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THE days are cold and nights are long,
The north wind sings a doleful song :
Then hush again upon my breast;
Åll merry things are now at rest';

Save thee, my pretty love!

The kitten sleeps upon the hearth,
The crickets long have ceased their mirth ;
There's nothing stirring in the house,
Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse,

Then why so busy thou ?'

Nay, start not at that sparkly light;
'Tis but the moon that shines so bright,
On the window-pane be-dropped with rain;
Then, little darling! sleep again,

And wake when it is day.


“ We love the strawberry blossom,

Much more than gayer flowers, That lift their pretty little heads

Through all the summer hours. “ The strawberry blossom withers,

Its beauties seem to pass,
The faded leaves are scatter'd

Unheeded on the grass.
-- But a little fruit is growing,

And though at first 'tis green, A red ripe blush upon it

Will by-and-by be seen.”

A MERRY little maiden,

In the merry month of May,
Came tripping o'er the meadow,

As she sang this merry lay :
“I'm a merry little maiden,

My heart is light and gay,
And I love the sunny weather

In the merry month of May.

“I love the pretty lambkins,

That gaily sport and play, And make such frolic gambols,

In the merry month of May:
I love the little birdies,

That sit upon the spray,
And sing me such a blithe song

In the merry month of May.

“I love the blooming flowers,

That grow on bank and brae, And with them weave my garlands

In the merry month of day : I love to see the green leaves,

The leaves that fell away, Come back to clothe the hedges

In the merry month of May.

I love my little sisters,

And my brothers, ev'ry day, But I seem to love them better

In the merry month of May: For the winter now is over,

We run about and play, And Nature seems to love us

In the merry month of May.”


Oh, say what is that thing called light,

Which I must ne'er enjoy ;
What are the blessings of the sight?

Oh tell a poor blind boy !

You talk of wondrous things you see

You say the sun shines bright; I feel him warm, but how can he

Or make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make,

Whene'er I sleep or play ; And could I always keep awake,

With me 'twere always day.

With heavy sighs, I often hear

You mourn my hapless woc ; But, sure, with patience I can bear

A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have

My cheer of mind destroy ; While thus I sing, I am a king,

Although a poor blind boy.

THE LITTLE TROUT. “DEAR mother,” said a little fish,

“Pray is not that a fly? I'm very hungry, and I wish

You'd let me go and try.”
Sweet innocent," the mother cried

And started from her nook,
“ That painted fly is put to hide

A sharp and barbed hook.”
Now, as I've heard, this litte trout

Was young and foolish too,
And so, he thought he'd venture out

To see if it were true. And round about the hook he played

With many a longing look, And “ Dear me !” to himself he said,

“ I'm sure that's not a hook.

66 “Sure, I may give one little pluck :

Let's see, and so I will."
So on he went, and lo! it struck

Quite through his little gill!
And, as he faint and fainter grew,

With hollow voice he cried, “Dear mother, if I'd minded

you, I need not now have died.


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