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LITTLE BROWN HANDS.
M. H. KROUT.
THEY drive home the cows from the pasture,
Up through the long shady lane, Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-fields,
That are yellow with ripening grain. They find in the thick waving grasses,
Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows. They gather the earliest snowdrops,
And the first crimson buds of the rose. They toss the new hay in the meadow;
They gather the elder-bloom white;
In the soft-tinted October light.
And are sweeter than Italy's wines;
On the long, thorny blackberry-vines.
And build tiny castles of sand; They pick up the beautiful sea-shells,
Fairy barks that have drifted to land. They wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops
Where the oriole's hammock-nest swings ; And at night-time are folded in slumber
By a song that a fond mother sings. Those who toil bravely are strongest;
The humble and poor become great ;
And so from these brown-handed children
Shall grow mighty rulers of state.
The noble and wise of the land,
Shall be held in the little brown hand.
OVER AND OVER AGAIN.
OVER and over again,
No matter which way I turn,
Some lesson I have to learn.
I must grind out the golden grain,
Over and over again.
We cannot measure the need
Of even the tiniest flower,
That run through a single hour;
And the sun and the summer rain Must do their part, and perform it all
Over and over again.
Over and over again
The brook through the meadows flows,
And over and over again
The ponderous mill-wheel goes.
Though doing be not in vain ;
May come if we try again.
Is never so rough to the feet;
Is never so hard to repeat.
And the heart to its depths be driven With storm and tempest, we need them all
To render us meet for Heaven.
FROM THE FRENCH OF DELAVIGNE.
TRANSLATED AND ARRANGED BY THE EDITORS.
WHEN the bright sun
Doth smiling rise,
Through cloudy skies,
The wood and field
So springs delight,
Chasing black care
Back into night.
Joys, like the flowers,
In children rise ;
Still in their eyes.
SIXTY AND SIX.
THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON.
“ FONS DELICIUM DOMUS."
Joy of the morning,
Darling of dawning,
While with thee ranging,
Sure I'm exchanging
Wings cannot vie with thee,
Lightly I fly with thee,
Life is all magic,
Comic or tragic,
Floating and ringing,
Thy merry singing Comes when the light comes, like that of the birds.
List to the play of it,
That is the way of it;
Glad or grief-laden,
Schubert or Haydn,
Like an evangel,
Some baby angel,
Surely I know it,
Artist nor poet
Sorrows, what are they?
Nearer or far, they Vanish like sunshine, like dew from the flowers.
Years, I am glad of them !
Would that I had of them More and yet more, while thus mingled with thine.
Age, I make light of it,
Fear not the sight of it;
SEVEN TIMES ONE.
THERE's no dew left on the daisies and clover,
There's no rain left in heaven;
Seven times one are seven.
I am old, so old I can write a letter;
My birthday lessons are done;