SPRING AND SUMMER. ANONYMOUS. SPRING is growing up, Isn't it a pity? She was such a little thing, All the buds are blown, Trees are dark and shady, (It was Spring who dress'd them, though, Such a little lady!) And the birds sing loud and sweet Their enchanting hist❜ries. (It was Spring who taught them, though, Such a singing mistress!) From the glowing sky Summer shines above us; Spring was such a little dear, She is very beautiful, With her grown-up blisses, Summer we must bow before; Spring we coaxed with kisses! Spring is growing up, A MIDSUMMER SONG. R. W. GILDER. Он, father's gone to market-town: he was up before the day, And Jamie's after robins, and the man is making hay, And whistling down the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill, While mother from the kitchen-door is calling with a will, The cows are in the corn! From all the misty morning air there comes a summer sound, A murmur as of waters, from skies and trees and ground. The birds they sing upon the wing, the pigeons bill and COO; And over hill and hollow rings again the loud halloo : "Polly! - Polly! - The cows are in the corn! Oh, where's Polly?" Above the trees, the honey-bees swarm by with buzz and boom, And in the field and garden a thousand blossoms bloom. Within the farmer's meadow a brown-eyed daisy blows, And down at the edge of the hollow a red and thorny rose. But Polly! - Polly!-The cows are in the corn! Oh, where's Polly? How strange at such a time of day the mill should stop its clatter! The farmer's wife is listening now, and wonders what's the matter. Oh, wild the birds are singing in the wood and on the hill, While whistling up the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill. But Polly! - Polly! The cows are in the corn! Oh, where's Polly! THE WAY FOR BILLY AND ME. JAMES HOGG. WHERE the pools are bright and deep, Where the blackbird sings the latest, Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, Where the nestlings chirp and flee, Where the mowers mow the cleanest, Where the hazel bank is steepest, Why the boys should drive away A CHILD TO A ROSE. ANONYMOUS. WHITE Rose, talk to me! I don't know what to do. I'm bringing you a little rain, And I shall be so proud If, when you feel it on your face, You cannot hear me walking; I may catch you talking. Tell all your thoughts to me, He shall never hear. Since I was five years old. Tell if you were frighten'd When first you felt the cold; And, in the splendid summer, While you flush and grow, Are you ever out of heart Thinking of the snow? Did it feel like dying When first your blossoms fell? Did you know about the spring? Did the daisies tell? If you had no notion, Only fear and doubt, How I should have liked to see When you found it out! Such a beautiful surprise! What must you have felt, |