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.”

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.”

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 snail’s on the thorn:

God’s in his heaven—

All’s right with the world.

They drive home the cows from the pasture,

Up through the long shady lane,

Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-fields,

That are yellow with ripening grain.

They find, in the thick, waving grasses,

Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows.

They gather the earliest snowdrops,

And the first crimson buds of the rose.

They toss the new hay in the meadow;

They gather the elder-bloom white;

They find where the dusky grapes purple

In the soft-tinted October light.

They know where the apples hang ripest,

And are sweeter than Italy’s wines;

They know where the fruit hangs the thickest

On the long, thorny blackberry-vines.

They gather the delicate sea-weeds,

And build tiny castles of sand;

They pick up the beautiful sea-shells—

Fairy barks that have drifted to land.

They wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops

Where the oriole’s hammock-nest swings;

And at night-time are folded in slumber

By a song that a fond mother sings.

Those who toil bravely are strongest;

The humble and poor become great;

And so from these brown-handed children

Shall grow mighty rulers of state.

The pen of the author and statesman—

The noble and wise of the land—

The sword, and the chisel, and palette,

Shall be held in the little brown hand.

Oh, I wish the Winter would go,

And I wish the Summer would come,

Then the big brown farmers will hoe,

And the little brown bee will hum.

Then the robin his fife will trill,

And the wood-piper beat his drum;

And out of their tents on the hill

The little green troops will come.

Then around and over the trees

With a flutter and flirt we’ll go,

A rollicking, frolicking breeze,

And away with a frisk ho! ho!

I come from haunts of coot and hern,

I make a sudden sally,

And sparkle out among the fern,

To bicker down the valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,

Or slip between the ridges,

By twenty thorps, a little town,

And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip’s farm I flow

To join the brimming river;

For men may come, and men may go,

But I go on forever.

I chatter over stony ways,

In little sharps and trebles;

I bubble into eddying bays;

I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my bank I fret

By many a field and fallow,

And many a fairy foreland set

With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter as I flow

To join the brimming river,For men may come, and men may go,

But I go on forever.

I wind about, and in and out,

With here a blossom sailing,

And here and there a lusty trout,

And here and there a grayling,

And here and there a foamy flake

Upon me as I travel,

With many a silvery waterbreak

Above the golden gravel,

And draw them all along and flow

To join the brimming river,

For men may come, and men may go,

But I go on forever.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots,

I slide by hazel covers,

I move the sweet forget-me-nots

That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,

Among my skimming swallows;

I make the netted sunbeam dance

Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars

In brambly wildernesses;I linger by my shingly bars;

I loiter round my cresses;

And out again I curve and flow

To join the brimming river,

For men may come and men may go

But I go on forever.

Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,

With the wonderful water around 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 tops of the hills.

You, friendly Earth, how far do you go,

With the wheatfields that nod and the rivers that flow,

With cities and gardens, and cliffs, and isles,

And people upon you for thousands of miles?

Ah, you are so great, and I am so small,

I tremble to think of you, World, at all;

And yet, when I said my prayers, to-day,A whisper inside me seemed to say,

“You are more than the earth, though you are such a dot:

You can love and think, and the Earth can not!”

If you’ve tried and have not won,

Never stop for crying;

All that’s great and good is done

Just by patient trying.

Though young birds, in flying, fall,

Still their wings grow stronger;

And the next time they can keep

Up a little longer.

Though the sturdy oak has known

Many a blast that bowed her,

She has risen again, and grown

Loftier and prouder.

If by easy work you beat,

Who the more will prize you?

Gaining victory from defeat,

That’s the test that tries you!

—A simple child,

That lightly draws its breath,

And feels its life in every limb,

What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl:

She was eight years old, she said;

Her hair was thick with many a curl

That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,

And she was wildly clad:

Her eyes were fair, and very fair—

Her beauty made me glad.

“Sisters and brothers, little Maid,

How many may you be?”

“How many? Seven in all,” she said,

And wondering looked at me.

“And where are they? I pray you tell.”

She answered, “Seven are we;

And two of us at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea.

“Two of us in the churchyard lie,

My sister and my brother;And in the churchyard cottage, I

Dwell near them with my mother.”

“You say that two at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea,

Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,

Sweet Maid, how this may be.”

Then did the little maid reply,

“Seven boys and girls are we;

Two of us in the churchyard lie,

Beneath the churchyard tree.”

“You run about, my little Maid,

Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the churchyard laid

Then ye are only five.”

“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”

The little Maid replied,

“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,

And they are side by side.

“My stockings there I often knit,

My kerchief there I hem;

And there upon the ground I sit

And sing a song to them.

“And often after sunset, sir,

When it is light and fair,

I take my little porringer,

And eat my supper there.

“The first that died was sister Jane;

In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her of her pain;

And then she went away.

“So in the churchyard she was laid;

And when the grass was dry,

Together round her grave we played,

My brother John and I.

“And when the ground was white with snow

And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,

And he lies by her side.”

“How many are you, then,” said I,

“If they two are in heaven?”

Quick was the little Maid’s reply,

“O master! we are seven.”

“But they are dead; those two are dead!

Their spirits are in heaven!”’Twas throwing words away: for still

The little Maid would have her will,

And said, “Nay, we are seven!”

When I was sick and lay abed,

I had two pillows at my head,

And all my toys beside me lay

To keep me happy all the day.

And sometimes for an hour or so

I watched my leaden soldiers go,

With different uniforms and drills,

Among the bedclothes, through the hills;

And sometimes sent my ships in fleets

All up and down among the sheets;

Or brought my trees and houses out,

And planted cities all about.

