 CHAPTER 1 A year's wind falls. Who comes dancing over the snow? His soft little feet, all bare and rosy. Open the door, through the wild winds blow. Take the child in, and make him cozy. Take him in, and hold him dear. He is the wonderful glad new year. Diana M. Mullick Marjory's Almanac Robins in the treetop. Blossoms in the grass. Green things are growing. Everywhere you pass. Sudden little breezes. Showers of silver dew. Black bow and bent twig. Budding out anew. Pine tree and willow tree. Fringed elm and larch. Don't you think that may times? Pleasanter than March. Apples in the orchard. Mellowing one by one. Strawberries upturning. Soft cheeks to the sun. Roses faint with weakness. Lillies fair of face. Drowsy scents and murmurs haunting every place. Lengths of golden sunshine. Moonlight bright as day. Don't you think that summers? Pleasanter than May. Roger in the corn patch. Whistling negro songs. Pussy by the hearseide. Romping with the tongs. Chestnuts in the ashes. Bursting through the rind. Red leaf and gold leaf rustling down the wind. Mother doing peaches. All the afternoon. Don't you think that autumn's? Pleasanter than June. Little fairy snowflakes. Dancing in the flu. Old Mr. Santa Claus. What is keeping you? Twilight and firelight. Shadows come and go. Merry chime of sleigh bells. Tinkling through the snow. Mother knitting stockings. Pussies got the ball. Don't you think that winter's? Pleasanter than all. Thomas Bailey Aldrich. In February. The birds have been singing today and saying the spring is near. The sun is as warm as in May and the deep blue heavens are clear. The little bird on the boughs of the somber snow laid in pine thinks where shall I build me my house and how shall I make it fine? For the season of snow is past. The mild south wind is on high and the scent of the spring is cast from his wing as he hurries by. The little birds twitter and cheep to their loves on the leafless larch. But seven feet deep the snow wreaths sleep and the year hath not worn to march. John Addington Simons. March. The cock is crowing. The stream is flowing. The small birds twitter. The lake doth glitter. The green field sleeps in the sun. The oldest and youngest are at work with the strongest. The cattle are grazing. Their heads never raising. There are forty feeding like one. Like an army defeated the snow hath retreated. And now doth fair ill. On the top of the bare hill the plow boy is whooping and on and on. There's joy on the mountains. There's life in the fountains. Small clouds are sailing. Blue sky prevailing. The rain is over and gone. William Portsworth. Nearly ready. In the snowing and the blowing. In the cruel sleet. Little flowers begin their growing far beneath our feet. Softly taps the spring and cheerily. Darlings are you here? Till they answer we are nearly, nearly ready, dear. Where is winter with his snowing? Tell us spring, they say. Then she answers he is going, going on his way. Poor old winter does not love you, but his time is past. Soon my birds shall sing above you. Set, you're free at last. Mary makes dodge. Spring song. Spring comes hither, buds the rose. Roses wither, sweet spring goes. Summer soars. Wide wing day. White light pours, flies away. Soft winds blow. Westward born. Onward go. Toward the morn George Elliot. In April the poplar drops beside the way. Its tassled plumes of silver gray. The chestnut pouts. Its great brown buds. Impatient for the laggard may. The honeysuckles lace the wall. The hyacinths grow fair and tall. And mellow sun and pleasant wind and odorous bees are over all. Elizabeth Acres. Spring. The alder by the river shakes out her powdery curls. The willow buds in silver for little boys and girls. The little birds fly over and oh how sweet they sing. To tell the happy children that once again to spring. The gay green grass comes creeping so soft beneath their feet. The frogs begin to ripple. A music clear and sweet. And buttercups are coming and scarlet call in bine. And in the sunny meadows the dandelions shine. And just as many daisies as their soft hands can hold. The little ones may gather all fair in white and gold. Here blows the warm red clover. Their peeps the violet blue. Oh happy little children. God made them all for you. Celia Thaxter. The voice of spring. I am coming. I am coming. Hark! The little bee is humming. See the lark is soaring high. In the blue and sunny sky. And the gnats are on the wing, wheeling round in airy ring. See the yellow catkins cover. All the slender willows over. And on the banks of mossy green Starlight primroses are seen. And their clustering leaves below. White and purple violets blow. Hark! The newborn lambs are bleating. And the crying rooks are meeting. In the elms a noisy crowd. All the birds are singing loud. And the first white butterfly in the sunshine dances by. Look around thee. Look around. Flowers in all the field abound. Every running stream is bright. All the orchard trees are white. And each small and waving shoot promises sweet flowers and fruit. Turn thine eyes to earth and heaven. God for thee the spring has given. Taught the birds their melodies. Clothe the earth and clear the skies. For thy pleasure or thy food. Pour thy soul in gratitude. Mary how it. The coming of spring. There's something in the air that's new and sweet and rare. A scent of summer things. A whir as if of wings. There's something too that's new in the color of the blue that's in the morning sky before the sun is high. And though on plain and hill, tis winter, winter still, there's something seems to say that winter's had its day. And all this changing tint, this whispering stir and hint of bud and bloom and wing is the coming of the spring. And tomorrow or today the brooks will break away from their icy frozen sleep and run and laugh and leap. And the next thing in the woods, the catkins in their hoods, a fur and silk will stand, a sturdy little band. And the tassel soft and fine of the hazel will entwine. And the elder branches show their buds against the snow. So silently but swift above the wintery drift, the long days gain and gain until on hill and plain, once more and yet once more. Returning as before, we see the bloom of birth make young again the earth. Nora Perry May May shall make the world anew, golden sun and silver dew, money minted in the sky shall the earth's new garments buy. May shall make the orchards bloom and the blossoms find perfume, shall set all the honeybees murmuring among the trees. May shall make the bud appear like a jewel crystal clear, mid the leaves upon the limb, where the robin lilt his hymn. May shall make the wildflowers tell where the shining snowflakes fell, just as though each snowflake's heart by some secret magic art were transmuted to a flower in the sunlight and the shower. Is there such another prey? Wonder making month of May Frank Dempster Sherman Spring and Summer Spring is growing up. Is not it a pity? She was such a little thing and so very pretty. Summer is extremely grand. We must pay her duty, but it is too little spring that she owes her beauty. All the buds are blown. Trees are dark and shady. It was spring who dressed them, though, such a little lady, and the birds sing loud and sweet, their enchanting histories. It was spring who taught them, though, such a sinking mistress. From the glowing sky, Summer shines above us. Spring was such a little deer, but will Summer love us? She is very beautiful. With her grown-up, blisses. Summer we must bow before. Spring we coast with kisses. Spring is growing up, leaving us so lonely. In the place of Little Spring, we have Summer only. Summer with her lofty airs and her stately faces. In the place of Little Spring, with her childish graces. A. Summer days Winter is cold-hearted. Spring is yay and nay. Autumn is a weather-cock. Blown every way. Summer days for me, when every leaf is on its tree. When Robin's knot, a beggar, and Jenny wands, a bride, and larks hang, singing, singing, singing, over the wheat fields wide. An anchored lilies ride, and the pendulum spider swings from side to side, and blue-black beetles transact business and knots fly in a host, and furry caterpillars hasten that no time be lost, and moths grow fat and thrive, and ladybirds arrive. Before green apples blush, before green nuts in brown, why, one