"Buzz!" said the mother;

“We buzz,” said the five: So they buzzed and they hummed In the snug beehive.

Over in the meadow,

In a nest built of sticks,
Lived a black mother-crow
And her little crows six.
"Caw!" said the mother;
"We caw," said the six:
So they cawed and they called
In their nest built of sticks.
Over in the meadow,

Where the grass is so even,
Lived a gay mother-cricket
And her little crickets seven.
"Chirp! said the mother;

"

"We chirp," said the seven:
So they chirped cheery notes
In the grass soft and even.
Over in the meadow,

By the old mossy gate,
Lived brown mother-lizard

And her little lizards eight.
"Bask!" said the mother;
"We bask!" said the eight.

So they basked in the sun
On the old mossy gate.

Over in the meadow,

Where the clear pools shine, Lived a green mother-frog

And her little froggies nine. "Croak!" said the mother; "We croak," said the nine: So they croaked, and they plashed, Where the clear pools shine.

Over in the meadow,
In a sly little den,
Lived a gray mother-spider
And her little spiders ten.
"Spin!" said the mother;
"We spin," said the ten:
So they spun lace webs
In their sly little den.

Over in the meadow,

In the soft summer even, Lived a mother-firefly

And her little flies eleven. "Shine!" said the mother;

"We shine," said the eleven:

So they shone like stars

In the soft summer even.

Over in the meadow,

Where the men dig and delve,

Lived a wise mother-ant

And her anties twelve.

"Toil!" said the mother;

"We toil," said the twelve: So they toiled, and were wise, Where the men dig and delve.

-Olive A. Wadsworth

WISHING

ING-TING! I wish I were a Primrose,

RIN

A bright yellow Primrose, blowing in the spring!

The stooping boughs above me, The wandering bee to love me, The fern and moss to creep across,

And the Elm-tree for our king!.

Nay-stay! I wish I were an Elm-tree,
A great, lofty Elm-tree, with green leaves gay!
The winds would set them dancing,

The sun and moonshine glance in,
The birds would house among the boughs,
And sweetly sing.

Oh no! I wish I were a Robin,

A Robin or a little Wren, everywhere to go;
Through forest, field, or garden,

And ask no leave or pardon,

Till winter comes with icy thumbs
To ruffle up our wing!

Well-tell! Where should I fly to,

Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell?

Before a day was over,

Home comes the rover,

For mother's kiss-sweeter this

Than any other thing.

122

Vcl. I

THERE

There's no rain left in heaven:

I've said my (c seven times" over and over

Seven times one are seven.

I am old, so old I can write a letter;

My birthday lessons are done;