield in that terrible strife!"

"The crown must be won for heaven, dear,
In the battlefield of life.

My child, tho thy foes are strong and tried,
He loveth the weak and small;

The angels of heaven are on thy side,
And God is over all!"

TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN*

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew,
And colored with the heaven's own blue,
That openest when the quiet light
Succeeds the keen and frosty night.

Thou comest not when violets lean

O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple drest,
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.

Thou waitest late and com'st alone,
When woods are bare and birds are flown,
And frost and shortening days portend
The aged year is near his end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,
Blue-blue-as if that sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall.

*"Reprinted from Bryant's Complete Poetical Works, by permission of D. Appleton & Company.'

I would that thus, when I shall see
The hour of death draw near to me,
Hope, blossoming within my heart,
May look to heaven as I depart.

OUR HEROES

BY PHOEBE CARY

Here's a hand to the boy who has courage
To do what he knows to be right;
When he falls in the way of temptation
He has a hard battle to fight.
Who strives against self and his comrades
Will find a most powerful foe;

All honor to him if he conquers―

A cheer for the boy who says, "No."

There's many a battle fought daily
The world knows nothing about;
There's many a brave little soldier
Whose strength puts a legion to rout.
And he who fights sin single-handed
Is more of a hero, I say,

Than he who leads soldiers to battle,
And conquers by arms in the fray.

Be stedfast, my boy, when you're tempted,
And do what you know to be right;
Stand firm by the colors of manhood,
And you will o'ercome in the fight.
"The right!" be your battle-cry ever

In waging the warfare of life;
And God, who knows who are the heroes,

Will give you the strength for the strife.