day in the country, is worth a month in town, is worth a day and a year of the dusty, musty, leg-last fashion that days drone elsewhere. Christina G. Rosetti. September. The golden rod is yellow. The corn is turning brown. The trees and apple orchards with fruit are bending down. The gentian's bluest fringes are curling in the sun. In dusty pods the milkweed, its hidden silk, has spun. The sedges flaunt their harvest in every meadow-knuck, and astors by the brookside make astors in the brook. From dewy lanes at morning the grapes' sweet odors rise. At noon the roads all flutter with yellow butterflies. By all these lovely tokens September days are here, with summer's best of weather and autumn's best of cheer. H. H. How the leaves came down. I'll tell you how the leaves came down. The great tree, too, his children said. You're getting sleepy, yellow and brown. Yes, very sleepy, little red. It is quite time you went to bed. Ah, begged each silly, pouting leaf, let us a little longer stay. Dear Father Tree, behold our grief, till such a very pleasant day. We do not want to go away. So just for one more merry day, to the great tree the leaflets hung. Follied and danced, and had their way. Upon the autumn breezes swung, whispering all their sports among. Perhaps the great tree will forget, and let us stay until the spring. If we'll beg and coax and fret, but the great tree did no such thing, he smiled to hear their whispering. Come, children, all to bed, he cried, and ere the leaves could urge their prayer. He shook his head, and far and wide, fluttering and rustling everywhere, down sped the leaflets through the air. I saw them on the ground they lay, golden and red, a huddled swarm, waiting till one from far away. White bed clothes heat upon her arm, should come to wrap them safe and warm. The great bare tree looked down and smiled. Good night, dear little leaves, he said. And from below each sleepy child replied, good night, and murmured, it is so nice to go to bed. Susan Coolidge, winter night, blow, wind, blow, drift the flying snow, send it twirling, whirling overhead. There's a bedroom in a tree, where snug as snug can be, the squirrel nests in his cozy bed. Shriek, wind, shriek, make the branches creak, battle with the boughs till break o' day. In a snow cave warm and tight, through the icy winter night, the rabbit sleeps the peaceful hours away. Call, wind, call, in entry and in hall, straight from off the mountain white and wild. Soft purrs the pussycat, on her little fluffy mat, and beside her nestles close her furry child. Scold, wind, scold, so bitter and so bold, shake the windows with your tap, tap, tap, with half shot dreamy eyes. The drowsy baby lies, cuddle closely in his mother's lap. Mary F. Butts, a year's wind falls. On the wind of January, Del flits the snow, travelling from the frozen north, as cold as it can blow. Poor Robin red breast, look where he comes. Let him in to feel your fire, and toss him of your crumbs. On the wind in February, snowflakes float still, half inclined to turn to rain, nipping, dripping, chill. Then the thaws swell the streams, and swollen rivers swell the sea. If the winter ever ends, how pleasant it will be. In the wind of windy March, the catkins drop down, curly caterpillar-like, curious green and brown. With concourse of nest-building birds and leaf buds by the way, we begin to think of flowers and life and nuts some day. With the gusts of April, rich fruit-tree blossoms fall, on the hedged and orchard-green from the southern wall. Apple trees and pear trees, shed petals white or pink, plum trees and peach trees, while sharp showers sink and sink. Little brings the may breeze, beside pure scent of flowers, while all things wax and nothing wanes in lengthening daylight hours. Across the highest in beds, the winds leg warm and sweet, across hawthorn tops, across the blades of wheat. In the wind of sunny June, thrives the red rose crop, every day flesh blossoms blow, while the first leaves drop. White rose and yellow rose, and moss rose choice to find, and the cottage cabbage rose, not one wit behind. On the blast of scorched July, drives the pelting hail, from thunderous lightning clouds that blot, blue heaven-grown lurid pale. Weedy waves are tossed ashore, see things strange to sight, gasp upon the barren shore, and fade away in light. In the parching August wind, corn fields bow their head, sheltered in round valley depths, on low hills outspread. Early leaves drop, loitering down, weightless on the breeze, first fruits of the year's decay, from the withering trees. The brisk wind of September, the heavy-headed fruits, shake upon their bending boughs, and drop from the shoots. Some glow golden in the sun, some show green and street, some set forth a purple bloom, some blush rosy cheek. In the strong blast of October, at the equinox, stirred up in his hollow bed, broad ocean rocks, plunged the ships on his bosom, leaps and plunges the foam. It's oh, for mother's sons at sea, that they were safe at home. In slack wind of November, the fog forms and shifts, all the world comes out again when the fog lifts. Loosen from their sapless twigs, leaves drop with every gust, drifting rustling out of sight, in the damp or dust. Last of all December, the year's sands nearly run, speeds on the shortest day, curtail the sun, with its bleak raw wind, lays the last leaves low, brings back the nightly frosts, brings back the snow, Christina G. Rosetti. End of Chapter 1. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. The child's world, the wonderful world, great wide beautiful wonderful world, with the wonderful water round you curled, and the wonderful grass upon your breast, world, you are beautifully dressed. The wonderful air is over me, and the wonderful wind is shaking the tree, it walks on the water and whirls the mills, and talks to itself on the top of the hills. You friendly earth, how far do you go? With the wheat fields that dawn, and the rivers that flow, with cities and gardens and cliffs and aisles, and people upon you for thousands of miles. Ah, you are so great, and I am so small, I hardly can think of you, world, at all, and yet, when I said my prayers today, my mother kissed me, and said, quite gay, if the wonderful world is great to you, and great to father and mother too, you are more than the earth, though you are such a dot, you can love and think, and the earth cannot. William brightly wands, a day, I'll tell you how the sun rose, a ribbon at a time, the steeple swam and ammissed, the news like squirrels ran, the hills untied their bonnets, the bobble links began, then I said softly to myself, that must have been the sun. But how he said, I know not, there seemed a purple style, which little yellow boys and girls were climbing all the while, till when they reached the other side, a dominie in grey. Put gently up the evening bars, and led the flock away, Emily Dickinson. Good morning, the years at the spring, and days at the morn, mornings at seven, the hillsides do purled, the larks on the wing, the snails on the thorn, gods in his heaven, all's right with the world. Robert Browning. What the winds bring, which is the wind that brings the cold, the north wind, Freddie, and all the snow, and the sheep will scamper into the fold when the north begins to blow. Which is the wind that brings the heat, the south wind, Katie, and corn will grow, and peaches redden for you to eat when the south begins to blow. Which is the wind that brings the rain, the east wind, Artie, and farmers know, the cows come shivering up the lane when the east begins to blow. Which is the wind that brings the flowers, the west wind, Bessie, and soft and low, the birdies sing in the summer hours when the west begins to blow. Edmund Clarence Steadman. Lady Moon. Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving? Over the sea. Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving? All that love me. Are you not tired with rolling and never resting for sleep? Why look so pale and so sad as forever, wishing to weep? Ask me not, this little child, if you love me. You are too bold. I must obey my dear father above, and do as I am told. Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving? Over the sea. Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving? All that love me. Lord Houghton. Old Lady Moon. Old Lady Moon, your horns point toward the east, shine, be increased. Old Lady Moon, your horns point to the west, wane, be at rest. Christina G. Rosetti. Windy night. Whenever the moon and stars are set, whenever the wind is high, all night long in the dark and wet, a man goes riding by. Late at night when the fires are out, why does he gallop a gallop a boat? Whenever the trees are crying aloud, and ships are tossed at sea, by on the highway low and loud, by at the gallop goes he, by at the gallop he goes and then, by he comes back at the gallop again. Robert Louis Stevenston. Wild Winds. Oh, oh, how the wild winds blow, blow high, blow low, and whirlwinds go, to chase the little leaves that fly, fly low and high, to hollow and to steep hillside. They shiver in the dreary weather, and creep in little heaps together, and nestle close and try to hide. Oh, oh, how the wild winds blow, blow low, blow high, and whirlwinds try to find a crevice, to find a crack. They whirl to the front, they whirl to the back, but Tommy and Will and the baby together are snug and safe from the wintry weather. All the winds that blow cannot touch a toe, cannot twist or twirl one silken curl. They may rattle the doors in a noisy pack, but the blazing fires will drive them back, Mary F. Butts. Now the noisy winds are still. Now the noisy winds are still. April's coming up the hill. All of the spring is in her train, led by shining ranks of rain. Pit, pat, patter, clatter. Sudden sun and clatter, patter. First the blue, then the shower. Bursting bud and smiling flower. Brooks set free with pinkling ring. Birds too full of a song to sing. Crisp old weeds, a stir with pride. Where the timid violets hide. All things ready with a will. April's coming up the hill. Mary mates dodge. The wind. The wind has a language. I would, I could learn. Sometimes to soothing, and sometimes to stern. Sometimes it comes like a low sweet song. And all things grow calm, as the sound floats along. And the forest is lulled by the dreamy strain. And slumber seeks down on the wandering mane. And its crystal arms are folded in rest. And the tall ship sleeps on its heaving breast. Latia Elizabeth Linden. The fountain. Into the sunshine, full of the light. Leaping and flashing from morn to night. Into the moonlight, whiter than snow. Waving so flower-like. When the winds blow. Into the starlight, rushing in spray. Happy at midnight, happy by day. Ever in motion, bly sub and cheery. Still climbing heavenward, never a weary. Glad of all weathers, still seeming best. Upward or downward, motion they rest. Full of a nature. Nothing can tame. Changed every moment. Ever the same. Ceaseless aspiring. Ceaseless content. Darkness or sunshine. Thy element. Glorious fountain. Let my heart be. Fresh, changeful, constant. Upward like thee. James Russell Lowell. The waterfall. Tinkle, tinkle. This and well. Like a fairy, silver bell. In the distance, springing. Lightly swinging in the air. Tiss the water in the dell. Where the elfin minstrels dwell. Falling in a rainbow sprinkle. Dropping stars that brightly twinkle. Bright and fair on the darkling pool below. Making music so. Tiss the water elves who play. On their lutes of spray. Tinkle, tinkle. Like a fairy, silver bell. Like a pebble in a shell. Tinkle, tinkle. Listen well. Frank Deuster Sherman. The voice of the grass. Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere. By the dusty, gross side. On the sunny hillside. Close by the noisy brook. In every shady nook. I come creeping, creeping everywhere. Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere. All around the open door. Where sit the aged poor? Here where the children play. In the bright and wary may. I come creeping, creeping everywhere. Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere. In the noisy city street. My pleasant face you'll meet. Cheering the sick at heart. Twirling his busy part. Silently creeping, creeping everywhere. Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere. You cannot see me coming. Nor hear my low sweet humming. For in the starry night. And the glad morning light. I come quietly creeping everywhere. Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere. More welcome than the flowers. In summer's pleasant hours. The gentle cow is glad. And the merry bird not sad. To see me creeping, creeping everywhere. Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere. My humble song of praise. Most joyfully I raise. To him at whose command. I beautify the land. Creeping silently. Creeping everywhere. Sarah Roberts Boyle. The wind in a frolic. The wind one morning sprang up from sleep. Saying now for a frolic. Now for a leap. Now for a madcap galloping chase. I'll make a commotion in every place. So it swept with a bustle. Right through a great town. Creaking the signs as scattering down. Shudders and whisking. With merciless squalls. Old women's bonnets. And gingerbread stalls. There never was heard a much lustier shout. As the apples and oranges tumbled about. And the urchins that stand with their thievish eyes. Forever on watch. Wrapped off with each prize. Then away to the field it went blustering. And humming. And the cattle all wondered whatever was coming. It plucked by their tails the grave matronly cows. And tossed the quartz mains all about their brows. Till offended at such a familiar salute. They all turned their backs and stood silently mute. So on it went capering and playing its pranks. Whistling with reeds on the broad river banks. Puffing the birds as they sat on the spray. Or the traveler grave on the king's highway. It was not too nice to bustle the bags. Of the beggar and flutter his dirty rags. Toa so bold that it feared not to play its joke. With the doctor's wig and the gentleman's cloak. Through the forest it roared and cried gaily now. You sturdy old oaks I'll make you bow. And it made them bow without more ado. Or it cracked their branches through and through. Then it rushed like a monster or cottage and farm. Striking their inmates with sudden alarm. And they ran out like bees in a mid-summer swarm. There were dames with their kerchiefs tied over their caps. To see if their poultry were free from mishaps. The turkeys they gobbled, the geese screamed aloud. And the hens crapped to roost in a terrified crowd. There was rearing of ladders and logs laying on. Where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to be gone. But the wind had passed on and had met in a lane. With a school-boy who panted and struggled in vain. For it tossed him and twirled him then past. And he stood with his hat in a pole. And his shoe in the mud. William Howatt. Clouds. The sky is full of clouds today. And idly to and fro. Like sheep across the pasture they, across the heavens go. I hear the wind with merry noise. Around the housetop sweep. And dream it is the shepherd-boys. They're driving home their sheep. The clouds move faster now and see. The west is red and gold. Each sheep seems heistening to be. The first within the fold. I watch them hurry on until the blue is clear and deep. And dream that far beyond the hill the shepherds fold their sheep. Then in the sky the trembling stars. Like little flowers shine out. While night puts up the shadow-bars and darkness falls about. I hear the shepherd winds good night. Good night and happy sleep. And dream that in the east all white slumber the clouds the sheep. Frank Dempster Sherman. Signs of rain. The hollow winds begin to blow. The clouds look black. The glass is low. The soot falls down. The spaniels sleep. The spiders from their cobwebs peep. Last night the sun went pale to bed. The moon in Halo's hid her head. The boating shepherd hews a sky. For see a rainbow spans the sky. The walls are damp. The ditches smell. Closed is the pink-eyed Pimpernel. Hark how the chairs and tables crack. Old Betty's joints are on the rack. Loud quack the ducks the peacocks cry. The distant hills are seeming nigh. How restless are the snorting swine. The busy flies disturb the kind. Low o'er the grass the swallow wings. The cricket too how sharp he sings. Puss on the hearth with velvet paws. Sits wiping o'er her whiskered jaws. Through the clear stream the fishes rise. And nimbly catch the incautious flies. The glow worms numerous and bright. A