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For near her stood the little boy Her childish favor singled; His cap pulled low upon his face Where pride and shame were mingled.
Pus.h.i.+ng with restless feet the snow To right, to left, he lingered-- As restlessly her tiny hands The blue-checked ap.r.o.n fingered.
He saw her lift her eyes; he felt The soft hand's light caressing, And heard the tremble of her voice, As if a fault confessing.
"I'm sorry that I spelt the word, I hate to go above you, Because"--the brown eyes lower fell-- "Because, you see, I love you."
Still memory to a gray-haired man That sweet child-face is showing.
Dear girl! the gra.s.ses on her grave Have forty years been growing.
He lives to learn in life's hard school How few who pa.s.s above him Lament their triumph and his loss, Like her--because they love him.
--_Whittier._
[11] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.
TAKE CARE.
Little children, you must seek Rather to be good than wise, For the thoughts you do not speak s.h.i.+ne out in your cheeks and eyes.
If you think that you can be Cross and cruel and look fair, Let me tell you how to see You are quite mistaken there.
Go and stand before the gla.s.s, And some ugly thought contrive, And my word will come to pa.s.s Just as sure as you're alive!
What you have and what you lack, All the same as what you wear, You will see reflected back; So, my little folks, take care!
And not only in the gla.s.s Will your secrets come to view; All beholders, as they pa.s.s, Will perceive and know them, too.
Goodness shows in blushes bright, Or in eyelids dropping down, Like a violet from the light; Badness in a sneer or frown.
Out of sight, my boys and girls, Every root of beauty starts; So think less about your curls, More about your minds and hearts.
Cherish what is good, and drive Evil thoughts and feelings far; For, as sure as you're alive, You will show for what you are.
--_Alice Cary._
A LIFE LESSON.[12]
There! little girl; don't cry!
They have broken your doll, I know; And your tea-set blue, And your play-house, too, Are things of the long ago; But childish troubles will soon pa.s.s by.
There! little girl; don't cry!
There! little girl; don't cry!
They have broken your slate, I know; And the glad wild ways Of your school-girl days Are things of the long ago; But life and love will soon come by.
There! little girl; don't cry!
There! little girl; don't cry!
They have broken your heart, I know; And the rainbow gleams Of your youthful dreams Are things of the long ago; But heaven holds all for which you sigh.
There! little girl; don't cry!
--_James Whitcomb Riley._
[12] From "Afterwhiles," copyrighted 1887, by Bowen-Merrill Co. Must not be reprinted without permission from the publishers.
FIFTH GRADE
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long; His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat; He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn to night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a s.e.xton ringing the village bell When the evening sun is low.
And children, coming home from school, Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff from a thres.h.i.+ng-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more-- How in the grave she lies; And, with his hard, rough hand, he wipes A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees its close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life, Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus, on its sounding anvil, shaped Each burning deed and thought!
--_Longfellow._
LOVE OF COUNTRY
Breathes there a man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd, As home his footsteps he hath turn'd, From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no Minstrel raptures swell; High though his t.i.tles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those t.i.tles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concenter'd all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung.
--_Scott._
THE DAFFODILS.
I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that s.h.i.+ne And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
