THE ROCK-A-BY LADY

THE Rock-a-by Lady from Hushaby Street
Comes stealing; comes creeping;

The poppies they hang from her head to her feet,
And each hath a dream that is tiny and fleet-
She bringeth her poppies to you, my sweet,
Where she findeth you sleeping!

There is one little dream of a beautiful drum-
"Rub-a-dub!" it goeth;

There is one little dream of a big sugar-plum,
And lo! thick and fast the other dreams come
Of pop-guns that bang, and tin tops that hum,
And a trumpet that bloweth.

And dollies peep out of those wee little dreams
With laughter and singing;

And boats go a-floating on silvery streams,

And the stars peek-a-boo with their own misty gleams,
And up, up, and up, where the Mother Moon beams,
The fairies go winging!

Would you dream all these dreams that are tiny and fleet?
They'll come to you sleeping;

So shut the two eyes that are weary, my sweet,
For the Rock-a-by Lady from Hushaby Street,

With poppies that hang from her head to her feet,
Comes stealing; comes creeping.

EUGENE FIELD.

RAIN

THE rain is raining all around,

It falls on field and tree,

It rains on the umbrellas here.

And on the ships at sea.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

THE RAINDROP'S RIDE

SOME little drops of water

Whose home was in the sea,

To go upon a journey

Once happened to agree.

A white cloud was their carriage;
Their horse, a playful breeze;
And over town and country

They rode along at ease.

But, oh! there were so many,
At last the carriage broke,
And to the ground came tumbling
Those frightened little folk.

Among the grass and flowers

They then were forced to roam, Until a brooklet found them

And carried them all home.

ANONYMOUS.

I

THE LOST DOLL

ONCE had a sweet little doll, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world;

Her cheeks were so red and white, dears,
And her hair was so charmingly curled.
But I lost my poor little doll, dears,
As I played on the heath one day;

And I cried for her more than a week, dears,
But I never could find where she lay.

I found my poor little doll, dears,

As I played on the heath one day;
Folks say she is terribly changed, dears,
For her paint is all washed away.

And her arms trodden off by the cows, dears,
And her hair not the least bit curled;
Yet for old sakes' sake, she is still, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world.

CHARLES KINSGLEY.