loom the dewy dell last night. A dust the squalid toad was seen. Hopping and crawling o'er the green. The whirling wind the dust obeys. And in the rapid Eddie plays. The frog has changed his yellow vest. And in a russet coat is dressed. Through June the air is cold and still. The mellow blackbird's voice is shrill. My dog so altered in his taste. Quits mutton bones on grass to feast. And seeing yawned rooks how odd their flight. They imitate the gliding kite. And seeing precipitate to fall. As if they felt the piercing ball. Twill surely rain I see with sorrow. Our jaunt must be put off to morrow. Edward Jenner. A sudden shower. Barefoot boys cut off their feet. Or scurry under sheltering sheds. And schoolgirl faces pale and sweet. Glean from the shawls up out their heads. Doors bang and mother voices call. From alien homes and rusty gates. Are slammed and high above it all. The thunder grim reverberates. And then abrupt the rain falls. And then the rain falls. The earth lies gasping and the eyes. Behind the streaming window panes. Smile at the trouble of the skies. The highway smokes. Sharp echoes ring. The cattle ball and cowbells clank. And into town comes Galloping. The farmer's horse was steaming. And the cowbells clank. And into town comes Galloping. The horse was steaming flank. The swallow dips beneath the eaves. And flirts his plumes and folds his wings. And under the cat bar leaves. The caterpillar curls and clings. The bumble bee is pelted down. A wet stem of the hollyhock. And solemnly in spattered brown. The cricket leaps the garden walk. Within the baby. Clasps his hands. And crows with rapture. Strange and vague. Without beneath the rose bush stands. A dripping rooster on one leg. James Wiccan Riley. Strange lands. Where do you come from, Mr. J? From the land of play. From the land of play. And where can that be, Mr. J? Far away, far away. Where do you come from, Mrs. Dove? From the land of love. From the land of love. And how do you get there, Mrs. Dove? Look above, look above. Where do you come from, Baby Miss? From the land of bliss. From the land of bliss. And what is the way there, Baby Miss? From the land of bliss. And what is the way there, Baby Miss? Mother's kiss. Mother's kiss. Lawrence Alma Tadema. Guessing song. Oh ho, oh ho, pray who can I be? I sweep o'er the land. I scour o'er the sea. I cuff the tall trees till they bow down their heads. I rock the wee birdies. I miss a sleep in their beds. Oh ho, oh ho, and who can I be? That sweep o'er the land and scour o'er the sea. I rumple the breast of the gray-headed dog. I tip the rook's tail up and make him cry caw. But though I love fun, I'm so big and so strong. At a puff of my breath, the great ships sail along. Oh ho, oh ho, and who can I be? That sweep o'er the land and sail o'er the sea. I swing all the weather cocks this way and that. I play hair and hounds with a runaway hat. But however I wander, I never constrain. For go where I will. I've a free right of way. Oh ho, oh ho, and who can I be? That sweep o'er the land and scour o'er the sea. I skim o'er the heather I dance up the street. I foes that I laugh at and friends that I greet. I'm known in the country I named in the town. For all the world over extends to me. All the world over extends my renown. Oh ho, oh ho, and who can I be? That sweep o'er the land and scour o'er the sea. Henry Johnson. The Rivulet. Run, little Rivulet, run. Summer is fairly begun. Bear to the meadow the hymn of the pines and the echo that rings where the waterfall shines. Run, little Rivulet, run. Run, little Rivulet, run. Sing to the fields of the sun that wavers in emerald shimmers in cold where you glide from your rocky ravine crystal cold. Run, little Rivulet, run. Run, little Rivulet, run. Sing of the flowers every one. Of the delicate hair-bell and violet blue of the red mountain rosebud all dripping would do. Run, little Rivulet, run. Run, little Rivulet, run. Carry the perfume you won from the lily that woke when the morning was gray to the white-waiting moon-beams adrift on the bay Run, little Rivulet, run. Run, little Rivulet, run. Stay not till summer is done. Carry the city the mountain-bird's glee. Carry the joy of the hills to the sea. Run, little Rivulet, run. Lucy Larkham. Jack Frost. The frost looked forth on a still clear night and whispered, Now I shall be out of sight. So through the valley and over the height in silence I'll take my way. I will not go on like that blustering train, the wind and the snow, the hail and the rain that make such a bustle and noise in vain, but I'll be as busy as they. So he flew to the mountain and powdered its crest, he lit on the trees and their bows he dressed with diamonds and pearls and over the breast of the quivering lake he spread, a coat of mail that it need not fear, the glittering point of many a spear which he hung on its margin far and near where a rock could rear its head. He went to the window of those who slept and over each pain like a fairy crept, wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped by the light of the morn were seen. Most beautiful things there were flowers and trees, there were bevies of birds and swarms of bees, there were cities and temples and towers and these all pictured in silvery sheen, but he did one thing that was hardly fair, he peeped in the cupboard and finding there that all had forgotten for him to prepare, now just to set them a thinking, I'll bite this basket of fruit said he this costly picture I'll burst in three and the glass of water they've left for me shall chick to tell them I'm drinking. Hannah F. Gold Snowflakes whenever a snowflake leaves a sky it turns and turns to say goodbye, goodbye dear clouds, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye dear clouds so cool and gray then lightly travels on its way and when a snowflake finds a tree good day it says, good day to thee thou art so bare and lonely dear I'll rest and call my comrades here but when a snowflake brave and meek lights on a rosy maiden's cheek how warm and soft the day to summer and it melts away Mary maips dodge the water, the water the water, the water, the joyous brook for me that tuneth through the quiet night its ever living glee the water, the water, that sleepless Mary heart which gurgles on unstintedly and loveth to impart to all around it some small measure of its own most perfect pleasure the water, the water, the gentle stream for me that gushes from the old gray stone beside the older tree the water, the water, that ever bubbling spring I loved and looked on while a child its deepest wondering and asked it whence it came and went and when its treasures would be spent the water, the water, the Mary wanton brook that bent itself to pleasure me like mine old shepherd crook the water, the water, that sang so sweet at noon and sweeter still all night to win smiles from the pale proud moon and from the little fairy faces that gleam in heaven's remotest places William Motherwell End of Chapter 2 Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen Vancouver, BC Chapter 3 of the Posey Ring A book of verses for children by various authors This LibriVox recording is in the public domain Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen Vancouver, BC Hiawatha's Chickens, Poems Then the little Hiawatha learned of every bird its language learned their names and all their secrets how they built their nests in summer where they hid themselves in winter talked with them when air he met them called them Hiawatha's Chickens Henry Wadsworth Longfellow The Swallows Gallant and gay in their doublets gray all at a flash like the darting of flame pattering Arabic, African, Indian certain a springtime the Swallows came doublets of gray silk and sircoats of purple and rusts of russet round each little throat wearing such garb they had crossed the waters mariner sailing with never a boat Edwin Arnold The Swallows nest Day after day her nest she molded building with magic love and mud a gray cup made by a thousand journeys and the tiny beak was trowel and hod Edwin Arnold The Birds in Spring Spring the sweet spring is a year's pleasant king then blooms each thing then maids dance in a ring cold doth not sting the pretty birds do sing cuckoo jug jug poo wee to widowoo the palm and may make country houses gay lambs