128 A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS

So up to the housetop the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys-and St. Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound;
He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot:
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes, how they twinkle! his dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow,
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump-a right jolly old elf;
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings: then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle; But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!" CLEMENT C. MOORE.

CHILDREN

OME to me, O ye children!

COME

For I hear you at your play,

And the questions that perplexed me
Have vanished quite away.

Ye open the eastern windows,
That look toward the sun,

Where thoughts are singing swallows
And the brooks of morning run.

In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, In your thoughts the brooklets flow,

But in mine is the wind of autumn

And the first fall of the snow.

Ah! what would the world be to us
If the children were no more?

We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before.

What the leaves are to the forest
With the light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices
Have been hardened into wood,-

130

CHILDREN

That to the world are children;
Through them it feels the glow
Of the brighter and sunnier climate
Than reaches the trunks below.

Come to me, ye children!

And whisper in my ear

What the birds and the winds are singing
In your sunny atmosphere.

For what are all our contrivings,
And the wisdom of our books,
When compared with your caresses
And the gladness of your looks?

Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said;

For ye are living poems,

And all the rest are dead.

LONGFELLOW.

DON'T GIVE UP

IF you've tried and have not won,
Never stop for crying;
All that's great and good is done
Just by patient trying.

Though young birds, in flying, fall,
Still their wings grow stronger;
And the next time they can keep
Up a little longer.

Though the sturdy oak has known
Many a blast that bowed her,
She has risen again and grown
Loftier and prouder.

If by easy work you beat,

Who the more will prize you? Gaining victory from defeat, That's the test that tries you!

PHOEBE CARY.

FARM-YARD SONG

OVER the hill the farm-boy goes,

His shadow lengthens along the land,

A giant staff in a giant hand;

In the poplar-tree, above the spring,
The katydid begins to sing;

The early dews are falling;-
Into the stone-heap darts the mink;
The swallows skim the river's brink;
And home to the woodland fly the crows,
When over the hill the farm-boy goes,
Cheerily calling,-

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!" Farther, farther over the hill,

Faintly calling, calling still,—
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"

Into the yard the farmer goes,
With grateful heart, at the close of day;
Harness and chain are hung away;

In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plow;
The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow,
The cooling dews are falling;-

The friendly sheep his welcome bleat,
The pigs come grunting to his feet,
The whinnying mare her master knows,
When into the yard the farmer goes,
His cattle calling,-