I was the giant great and still,

That sits upon the pillow-hill,

And sees before him, dale and plain,

The pleasant land of counterpane.

There’s a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree,

“He’s singing to me! He’s singing to me!”

And what does he say, little girl, little boy?

“Oh, the world’s running over with joy!

Don’t you hear? Don’t you see?

Hush! Look! In my tree,

I’m as happy as happy can be!”

And the brown thrush keeps singing, “A nest do you see,

And five eggs hid by me in the juniper tree?

Don’t meddle! Don’t touch! little girl, little boy,

Or the world will lose some of its joy!

Now I’m glad! Now I’m free!

And I always shall be,

If you never bring sorrow to me.”

So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree,

To you and to me, to you and to me:

And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy,

“Oh, the world’s running over with joy!

But long it won’t be,

Don’t you know? don’t you see?

Unless we are as good as can be!”

There is a boat upon a sea;

It never stops for you or me.

The sea is blue, the boat is white;

It sails through winter and summer night.

The swarthy child in India land

Points to the prow with eager hand;

The little Lapland babies cry

For the silver boat a-sailing by.

It fears no gale, it fears no wreck;

It never meets a change or check

Through weather fine or weather wild.

The oldest saw it when a child.

Upon another sea below

Full many vessels come and go;

Upon the swaying, swinging tide

Into the distant worlds they ride.

And strange to tell, the sea below,

Where countless vessels come and go,

Obeys the little boat on high

Through all the centuries sailing by.

Bright little dandelion,

Downy, yellow face,

Peeping up among the grass

With such gentle grace;

Minding not the April wind

Blowing rude and cold;

Brave little dandelion,

With a heart of gold.

Meek little dandelion,

Changing into curls

At the magic touch of these

Merry boys and girls.

When they pinch thy dainty throat,

Strip thy dress of green,

On thy soft and gentle face

Not a cloud is seen.

Poor little dandelion,

Now all gone to seed,

Scattered roughly by the wind

Like a common weed.

Thou hast lived thy little life

Smiling every day;

Who could do a better thing

In a better way?

The day is ending,

The night is descending;

The marsh is frozen,

The river dead.

Through clouds like ashes,

The red sun flashes

On village windows

That glimmer red.

The snow recommences;

The buried fences

Mark no longer

The road o’er the plain;

While through the meadows,

Like fearful shadows,

Slowly passes

A funeral train.

The bell is pealing,

And every feeling

Within me responds

To the dismal knell.

Shadows are trailing,

My heart is bewailing

And tolling within

Like a funeral bell.

Oh, tell me, little children, have you seen her—

The tiny maid from Norway, Nikolina?

Oh, her eyes are blue as corn-flowers ’mid the corn,

And her cheeks are rosy red as skies of morn.

Oh, buy the baby’s blossoms if you meet her,

And stay with gentle looks and words to greet her;

She’ll gaze at you and smile and clasp your hand,

But not one word of yours can understand.

“Nikolina!” Swift she turns if any call her,

As she stands among the poppies, hardly taller;

Breaking off their flaming scarlet cups for you,

With spikes of slender larkspur, brightly blue.

In her little garden many a flower is growing—

Red, gold and purple, in the soft wind blowing;

But the child that stands amid the blossoms gay

Is sweeter, quainter, brighter, lovelier even than they.

Oh, tell me, little children, have you seen her—

This baby girl from Norway, Nikolina?

Slowly she’s learning English words to try

And thank you if her flowers you buy.

“Lock the dairy door!” Oh, hark, the cock is crowing proudly!

“Lock the dairy door!” and all the hens are cackling loudly.

“Chickle, chackle, chee!” they cry; “we haven’t got the key,” they cry,

“Chickle, chackle, chee! Oh, dear! wherever can it be?” they cry.

Up and down the garden walks where all the flowers are blowing,

Out about the golden fields where tall the wheat is growing,

Through the barn and up the road, they cackle and they clatter;

Cry the children, “Hear the hens! Why, what can be the matter?”

What scraping and what scratching, what bristling and what hustling,

The cock stands on the fence, the wind his ruddy plumage rustling.

Like a soldier grand he stands, and like a trumpet glorious,

Sounds his shout both far and near, imperious and victorious.

But to the Partlets down below who cannot find the key, they hear,

“Lock the dairy door;” that’s all his challenge says to them, my dear.

Why they had it, how they lost it, must remain a mystery;

I that tell you, never heard the first part of the history.

But if you listen, dear, next time the cock crows proudly

“Lock the dairy door!” you’ll hear him tell the biddies loudly:

“Chickle, chackle, chee!” they cry; “we haven’t got the key!” they cry;

“Chickle, chackle, chee! Oh, dear! wherever can it be?” they cry.

Robin comes with early spring,

Dressed up in his very best;

Very pretty is his suit—

Brownish coat and reddish vest.

Robin takes my cherry tree

For his very, very own;

Never asking if he may—

There he makes his dainty home.

Robin eats my cherries, too,

In an open, shameless way;

Feeds his wife and babies three—

Giving only songs for pay.

Bolder thief than robin is

Would be hard, indeed, to find;

But he sings so sweet a tune

That I really do not mind!

“Cheer up! Cheer up!” Robin sings;

“Cheer up! Cheer up!” all day long;

Shine or shower, all the same,

“Cheer up! Cheer up!” is his song.

Eating, singing, Robin lives

There within my cherry tree;

When I call him “robber!” “thief!”

Back he flings a song to me!

“May I have some cherries, please?”

Robin never thinks to say;

Yet, who has the heart—have you?

Saucy Rob to drive away?