frisk and play the shepherds pipe all day and we hear a birds tune this merry lay cuckoo jug jug poo wee to widowoo the fields breeze sweet the daisies kiss our feet young lovers meet old wives a sunning sit in every street these tunes our ears do greet cuckoo jug jug poo wee to widowoo spring the sweet spring Thomas Nash Robin Redbreast a child song goodbye goodbye to summer for summers nearly done the garden smiling faintly cool breezes in the sun our thrushes now are silent our swallows flown away but Robin's here in Coda Brown with ruddy breast not gay Robin Robin Redbreast a Robin dear Robin singing sweetly in the falling of the year bright yellow red and orange the leaves come down in hosts the trees are Indian princes but soon they'll turn to ghosts the scanty pears and apples hang russet on the bow it's autumn autumn autumn late twill soon be winter now Robin Robin bread breast a Robin dear a well away my Robin for pinching times are near the fireside for the cricket the wheat stack for the mouse when trembling night winds whistle and moan all round the house the frosty ways like iron the branches plumed with snow alas in winter dead and dark where can poor Robin go Robin Robin Redbreast a Robin dear and a crumb of bread for Robin his little heart to cheer William Alingham the Lark and the Rook good night sir Rook said a little Lark the daylight fades it will soon be dark I've bathed my wings in the sun's last way I've sung my hymn to the parting day so now I haste to my quiet nook in yandui meadow good night sir Rook good night poor Lark said his titled friend with a haughty toss and a distant bend I also go to my rest profound but not to sleep on the cold damp ground the fittest place for a bird like me is the topmost bow of yawn tall pine tree I open my eyes at peep of day and saw you taking your upward way dreaming your fawn romantic dreams and ugly speck in the sun's bright beams soaring too high to be seen or heard and I said to myself what a foolish bird I trod the park with a princely air I filled my crop with the richest fair I cod all day mid a lordly crew and I made more noise in the world than you the sun shone forth on my ebon wing I looked and wondered good night poor thing good night once more said the Lark sweet voice I see no cause to repent my choice you build your nest in the lofty pine but is your slumber more sweet than mine you make more noise in the world than I but who is the sweeter ministerly unknown the snowbird in the rosy light trills the gay swallow the thrush in the roses below the meadowlark sings in the meadow but the snowboard sings in the snow on me chickadee the snowbird sings in the snow the blue martin trills in the gable the wren in the gourd below in the elm flutes the golden robin but the snowbird sings in the snow on me chickadee the snowbird sings in the snow high wheels the gray wing of the osprey the wing of the sparrow drops low in the midst dips the wing of the robin and the snowbirds wing in the snow on me chickadee the snowbird sings in the snow I love the high heart of the osprey the meek heart of the thrush below the heart of the lark in the meadow and the snowbirds heart in the snow but dearest to me chickadee chickadee is that true little heart in the snow hexiah butterworth who stole the bird's nest to wit to wit to we will you listen to me who stole for eggs I laid and the nice nest I made not I said the cow moo such a thing I'd never do I gave you a wisp of hay but didn't take your nest away not I said the cow moo such a thing I'd never do to wit to wit to we will you listen to me who stole for eggs I laid and the nice nest I made bob olink bob olink now what do you think who stole a nest away from the plum tree today not I said the dog bow wow I wouldn't be so mean anyhow I gave hairs the nest to make but the nest I did not take not I said the dog bow wow I'm not so mean anyhow to wit to wit to we will you listen to me who stole for eggs I laid and the nice nest I made bob olink bob olink now what do you think who stole a nest away from the plum tree today cuckoo cuckoo cuckoo let me speak a word too who stole that pretty nest from little yellow breast not I said the sheep oh no I wouldn't treat a poor bird so I gave wool the nest to line but the nest was none of mine bah bah said the sheep oh no I wouldn't treat a poor bird so to wit to wit to we will you listen to me who stole for eggs I laid and the nice nest I made bob olink bob olink now what do you think who stole a nest away from the plum tree today cuckoo cuckoo cuckoo let me speak a word too who stole that pretty nest from little yellow breast cuckoo cuckoo cuckoo I should like to know what thief took away a bird's nest today cluck cluck said the hen don't ask me again why I haven't a chick would do such a trick we all gave her a feather and she wove them together I'd scorned to intrude on her and her brood cluck cluck said the hen don't ask me again chur a'wur chur a'wur all the birds made a stir let us find out his name and all cry for shame I would not rob a bird said little Mary Green I think I never heard of anything so mean it is very cruel too said little Alice Neal I wonder if he knew how sad the bird would feel a little boy hung down his head and went and hid behind the bed for he stole that pretty nest from poor little yellow breast and he felt so full of shame he didn't like to tell his name Lydia Maria Child Answer to a child's question Do you ask what the birds say, the sparrow, the dove the linnet and thrush say I love and I love in the winter they're silent the wind is so strong what it says I do not know but it sings a loud song but green leaves and blossoms and sunny warm weather and singing and loving all come back together then the lark is so brimful of gladness and love the green fields below him the blue sky above that he sings and he sings and forever sings he I love my love and my love loves me Samuel Taylor Coleridge the burial of the linnet found in the garden dead in his beauty oh that a linnet should die in the spring bury him comrades in pitiful duty muffle the dinner bell salmonly ring bury him kindly up in the corner bird, beast, and goldfish are sculptured there bid the black kitten march as chief mourner weaving her tail like a plume in the air bury him nobly next to the donkey fetch the old banner and wave it about bury him deeply think of the monkey shallow his grave and the dogs got him out bury him softly white wool around him kiss his poor feathers the first kiss and last tell his poor widow kind friends have found him plant his poor grave with whatever grows fast farewell sweet singer dead in thy beauty silent through summer though other birds sing bury him comrades in pitiful duty muffle the dinner bell mournfully ring Juliana Horatia Owing the tick-mouse piped a tiny voice hard by gay and polite a cheerful cry chick chicka-dee-dee saucy note out of the sound heart and merry throat as if it said good day good sir fine afternoon old passenger happy to meet you in these places where January brings few faces this poet though he live apart moved by his hospitable heart sped when I passed his Sylvan Fort to do the honors of his court as fit a feathered lord of land flew near with soft wing grazed my hand hopped on the bow then darting low Prince's small impress on the snow shows feats of his gymnastic play head downward clinging to the spray here was this atom in full breath hurling defiance at vast death this scrap of valor just for play fronts the north wind in waistcoat gray Ralph Waldo Emerson birds in summer how pleasant the life of a bird must be flitting about in each leafy tree in the leafy tree so broad and tall like a green and beautiful place hall like a green and beautiful palace hall with its airy chambers light and moon that open to sun and stars and moon that open unto the bright blue sky and the frolic sum wins as they wander by they have left their nests in the forest bow those homes of delight they need not now and the young and old they wander out and traverse the green world round about and hark at the top of this leafy hall how one to another they lovingly call come up come up they seem to say where the top most wigs in the breezes play come up come up for the world is fair where the merry leaves dance in the summer air and the