And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one’s trundle bed.
So shut your eyes while mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock on the misty sea,—
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three—
Wynken, Blynken and Nod.
PRETTY IS THAT PRETTY DOES
The spider wears a plain brown dress,
And she is a steady spinner;
To see her, quiet as a mouse,
Going about her silver house,
You would never, never, never guess
The way she gets her dinner.
She looks as if no thought of ill
In all her life had stirred her;
But while she moves with careful tread,
And while she spins her silken thread,
She is planning, planning, planning still
The way to do some murder.
My child, who reads this simple lay,
With eyes down-dropt and tender,
Remember the old proverb says
That pretty is which pretty does,
And that worth does not go nor stay
For poverty nor splendor.
’Tis not the house, and not the dress,
That makes the saint or sinner.
To see the spider sit and spin,
Shut with her walls of silver in,
You would never, never, never guess
The way she gets her dinner.
LULLABY.3
Over the cradle the mother hung,
Softly crooning a slumber song:
And these were the simple words she sung
All the evening long.
“Cheek or chin, or knuckle or knee
Where shall the baby’s dimple be?
Where shall the angel’s finger rest
When he comes down to the baby’s nest?
Where shall the angel’s touch remain
When he awakens my babe again?”
Still as she bent and sang so low,
A murmur into her music broke:
And she paused to hear, for she could but know
The baby’s angel spoke.
“Cheek or chin, or knuckle or knee,
Where shall the baby’s dimple be?
Where shall my finger fall and rest
When I come down to the baby’s nest?
Where shall my finger touch remain
When I awaken your babe again?”
Silent the mother sat and dwelt
Long in the sweet delay of choice,
And then by her baby’s side she knelt,
And sang with a pleasant voice:
“Not on the limb, O angel dear!
For the charm with its youth will disappear;
Not on the cheek shall the dimple be,
For the harboring smile will fade and flee;
But touch thou the chin with an impress deep,
And my baby the angel’s seal shall keep.”
THIRD GRADE
DISCONTENT
Down in a field one day in June, the flowers all bloomed together,
Save one who tried to hide herself, and drooped that pleasant weather.
A robin who had flown too high, and felt a little lazy,
Was resting near this buttercup who wished she was a daisy.
For daisies grow so slim and tall! She always had a passion
For wearing frills about her neck in just the daisies’ fashion.
And buttercups must always be the same old tiresome color;
While daisies dress in gold and white, although their gold is duller.
“Dear Robin,” said the sad young flower, “Perhaps you’d not mind trying
To find a nice white frill for me, some day when you are flying.”
“You silly thing!” the Robin said, “I think you must be crazy;
I’d rather be my honest self, than any made-up daisy.
“You’re nicer in your own bright gown; the little children love you.
Be the best buttercup you can, and think no flower above you.
Though swallows leave me out of sight, we’d better keep our places:
Perhaps the world would all go wrong with one too many daisies.
Look bravely up into the sky and be content with knowing
That God wished for a buttercup, just here where you are growing.”
OUR FLAG
There are many flags in many lands,
There are flags of every hue,
But there is no flag in any land
Like our own Red, White and Blue.
I know where the prettiest colors are,
I’m sure, if I only knew
How to get them here, I could make a flag
Of glorious Red, White and Blue.
I would cut a piece from the evening sky
Where the stars were shining through,
And use it just as it was on high
For my stars and field of Blue.
Then I want a part of a fleecy cloud
And some red from a rainbow bright,
And I’d put them together, side by side
For my stripes of Red and White.
Then “Hurrah for the Flag!” our country’s flag,
Its stripes and white stars too;
There is no flag in any land
Like our own “Red, White and Blue.”
SONG FROM “PIPPA PASSES.”
The year’s at the spring,
And day’s at the morn;
Morning’s at seven;
The hill-side’s dew-pearled;
The lark’s on the wing;
The