The Adventures of A Brownie Part 13

I'm the finest rain-drop you ever did see: I have lived ten seconds at least on my pane; Swelling and filling and swelling again.

"All the little rain-drops unto me run, I watch them and catch them and suck them up each one: All the pretty children stand and at me stare; Pointing with their fingers--'That's the biggest drop there.'"

"Yet you are but a drop," the small drop replied; "I don't myself see much cause for pride: The bigger you swell up,--we know well, my friend,-- The faster you run down the sooner you'll end.

"For me, I'm contented outside on my ledge, Hearing the patter of rain in the hedge; Looking at the firelight and the children fair,-- Whether they look at me, I'm sure I don't care."

"Sir," cried the first drop, "your talk is but dull; I can't wait to listen, for I'm almost full; You'll run a race with me?--No?--Then 'tis plain I am the largest drop in the whole pane."

Off ran the big drop, at first rather slow: Then faster and faster, as drops will, you know: Raced down the window-pane, like hundreds before, Just reached the window-sill--one splash--and was o'er.

THE YEAR'S END

SO grows the rising year, and so declines By months, weeks, days, unto its peaceful end Even as by slow and ever-varying signs Through childhood, youth, our solemn steps we bend Up to the crown of life, and thence descend.

Great Father, who of every one takest care, From him on whom full ninety years are piled To the young babe, just taught to lisp a prayer About the "Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,"

Who children loves, being once himself a child,--

O make us day by day like Him to grow; More pure and good, more dutiful and meek; Because He loves those who obey Him so; Because His love is the best thing to seek, Because without His love, all loves are weak,--

All earthly joys are miserable and poor, All earthly goodness quickly droops and dies, Like rootless flowers you plant in gardens--sure That they will flourish--till in mid-day skies The sun burns, and they fade before your eyes.

O G.o.d, who art alone the life and light Of this strange world to which as babes we come, Keep Thou us always children in Thy sight: Guide us from year to year, thro' s.h.i.+ne and gloom And at our year's end, Father, take us home.

RUNNING AFTER THE RAINBOW

"WHY thus aside your playthings throw, Over the wet lawn hurrying so?

Where are you going, I want to know?"

"I'm running after the rainbow."

"Little boy, with your bright brown eyes Full of an innocent surprise, Stop a minute, my Arthur wise, What do you want with the rainbow?"

Arthur paused in his headlong race, Turned to his mother his hot, young face, "Mother, I want to reach the place At either end of the rainbow.

"Nurse says, wherever it meets the ground.

Such beautiful things may oft be found Buried below, or scattered round, If one can but catch the rainbow.

"O please don't hinder me, mother dear, It will all be gone while I stay here;"

So with many a hope and not one fear, The child ran after the rainbow.

Over the damp gra.s.s, ankle deep, Clambering up the hilly steep, And the wood where the birds were going to sleep, But he couldn't catch the rainbow.

And when he came out at the wood's far side, The sun was setting in golden pride, There were plenty of clouds all rainbow dyed, But not a sign of the rainbow.

Said Arthur, sobbing, as home he went, "I wish I had thought what mother meant; I wish I had only been content, And not ran after the rainbow."

And as he came sadly down the hill, Stood mother scolding--but smiling still, And hugged him up close, as mothers will: So he quite forgot the rainbow.

d.i.c.k AND I

WE'RE going to a party, my brother d.i.c.k and I: The best, grandest party we ever did try: And I'm very happy--but d.i.c.k is so shy!

I've got a white ball-dress, and flowers in my hair, And a scarf, with a brooch too, mamma let me wear: Silk stockings, and shoes with high heels, I declare!

There is to be music--a real soldier's band: And _I_ mean to waltz, and eat ice, and be fanned, Like a grown-up young lady, the first in the land.

But d.i.c.k is so stupid, so silent and shy: Has never learnt dancing, so says he won't try-- Yet d.i.c.k is both older and wiser than I.

And I'm fond of my brother--this darling old d.i.c.k: I'll hunt him in corners wherever he stick, He's bad at a party--but at school he's a brick!

So good at his Latin, at cricket, football, Whatever he tries at. And then he's so tall!

Yet at play with the children he's best of us all.

And his going to the party is just to please _me_, Poor d.i.c.k! so good-natured. How dull he will be!

But he says I shall dance "like a wave o' the sea."

That's Shakespeare, his Shakespeare, he wors.h.i.+ps him so.

Our d.i.c.k he writes poems, though none will he show; I found out his secret, but I won't tell: no, no.

And when he's a great man, a poet you see, O dear! what a proud little sister I'll be; Hark! there comes the carriage. We're off, d.i.c.k and me.

GRANDPAPA

GRANDPAPA lives at the end of the lane, His cottage is small and its furniture plain; No pony to ride on, no equipage grand,-- A garden, and just half an acre of land; No dainties to dine off, and very few toys,-- Yet is grandpapa's house the delight of the boys.

Grandpapa once lived in one little room, Grandpapa worked all day long at his loom: He speaks with queer accent, does dear grandpapa, And not half so well as papa and mamma.

The girls think his clothes are a little rough, But the boys all declare they can't love him enough.

A man of the people in manners and mind, Yet so honest, so tender, so clever, so kind: Makes the best of his lot still, where'er it be cast.

A st.u.r.dy old Englishman, game to the last.

Though simple and humble and unknown to fame, It's good luck to the boys to bear grandpapa's name!

MONSIEUR ET MADEMOISELLE.

DEUX pet.i.ts enfants Francais, Monsieur et Mademoiselle.

Of what can they be talking, child?

Indeed I cannot tell.

But of this I am very certain, You would find naught to blame In that sweet French politeness-- I wish we had the same.

Monsieur has got a melon, And scoops it with his knife, While Mademoiselle sits watching him: No rudeness here--no strife: Though could you listen only, They're chattering like two pies-- French magpies, understand me-- So merry and so wise.

Their floor is bare of carpet, Their curtains are so thin, They dine on meagre _potage_, and Put many an onion in!

Her snow-white caps she irons: He blacks his shoes, he can; Yet she's a little lady And he's a gentleman.