birds below give back the cry we come we come to the branches high how pleasant the life of the birds must be living above in a leafy tree and away through the air what joy to go and to look on the green bright earth below how pleasant the life of a bird must be skimming about on the breezy sea cresting the billows like silvery foam then wheeling away to its cliff built home what joy it must be to sail upborn by a strong free wing through the rosy morn to meet the young sun face to face and pierce like a shaft the boundless space to pass through the bowers of the silver cloud to sing in the thunder halls aloud to spread out the wings for a wild free flight with the upper cloud winds oh what a light oh what would I give like a bird to go right on through the arch of the sun that bow and see how the water drops are kissed into green and yellow and ammissist how pleasant the life of a bird must be whenever it listeth there to flee to go when a joyful fancy calls dashing down mung the waterfalls then wheeling about with its mate at play above and below and among the spray hither and thither with screams as wild as the laughing mirth of a rosy child what joy it must be like a living breeze to flutter about mid the flowering trees lightly to soar and to see beneath the waste of the blossoming purple heath and the yellow firts like fields of gold that gladden some fairy region old on mountain tops on the billowy sea on the leafy stems of the forest tree how pleasant the life of a bird must be Mary how it an epitaph on a robin red breast tread lightly here for here to said when piping winds are hushed around a small note wakes from underground where now his tiny bones are laid no more in lone or leafless grows with ruffled wing and faded breast his friend less homeless spirit rose gone to the world where birds are blessed where never cat glides or the green or school boys giant form is seen but love and joy and smiling spring inspire their little souls to sing Samuel Rogers the bluebird I know the song that the bluebird is singing out in the apple tree where he is swinging brave little fellow the skies may be dreary nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery heart how the music leaps out from his throat heart was there ever so Mary a note listen a while and you'll hear what he's saying up in the apple tree swinging and saying dear little blossoms under the snow you must be weary of winter I know hark while I sing you a message of cheer summer is coming and springtime is here little white snow drop I pray you arise bright little crocus come open your eyes sweet little violets hid from the cold put on your mantles of purple and gold daffodils say do you hear summer is coming and springtime is here Mrs. Emily Huntington Miller song I had a dove and the sweet dove died and I have thought it died of grieving oh what could it grieve for its feet were tied with a silken thread of my own hands weaving sweet little red feet why should you die why should you leave me sweet bird why you lived alone in the forest tree why pretty thing would you not live with me I kissed you off and gave you white peas why not live sweetly as in the green trees John Keats what does little birdie say what does little birdie say in her nest at peep of day let me fly says little birdie mother let me fly away birdie rest a little longer tell the little wings are stronger so she rests a little longer then she flies away little baby say in her bed at peep of day baby says like little birdie let me rise and fly away baby sleep a little longer tell the little limbs are stronger if she sleeps a little longer baby too shall fly away Alfred Lord Tennyson the owl when cats run home and light is come and dew is cold upon the ground and the far off stream is dumb and the worrying sail goes round and the worrying sail goes round alone and warming his five wits the white owl in the belfry sits when merry milkmaids click the latch and rarely smells the new moan hay and the cock half sung beneath the thatch twice or thrice his round delay twice or thrice his round delay alone and warming his five wits the white owl in the belfry sits Alfred Lord Tennyson wild geese the wild wind blows the sun shines the birds sing loud the blue blue sky is flat with fleecy dabbled cloud over earth's rejoicing fields that children dance and sing and the frog's pipe in chorus it is spring, it is spring the grass comes the flower laughs where lately lay the snow or the breezy hill top hoarsely calls the crow and the swing river the alder catkins swing and the sweet song sparrow cries spring, it's spring harp when a clamor goes winging through the sky look children listen to the sound so wild and high like a peel of broken bells cling, cling, cling far and high the wild geese cry spring, it's spring new, oh wild geese dear carry all the cold away far away from here chase the snow into the north oh strong of heart and wing while we share the robin's rapture crying spring, it is spring Silia Faxter Shanticleer I wake I feel the day is near I hear the red cock crowing on how sweet and clear his cheerful call comes to my ear while light is slowly growing the white snow gathers flake on flake I hear the red cock crowing is anybody else awake to see the winter morning break while thick and fast to snowing I think the world is all asleep I hear the red cock crowing my peep the drifts are piled so wide and deep and while the wind is blowing nothing I see has shape or form I hear the red cock crowing but that dear voice comes through the storm to greet me in my nest so warm as if the sky were glowing a happy little child I lay and hear the red cock crowing why his voice rings out so brave and high with gladness overflowing Silia Faxter the singer oh lark sweet lark where learn you all your ministry what realms are those to which you fly while robins feed their young from dawn to dark you soar on high forever in the sky oh child dear child above the clouds I lift my wing to hear the bells of heaven ring some of their music though my flights be wild to earth I bring then let me soar and sing Edmund Clarence Steadman the blue jay oh blue jay up in the maple tree shaking your throat with such bursts of glee how did you happen to be so blue did you steal a bit of the lake for your crest and fasten blue violets in your vest tell me I pray you tell me true did you dip your wings in azure dye when April began to paint the sky that was pale with the winter stay or were you hatched from a blue bell bright neath the warm gold breast of a sunbeam light by the river one blue spring day oh blue jay up in the maple tree a tossing your saucy head at me with nare a word for my questioning pray cease for a moment your ting a link and hear when I tell you what I think your boneous bit of the spring I think when the fairies made the flowers to grow in those mossy fields of ours periwinkles and violets rare there was left of the spring's own color blue plenty to fashion a flower whose hue would be richer than all and as fair so putting their wits together they made one great blossom so bright and gay the lily beside it seemed blurred and then they said we'll toss it in air so many blue blossoms grow everywhere let this pretty one be a bird Susan Hartley sweat Robert of Lincoln merrily swinging on briar and weed near to the nest of his little dame over the mountainside or mead Robert of Lincoln is telling his name bobble link bobble link spank spank spank snug and safe is this nest of ours hidden among the summer flowers chi chi chi Robert of Lincoln is gaily dressed wearing a bright black wedding coat white are his shoulders and white his crest hear him call in his merry note bobble link bobble link spank spank spank look what a nice new coat is mine sure there was never a bird so fine chi chi chi Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife pretty and quiet with plain brown wings passing at home a patient life broods in the grass while her husband sings bobble link bobble link spank spank spank brood kind creature you need not fear thieves and robbers while I am here chi chi chi modest and shy as a nun is she one week chirp is her only note braggart and prince of braggarts is he pouring boasts from his little throat bobble link bobble link spank spank spank never was I afraid of man catch