I LIVE FOR THOSE WHO LOVE ME

[LIVE for those who love me,

For those who know me true,

For the heavens that bend above me
And the good that I can do;
For the cause that needs assistance,
For the wrongs that lack resistance,
For the future in the distance

And the good that I can do.

G. LINNAEUS BANKS.

NORSE LULLABY

THE sky is dark and the hills are white,
As the storm-king speeds from the north to-night;
And this is the song the storm-king sings,
As over the world his cloak he flings:

"Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep."

He rustles his wings, and gruffly sings:
Sleep, little one, sleep."

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On yonder mountain-side a vine
Clings at the foot of a mother pine;
The tree bends over the trembling thing
And only the vine can hear her sing:

Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep-
What shall you fear when I am here?
Sleep, little one, sleep."

The king may sing in his bitter flight,
The tree may croon to the vine to-night,
But the little snowflake at my breast
Liketh the song I sing the best-

Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;

Weary thou art, a-next my heart;

Sleep, little one, sleep."

EUGENE FIEld.

THE SONG OF THE BUSY BEE

BUZZ! buzz! buzz!

This is the song of the bee.

His legs are of yellow;

A jolly good fellow,

And yet a great worker is he.

In days that are sunny
He's getting his honey;
In days that are cloudy
He's making his wax:
On pinks and on lilies,
And gay daffodillies,
And columbine blossoms,
He levies a tax!

Buzz! buzz! buzz!

The sweet smelling clover,
He, humming, hangs over;
The scent of the roses
Makes fragrant his wings;
He never gets lazy;
From thistle and daisy,

And weeds of the meadow,

Some treasure he brings.

THE SONG OF THE BUSY BEE 141

Buzz! buzz! buzz!

From morning's first light
Till the coming of night,
He's singing and toiling
The summer day through.
Oh! we may get weary,
And think work is dreary;
'Tis harder by far

To have nothing to do.

MARIAN Douglas.

A SONG OF EASTER

SING, children, sing!

And the lily censers swing;

Sing that life and joy are waking and that Death no more is king.

Sing the happy, happy tumult of the slowly brightening spring;

Sing, little children, sing!

Sing, children, sing!

Winter wild has taken wing.

Fill the air with sweet tidings till the frosty echoes ring! Along the eaves the icicles no longer glittering cling, And the crocus in the garden lifts its bright face to the

sun,

And in the meadows softly the brooks begin to run,

And the golden catkins swing

In the warm airs of the spring;
Sing, little children, sing!

Sing, children, sing!

The lilies white you bring

In the joyous Easter morning for hope are blossoming; And as the earth her shroud of snow from off her breast doth fling,

So may we cast our fetters off in God's eternal spring.