THE SEASONS

FOUR babies lay in their cradles new,

Beginning to think of "What shall I do
The world to brighten and beautify?"
The Spring baby first said, "Let me try."

So she put on a dress of freshest green,
With trimmings the loveliest ever seen—
Trimmings of tulips and hyacinths rare
And trailing arbutus looped everywhere.

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"How perfectly beautiful!" Summer said; But wait till you see my dress of red And darker green with golden spots,

Trimmed with roses and pinks and forget-me-nots."

"Pooh!" said Autumn, "my dress will be
A more substantial one you'll see;
With skirt of finest and yellowest wheat,
A girdle of grapes and squash turban neat."

Then Winter came silently tripping along,
Chanting softly a Christmas song,

In a pure white dress with jewels spread,
Holding a basket of books on his head.

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THE SEASONS

Poems and stories and pictures there

Of the Christ child, the Yule log, of folk-lore rare. "I am not in bright colors," he said, with a smile, "But the long winter evening my gifts here beguile. HELEN ADElaide Ricker.

AUTUMN

WITH what a glory comes and goes the year!

The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers

Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy
Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out;
And when the silver habit of the clouds

Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with
A sober gladness the old year takes up
His bright inheritance of golden fruits,
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees,
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds.
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,
Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,
Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life
Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,
And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,
Where Autumn, like a faint old man sits down
By the wayside a-weary.

The golden robin moves.

Through the trees
The purple finch,

That on wild cherry and red-cedar feeds,

A winter bird comes with its plaintive whistle,

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AUTUMN

And pecks by the witch hazel, whilst aloud
From cottage roofs the warbling bluebird sings,
And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke,

Sounds from the threshing floor the busy flail.

Oh, what a glory doth this world put on
For him who, with a fervent heart goes forth
Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks
On duties well performed, and days well spent!
For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves,
Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings.
He shall so hear the solemn hymn that Death
Has lifted up for all, that he shall go

To his long resting-place without a tear.

LONGFELLOW.

SEPTEMBER

HE goldenrod is yellow;

THE

The corn is turning brown;
The trees in apple orchards
With fruit are bending down.

The gentian's bluest fringes
Are curling in the sun;
In dusty pods the milkweed
Its hidden silk has spun.

The sedges flaunt their harvest,
In every meadow nook;
And asters by the brook-side
Make asters in the brook.

From dewy lanes at morning
The grapes' sweet odors rise;
At noon the roads all flutter
With yellow butterflies.

By all these lovely tokens
September days are here,
With summer's best of weather,
And autumn's best of cheer.

HELEN HUNT JACKSON.