me cowardly names if you can chi chi chi six white eggs on a bed of hay flecked with purple a pretty sight there as the mother sits all day Robert is singing with all his might bobble link bobble link spank spank spank nice good wife that never goes out keeping house while I frolic about chi chi chi soon as the little ones chip the shell six wide mouths are open for food Robert of Lincoln besters him well gathering seeds for the hungry brood bobble link bobble link spank spank spank this new life is likely to be hard for a gay young fellow like me chi chi chi Robert of Lincoln at length is made sober with work and silent with care off is his holiday garment laid half forgotten that merry air bobble link bobble link spank spank spank nobody knows but my mate and I where our nest and our nestlings lie chi chi chi summer wanes the children are grown fun and frolic no more he knows Robert of Lincoln hun drum crone off he flies and we sing as he goes bobble link bobble link spank spank when you can pipe that merry old strain Robert of Lincoln come back again chi chi chi William Cullen Bryant white butterflies fly white butterflies out to sea frail pale wings for the wind to try small white wings that we scarce can see fly some fly light as a laugh of glee some flight soft as long loci all to the haven where each would be fly auger non Charles Swinburne the ant and the cricket a silly young cricket accustomed to sing through the warm sunny months of gay summer and spring began to complain when he found that at home his cupboard was empty and winter was come not a crumb to be found on the snow covered ground not a flower could he see not a leaf on a tree oh what will become says the cricket of me at last by starvation and famine made bold all dripping with wet and all trembling with cold away he set off to a miserly ant to see if to keep him alive he would grant him shelter from rain a mouthful of grain he wished only to borrow he'd repay it tomorrow if not he must die of starvation and sorrow says the ant to the cricket I'm your servant and friend but we ants never borrow we ants never lend but tell me dear sir did you lay nothing by when the weather was warm said the cricket not I my heart was so light that I sang day and night for all nature look gay you sang sir you say go then said the ant and dance winter away thus ending he hastily lifted the wicket and out of the door turned a poor little cricket though this is a fable the moral is good if you live without work you must live without food unknown End of chapter 3 recording by Linda Marie Nielsen Vancouver BC Chapter 4 of the Posey Ring a book of verse for children by various authors this Libra Vox recording is in the public domain recording by Linda Marie Nielsen Vancouver BC The Flower Folk Homes Hope is like a hair bell trembling from its birth love is like a rose the joy of all the earth faith is like a lily lifted high in white love is like a lovely rose the world's delight hair bells and sweet lilies show a thornless growth but the rose with all its thorns excels them both Christina G. Rosetti Little White Lily Little White Lily sat by a stone drooping and waiting till the sun shone Little White Lily sunshine has fed Little White Lily is lifting her head Little White Lily said it is good Little White Lily's clothing and food Little White Lily dressed like a bride shining with whiteness and crowned beside Little White Lily drooped with pain waiting and waiting for the wet rain Little White Lily holdeth her cup rain is fast falling and filling it up Little White Lily said good again when I am thirsty to have fresh rain now I am stronger now I am cool heat cannot burn me my veins are so full Little White Lily smells very sweet on her head sunshine rain at her feet thanks to the sunshine thanks to the rain Little White Lily is happy again George MacDonald Violets Violets Violets sweet March Violets sure as March comes they'll come too first the white and then the blue pretty violets white with just a pinky die blue as little baby's eye so light violets though the rough wind shakes the house knocks about the budding boughs there are violets though the passing snowstorms come and the frozen birds sit dumb up spring violets one by one among the grass saying pluck me as we pass scented violets by and by there'll be so many will pluck dozens nor miss any sweet sweet violets children when you go to play look beneath the hedge today mama likes violets Diana Maria Mullick young dandy lion young dandy lion on a hedge side said young dandy lion who will be my bride I'm a bold fellow as ever was seen with my shield of yellow in the grass green you may uproot me from field and from lane trample me cut me I spring up again I never flinch sir wherever I dwell give me an inch sir I'll soon take an L drive me from garden in anger and pride I'll thrive and harden by the roadside not a bit fearful showing my face always so cheerful in every place said young dandy lion who will be my bride again with a sweet air I have my eye on miss Daisy fair though we may tarry till past the cold her I will marry her I grow old I will protect her from all kinds of harm feed her with nectar shelter her warm what air the weather let it go by will hold together Daisy and I I'll never give in no nothing I fear all that I win oh I'll keep for my dear said young dandy lion on his head side who will me rely on who will be my bride Diana Maria Mullick baby seed song little brown brother oh little brown brother are you awake in the dark here we lie closely close to each other to the song of the lark we can the lark says we can and dress you put on your green coats and gay blue sky will shine on you sunshine caress you we can this morning this may little brown brother oh little brown brother what kind of flower will you be I'll be a poppy all white like my mother do be a poppy like me what you're a sunflower how I shall miss you when you're grown golden and high but I shall send all the bees up to kiss you little brown brother goodbye e nesbit a violet bank I know a bank where on the wild time blows where ox slips and the nodding violet grows quite over canopied with lush woodbine with sweet musk roses and with elegant tine William Shakespeare there's nothing like the rose the lily has an air and the snow drop a grace and the sweet pea away and the hearts ease a face yet there's nothing like the rose when she blows Christina G rosetti snow drops little ladies white and green with your spears about you will you tell us where you've been since we lived without you you are sweet and fresh and clean with your pearly faces in the dark earth where you've been there are wondrous places yet you come again serene when the leaves are hidden bringing joy from where you've been you return unbidden little ladies white and green are you glad to cheer us hunger not for where you've been stay till spring be near us Lawrence Oma Tadima fern song dance to the beat of the rain little fern and spread out your palms again and say though the sun hath my venture spun he had labored alas in vain but for the shade that the cloud hath made and the gift of the dew and the rain then laugh and upturn all your fronds little fern and rejoice in the beat of the rain John B. Tab the violet down in a green and shady bed a modest violet grew its stalk was bent it hung its head as if to hide from you and yet it was a lovely flower is color bright and fair it might have graced a rosy bower instead of hiding there yet there it was content to bloom in modest tints arrayed and there diffused its sweet perfume within the silent shade then let me to the valley go this pretty flower to see that I may also learn to grow in sweet humility Jane Taylor Daffy down Dilly Daffy down Dilly came up in the cold through the brown mold although the March breezes blew keen on her face although the white snow lay on many a place Daffy down Dilly had heard underground the sweet rushing sound of the streams as they broke from their white winter chains of the whistling spring winds and the pattering rains now then thought Daffy deep down in her heart is time I should start so she pushed her soft leaves through the hard frozen ground quite up to the surface and then she looked round there was snow all about her gray clouds overhead the trees all look dead