  At evening, when the lamp is lit, Around the fire my parents sit; They sit at home and talk and sing, Now, with my little gun, I crawl, All in the dark along the wall, And follow round the forest track Away behind the sofa back. There in the night, where none can spy, All in my hunter's camp I lie, And play at books that I have read. Till it is time to go to bed. These are the hills, these are the woods, These are my starry solitudes; And there the river by whose brink The roaring lions come to drink. I see the others far away, As if in firelit camp they lay, And I, like to an Indian scout, Around their party prowled about. So, when my nurse comes in for me, Home I return across the sea, And go to bed with backward looks At my dear Land of Story Books. —Robert Louis Stevenson. O, big round world, O, wide, wide world, How wonderful you are. Your oceans are so very deep, Your hills reach up so far; Down through your valleys wide and green, Such mighty rivers flow; Upon your great sky-reaching hills, Such giant forests grow.—Alice C. D. Riley. By permission of John Church Company, |
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