Suppose your task, my little man,
Is very hard to get;
Will it make it any easier
For you to sit and fret?
And wouldn't it be wiser,
Than waiting like a dunce,
To go to work in earnest

And learn the thing at once?

Suppose that some boys have a horse,
And some a coach and pair;
Will it tire you less while walking
To say "It isn't fair?"
And wouldn't it be nobler

To keep your temper sweet,
And in your heart be thankful
You can walk upon your feet?

Suppose the world don't please you,
Nor the way some people do;
Do you thing the whole creation
Will be altered just for you?

And isn't it, my boy or girl,
The wisest, bravest plan,

Whatever comes, or doesn't come,

To do the best you can ?

19*

THE CROW'S CHILDREN.

A huntsman, bearing his gun a-field,

Went whistling merrily,

Phabe Cary.

When he heard the blackest of black crows

Call out from a withered tree :

"You are going to kill the thievish birds,
And I would, if I were you;

But you must not touch my family,
Whatever else you do."

"I'm only going to kill the birds
That are eating up my crop;

And if your young ones do such things,
Be sure they'll have to stop."

"O," said the crow, "my children
Are the best ones ever born:
There isn't one among them all
Would steal a grain of corn."

"But how shall I know which ones they are?

Do they resemble you?"

"O no," said the crow; "they're the prettiest birds, And the whitest, ever flew."

So off went the sportsman whistling,
And off, too, went his gun;
And its startling echoes never ceased
Again till the day was done.

And the old crow sat untroubled,
Cawing away in her nook;

For she said, "He'll never kill my birds,
Since I told him how they look.

"Now there's the hawk, my neighbor,
She'll see what'll come to pass soon
And that saucy, whistling blackbird
May have to change his tune."

When, lo! she saw the hunter
Taking his homeward track,

With a string of crows as long as his gun,
Hanging down his back.

"Alack, alack!" said the mother,

"What in the world have you done? You promised to spare my pretty birds, And you've killed them, every one."

"Your birds," said the puzzled hunter;

66

Why, I found them in my corn;

And, besides, they are black and ugly
As any that ever were born."

"Get out of my sight, you stupid!”
Said the angriest of crows;
"How good and fair the children are,
There's none but a parent knows."

"Ah! I see, I see," said the hunter, "But not as you do, quite;

It takes a mother to be so blind

She can't tell black from white."

Phœbe Cary.

* 20 *

SPRING.

The alder by the river

Shakes out her powdery curls;

The willow buds in silver,

For little boys and girls.

The little birds fly over—

And oh, how sweet they sing!
To tell the happy children
That once again 'tis spring.

The gay green grass comes creeping
So soft beneath their feet;

The frogs begin to ripple

A music clear and sweet.

And buttercups are coming,
And scarlet columbine,
And in the sunny meadows
The dandelions shine.

24

And just as many daisies
As their soft hands can hold,
The little ones may gather,
All fair in white and gold.

Here blows the warm, red clover,
There peeps the violet blue;

O, happy little children,

God made them all for you.

Celia Thaxter.

21 *

FLOWER-GIRLS.

O, my little sea-side girl,

What is in your garden growing?
"Rock-weeds and tangle-grass,

With the slow tide coming, going;
Samphire and marsh-rosemary,

All along the west shore creeping;
Sand-wort, beach-peas, pimpernel,
Out of nooks and corners peeping."

O, my little prairie girl,

What's in bloom among your grasses?
"Spring-beauties, painted-cups,

Flushing when the south wind passes;
Beds of rose-pink centaury;

Compass-flowers to northward turning ;
Larkspur, orange-gold puccoon;
Leagues of lilies flame-red burning."

O, my little mountain girl,

Have you anything to gather?
"White everlasting-bloom,

Not afraid of wind or weather;
Sweet brier, leaning on the crag
That the lady-fern hides under;
Hare bells, violets white and blue;

Who has sweeter flowers, I wonder?"