then how do you think poor Daffy down felt when the sun would not shine and the ice would not melt cold weather thought Daffy still working away the earth's hard today there's but half inch of my leaves to be seen and two-thirds of that is more yellow than green I can't do much yet but I'll do what I can it's well I began for unless I can manage to lift up my head the people will think that this spring herself's dead so little by little she brought her leaves out all clustered about and then her bright flowers began to unfold till Daffy stood robed in her spring green and gold oh Daffy down dilly so brave and so true I wish all were like you so ready for duty in all sorts of weather and loyal to courage and duty together and a be Warner baby corn a happy mother stock of corn held close a baby ear and whispered cuddle up to me I'll keep you warm my dear I'll give you petticoats of green with many a tuck and fold to let out daily as you grow for you will soon be old a funny little baby that for though it had no eye it had a hundred miles twas well it did not want to cry the mother put in each small mouth a hollow thread of silk through which the sun and rain and air provided baby's milk the petticoats were gathered close where all the threadlets hung and still as summer days went on to mother stock it clung and all the time it grew and grew each kernel drank the milk by day by night in shade and sun from its own thread of silk and each grew strong and full and round and each was shining white the gores and seams were all let out the green skirts fitted tight the ear stood straight and large and tall and when it saw the sun held up its emerald satin gown to say your work is done your large enough said mother stock and now there's no more room for you to grow she tied the threads into a soft brown plume it floated out upon the breeze to greet the sun and then the baby said now I'm a full grown ear of corn unknown a child's fancy old little flowers you love me so you could not do without me old little birds that come and go you sing sweet songs about me old little boss observed by few that round the tree is creeping you like my head to rest on you when I am idly sleeping a rushes by the river side you bow when I come near you a fish you leap about with pride because you think I hear you a river you shine clear and bright to tempt me to look in you a water lilies pure and white you hope that I shall win you oh pretty things you love me so I see I must not leave you you find it very dull I know I should not like to grieve you don't wrinkle up you silly moss my flowers you need not shiver my little buds don't look so cross don't talk so loud my river and I will make a promise dears that will content you maybe I'll love you through the happy years till I'm a nice old lady to love like yours and mine they say can never think of ceasing by year by year and day by day keep steadily increasing a little dandelion gay little dandelion lights up the meads swings on her slender foot telleth her beads lists to the robin's note poured from above wise little dandelion asks not for love where in the days a gone bright hues were seen while pinks are slumbering violets delay true little dandelion brave little dandelion fast falls the snow bending the daffodils under the fleecy tent careless of cold dandelion counteth her gold meek little dandelion groweth more fair till dies the amber dew out from her hair high rides the thirsty sun fiercely and high faint little dandelion closes her eye from the cloud tiny plumes fluttering make no delay little wing dandelion soreeth away helen b. boswick dandelions upon a showering night and still without a sound of warning a trooper band surprised the hill notes no cheer our dreams invaded and yet at dawn their yellow coats on the green slopes paraded we careless folk the deed forgot till one day idly walking remarked upon the self same spot a crowd of veterans talking they shook their trembling heads and gray with pride and noiseless laughter when well a day they blew away and there were heard of after helen gray cone the flax flower oh the little flax flower it groweth on the hill and be the breeze awake or sleep it never standeth still it groweth and it groweth fast and then a little grassy blade scares better than a weed but then a comes the flax flower as blue as is the sky and tis a dainty little thing we say as we go by ah tis a goodly little thing it groweth for the poor and many a peasant blesseth it beside his cottage door he thinketh how those slender stems that shimmer in the sun are rich for him in web and wolf and shortly shall be spun he thinketh how those tender flowers of seed will yield him store and sees in thought his next year's crop blew shining round his door oh the little flax flower the mother then says she go pull the time the heath the fern but let the flax flower be it groweth for the children's sake it groweth for our own there are flowers enough upon the hill but leave the flax alone the farmer hath his fields of wheat much cometh to his share we have this little plot of flax that we have tilled with care oh the goodly flax flower it groweth on the hill and be the breeze awake or sleep it never standeth still it seameth all a steer with life as if it loved to thrive and if it had a merry heart within its stem alive then fair be fall the flax field and may the kindly showers give strength unto his shining stem give seed into its flowers merry how it dear little violets under the green hedges after the snow there do the dear little violets grow hiding their modest and beautiful heads under the hawthorn in soft mossy beds sweet as the rose and blue as the sky down there do the dear little violets lie hiding their heads where they scarce may be seen by the leaves you may know where the violet hath been drawn Moultrie birds song in spring the silver birch is a dainty lady she wears a satin gown the elm tree makes the old churchyard shady she will not live in town the English oak is a sturdy fellow he gets his green coat late the willow is smart in a suit of yellow brown the beach trees wait such as gay green gown God gives the larches as green as he is good the hazels hold up their arms for arches when spring rides through the wood the chestnuts proud and the lilacs pretty the poppers gentle and tall but the plain trees kind to the poor dull city I love him best of all Inesbit the tree the tree's early leaf buds were bursting their brown shall I take them away said the frost sweeping down no leave them alone till the blossoms have grown prayed the tree while he trembled from rootlet to crown the tree bore his blossoms and all the birds sung shall I take them away said the wind as he swung no leave them alone till the berries have grown said the tree while his leaflets quivering hung the tree bore his fruit in the mid-summer glow said the girl may I gather thy berries now yes all thou can't see take them all are for thee said the tree while he bent down his laden vows low but Jorns jurn but Jornson the daisy song a fragment the sun with his great eye sees not so much as I and the moon all silver-proud might as well be in a cloud and oh the spring the spring I lead the life of a king couched in the teeming grass I spy each pretty lass I look where no one dares and I stare where no one stares and when the night is nigh lambs a bleat my lullaby John Keats John Keats song for the tender beach and the sapling oak they grow by the shadowy rill you may cut down both at a single stroke you may cut down which you will but this you must know that as long as they grow whatever change may be you can never teach either oak or beech to be ought but a greenwood tree Thomas love Peacock for good luck little kings and queens of the may if you want to be every one of you very good in this beautiful beautiful beautiful wood where the little bird's heads get so turned with delight that some of them sing all night whatever you pluck leave some for good luck pick from the stalk or pulled by the root from overhead or underfoot water wonders of pond or brook wherever you look and whatever you find leave something behind some for the nades some for the dryads some for the nixies and pixies Juliana Horatia Owing End of chapter 4 Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen Vancouver BC