_THE PHOEBE'S NEST IN THE OLD WELL-WHEEL._
"Phoe-be, phoe-be," why, 'tis a little bird, "Phoe-be, phoe-be," singing the pretty word; "Phoe-be, phoe-be," brown feathers cover him, Gray breast, with blackish stripes scattered all over him.
"Phoe-be, phoe-be," here comes his little mate, "Phoe-be, phoe-be," both on the garden gate, "Phoe-be, phoe-be," loving now they trill, Planning to build a nest in the old well-wheel.
"Phoe-be, phoe-be," now the nest is begun; "Phoe-be, phoe-be," now it is nearly done; "Phoe-be, phoe-be," how will the birdies feel, When the egg is dropped down, with turn of the wheel.
"Phoe-be, phoe-be," children are sorry now, "Phoe-be, phoe-be," birds are all a-worry now, "Phoe-be, phoe-be," laying eggs day by day, While the turn of the wheel ever drops them away.
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"Phoe-be, phoe-be," never the lesson learned, "Phoe-be, phoe-be," year by year they returned, "Phoe-be, phoe-be," building persistently, Where the turn of the wheel dropped the eggs all away.
Phoe-be, phoe-be, yet not in vain you wrought, Phoe-be, phoe-be, for, by your folly taught, Phoe-be, phoe-be, children plan so to build, That no eggs may be lost by the turn of life's wheel.
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_MABEL'S SNOW-FEATHERS._
Listen, children, while I tell you What our merry Mabel said When she saw the feathery snow-flakes Tumbling down about her head.
Clapping hands and dancing gaily, "Mamma, mamma, come and see!
Come and see the feathers, mamma, Soft and white as they can be!"
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Standing then a moment, pondering As it were, whence came the snow, Little face so wise and thoughtful, Mabel cried: "Oh, now I know,
"There are lots of eider ducklets Up in Heaven, above the blue, And they're dropping off their feathers,-- And such downy feathers, too!
"See them frolic with each other; See them kiss as fast they fly; See them make believe they are going to, Then go gaily flitting by.
"See them on the Spruce and Balsam, Pile up little soft, fat hands; See their many plump, white cushions; See them wave their fairy wands.
"See the showers of flying feathers Whisking 'round in merry moods; See, the telegraph their perch is,-- Oh, I'm sure they're almost birds!"
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Now she fancies she can hear them Whisper of their ducklet birth;-- Hear their soft and wean-y quacklings, As they tumble down to earth.
Now she listens for the jingle Of the sleigh-bells they will bring; Now she sees the flying horses, Prancing gaily at their ring.
Lovely are these fleecy feathers, Dainty in each rare device; All unlike our ducklet feathers,-- White and soft, but cold as ice.
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Yet they cover, warmly cover Mother Earth so bleak and brown; Cover her with feathery mantles, Comforters of eider-down.
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_FOREST TREES._
Children, have you seen the budding Of the trees in valleys low?
Have you watched it creeping, creeping Up the mountain, soft and slow?
Weaving there a plush-like mantle, Brownish, grayish, red-dish green, Changing, changing, daily, hourly, Till it smiles in emerald sheen?
Have you watched the shades so varied, From the graceful, little white birch, Faint and tender, to the balsam's Evergreen, so dark and rich?
Have you seen the quaint mosaics Gracing all the mountain-sides, Where they, mingling, intertwining, Sway like softest mid-air tides?
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Have you seen the autumn frostings Spread on all the leafage bright, Frostings of the rarest colors, Red and yellow, dark and light?
Have you seen the glory painted On the mountain, valley, hill, When the landscape all illumined, Blazons forth His taste and skill?
Have you seen the foliage dropping, Tender cling, as loth to leave Mother-trees that taught them deftly, All their warp and woof to weave?
Have you seen the leafless branches Tossing wildly 'gainst the blue?
Have you seen the soft gray beauty Of their wintry garments' hue?
Have you thought the resurrection Seen in Nature year by year, Is a symbol of our rising In a higher, holier sphere?
Children, ye are buds maturing; Make your autumn rich and grand, That your winter be a passage Through the gates to Glory-land.
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_CHILDHOOD FANCIES._
The twilight gray is falling, Now list and you shall hear The footsteps of the sylphid fays,-- This is their hour of cheer.
List to the gentle patter On each wee blade of grass, As it is bent, and back again, Whene'er the fairies pass.
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Upon the tips of grasses They cross the meadows, lawn, And laugh and dance and play and sing, From twilight hour till dawn.
They light their myriad lanterns, And hang them in the arch Of blue that canopies o'erhead, And by their light they march.
They sometimes miss a fairy, And take a lantern down To search for her, and mortals say; "A fire-fly flits around."
On leaves they hang their diamonds, Their pearls in every flower; Their gauzy veils upon the grass, They spread for fairy bower.