  Merry nephews, merry nieces, Merry cousins all, Merry aunts, with merry faces. Merry uncles, take your places Round the merry hall. Here’s a book of merry jingles, Made for merry times; Merry here with Merry mingles, Merry groups, and Merrys single, "Merry’s Book of Rhymes." Aunt Sue glowing, Fleta flashing, Uncle Joe in smiles, Mattie warbling, Buckeye dashing, Older crowing, Hatchet slashing, Each in his own style. Merry nephs and nieces, meeting Wheresoe’er you may, Robert Merry sendeth greeting, Hoping he may have a seat in All your merry play. When in merry circles chatting Round the merry hearth, Merry wit with wit combatting, Merry’s Rhymes will come quite pat in To help on the mirth. Oh! beautiful, beautiful things! How they range at will through the sky! Dear Mary, if I could have wings, Oh! wouldn’t I, wouldn’t I fly? I would float far away on the cloud, All vailed in the silver mist; And perhaps I should feel so proud, I shouldn’t come back to be kissed. But see, sis, the sweet little creatures Have each a straw in his beak; A lesson of duty to teach us, As plainly as birds can speak. We think they are only playing, As they roam to and fro in the sky; But these busy fellows are saying, "’Tis not all for pleasure we fly. "We’re building a snug little nest In the crotch of the old elm-tree We mean it for one of the best, And busy enough are we. "We would not live only for play; And when for a song we take leisure, We would show, in our caroling way, How duty is wedded to pleasure." A rose was faint, and hung its head, One sultry summer’s day, When a Zephyr kindly fann’d its cheek, Then sped upon its way. That Zephyr now, where’er it roams, Delicious perfume brings. So kindness gathers, as it goes, A fragrance for its wings. Aunt Sue. SNOW-FLAKES.Are the snow-flakes pearly flowers That in the skies have birth, And gently fall in gleaming showers Upon this barren earth? Or, are they fleecy locks of wool, From sheep that wander by The silver streams, that, singing, roll Through valleys in the sky? Or, are they downy feathers, cast By little birds above, And hurried earthward by the blast, Bright messengers of love? No, they are pearly blossoms, flung From heaven’s airy bowers, To recompense us for the loss Of summer’s blooming flowers. Mattie Bell. SPRING FLOWERS.With what a lavish hand God beautifies the earth, When everywhere, all o’er the land, Sweet flowers are peeping forth! Down by the babbling brook, Up in the silent hills, The glen, the bower, the shady nook, Their breath with fragrance fills. They creep along the hedge, They climb the rugged height, And, leaning o’er the water’s edge, Blush in their own sweet light. They seem to breathe and talk; They pour into my ear; Where’er I look, where’er I walk, A music soft and clear. They have no pride of birth, No choice of regal bower; The humblest, lowliest spot on earth May claim the fairest flower. Children must be busy, Always something learning; Toys and trinkets, for their secrets, Inside-outward turning. While the top is spinning, Boys are wondering all, How it stands erect unaided, Why it does not fall. While the top is humming, Still the wonder grows, By what art the little spinner Whistles as it goes. Children learn while playing; Children play while learning; Pastimes, often more than lessons, Into knowledge turning. BY THE LAKE.Moonlight gleams upon the lake; Noiselessly the waters break On the white and pebbly shore, Then return, to break once more. Yonder moon, the sky’s bright green, Glitters in its depths serene, And the stars, above that glow, Seem another heaven below. On the white lake shore I stand, Where the waters meet the land, Shadows all around me lie, Shutting out the starry sky— Shutting out the world around, In their close and narrow bound, And the past awhile doth seem, But a half-forgotten dream. In the starry night, alone, Earthly cares and thoughts are gone. In this silence, deep and still, Who could harbor thought of ill? Far from all the care and strife, All the agony of life, Who would deem the sun could rise On earth’s thousand miseries? One by one my thoughts come back To the old, familiar track, And I turn me from the shore, To the busy world once more. Adelbert Older. GENTLE WORDS.Kind words revive the weary soul, And cheer its saddest hours, As dew refreshes drooping leaves, And brightens fading flowers. They fall, like sunshine, round the path Of those who weary roam, And are the "open sesame" To every heart and home. We know the spring will soon appear, When round us flies the swallow, So kind words should be harbingers Of gentle deeds which follow. Upon the brow of want and care The joys of life they fling, And change the soul’s dark night to-day, Its winter into spring. Then let your deeds be gentle deeds, Your words be words of love; They are the brightest gems which shine In angels’ crowns above. Mattie Bell. The Frost looked forth one 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, Who make so much bustle and noise in vain; But I’ll be as busy as they.” Then he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest; He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dress’d In diamond beads; and over the breast Of the quivering lake he spread A coat of mail, that it need not fear The downward point of many a spear, That he hung on its margin, far and near, Where a rock could rear its head. He went to the windows of those who slept, And over each pane, like a fairy, crept; Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepp’d, 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 with temples and towers; and these All pictured in silver 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 pitcher I’ll burst in three; And the glass of water they’ve left for me Shall ‘tchick!’ to tell them I’m drinking!” Miss H. F. Gould. SKATING—WOMAN’S RIGHTS. Why may not a woman skate? She can walk, and run, and ride— In dance, or hop, she’s always great— Prithee why not skate or slide? Skating is a useful art, Full of dignity and grace; Exercises limb and heart, Gives the blood a healthful pace. Why may not a woman skate? Swan-like grace and queenly sway Mark the vigorous, blooming Kate, Sailing down yon glittering way. Look! what conscious grace and power In those broad, out-sweeping strides, As down the silver-gleaming floor, With still increasing speed she glides. Why may not a woman skate? Often on the frozen Scheldt, Buxom Dutch girls, early, late, For the prize of speed have dealt. Sometimes from the inland town To the city mart, or fair, They in merry bands glide down, And their precious burdens bear. Why may not a woman skate? To a friend’s, long miles away, Oft they sail, with heart elate, To make a call, or pass the day. Often so do lovers meet, Whispering, wooing, billing, cooing, While upon their iron feet, Miles and miles of talk they’re doing. Why may not a woman skate? What though ankles she reveal! Skater’s ankles, critics state, Are not over-much genteel. What of that!—a trifling charge! There’s a right for every wrong— If the ankle’s somewhat large, May be ’tis well set and strong. Why may not a woman skate? Six times we have put the question; No one rising in debate, No one offering a suggestion, Silence gives consent. So, then, Pretty girls, and women, too, No less than rude boys and men, May put on the iron shoe. Try it, girls—ay, try the skate— Good for service, seldom tired, Able to sustain its weight, Never weak, nor loosely wired— The well-tried ankle you will find In your need-hour just the one; Bind your skates on—never mind!— You will find it right good fun. Spell, spell, spell! A dozen words or more; To your task and learn it well— School days will soon be o’er. Write, write, write! A page all bright and clean; Seize the moments in their flight, No lost one fall between. Learn, learn, learn! Some useful thing each day. From early morn till night returns, Waste not your time in play. THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.It is said that the flowers, as well as the birds, Have a language peculiar, with phrases and words; And that oft, in the hush of a warm summer day, You may hear, if you listen, whatever they say. I have doubted till lately, and thought it was all The whim of some dreamer, whom poet they call; But since the sweet seventh of June, fifty-one, My doubts have all vanished, like mists in the sun. As I walked in the garden I saw a sweet rose, Such as seldom on this side of Paradise grows, With a deep, deepening blush overspreading its cheek, Leaning down to a lily, as if it would speak. Behind a tall orange in bloom, as it spread Its rich fragrant shadow all over the bed, Unperceived by the parties, I paused in my walk And, in truth, overheard an intelligent talk. First, a low, distant murmur arrested my ear, Like the memory of tones which in dreaming we hear; Then, clear and distinct, though subtile as thought, Their simple, articulate language I caught. “Thou fairest of gems,” said the rose, bending down, “Too sweet for the earth and too chaste for a crown, I would thou wert taller, that here, in my place, The world might appreciate thy sweetness and grace.” “Nay, nay, lovely rose,” the fair lily replied, “It is safer in humble retirement to hide; Earth’s praises I court not; my graces were given To exhale, in their careless redundance, to heaven.” As the rest of their talk was of love, and as I Was acting the part of an eaves-dropping spy, I will not report it; but this I have told, As conveying a lesson for young and for old. THE SONG OF THE EXILE.Blow, blow, ye winds, from the wide blue sea! Oh, cool the heat of this fevered brow, And still this heart with such melody As your fluttering wings are wafting now! Bear on, bear on, from that distant shore, The loving tones of a household band Whose cherished, forms I see no more, Ye voices dim from my fatherland! Such sad, sweet thoughts to me ye bring Of my own far home with its ivied walls, Of the vine-wreathed porch, where the zephyr sings Through the rustling leaves, and the sunbeam falls— Of the threshold stone, and the open door, Of the kindred forms that gathered there, At the stilly eve full hearts to pour, In a gush of song on the listening air— Of the noisy flow of the little brook, Whose mossy banks our footsteps haunted; Of winds which half their sweetness took From fragrant bowers our hands had planted. Fleta Forrester. THE HARVEST.Trusting in the patient earth For the coming need, Went the hopeful sower forth, Bearing precious seed. Precious seed and full of hope, Scattered far and wide, O’er the plain—along the slope— And by the river side. Softened by the vernal rain, Quickened by the sun, Every little planted grain Peep’d forth, one by one. Nourished by the rain and dew, And the genial light, Blade by blade it upward grew, Growing day and night. Waving in the summer gales, Bowing to the blast, O’er the teeming intervales, Ripening to the last. Duly to the harvest white, Goldenly it glows, As with grateful heart, and light, Forth the reaper goes. Brightly as the sickle swings, Flashing in the sun, Merrily the reaper sings, While the moments run. Onward as the strong man goes, Fall the golden heads, Till the grain, in beauteous rows, All the field o’erspreads. Gather, gather now with care, Binding up your sheaves, Save what holy thrift and prayer For the gleaner leaves. Now, upon the groaning wain, Pile your treasures high, Thankful for the gentle rain, And the genial sky. Grateful for the bounteous earth, Trusting all to come, Now with songs of cheerful mirth, Bring the harvest home. Dance and sing in joyous ring, Ere the day grows dim; Rejoice, rejoice, with heart and voice, Shout, shout the Harvest Hymn. THE SNOW-HOUSE. THE SNOW-HOUSE.See, Charlie, out there, by the elm tree, The snow has been eddying round, And has made, for our winter snow-house, A broad and beautiful mound. Come, Charlie, bring out your shovel, And soon we will let them see How nice, how snug, and how cosy, Our winter palace can be. The door shall be arched and lofty, The room within shall be round; And we’ll have a fireplace and chimney, And a carpet of straw for the ground. Then we’ll have a magnificent party, And all our friends receive, With chestnuts, popped corn, and candy, On Christmas or New Year’s eve. The Merrys all shall be invited, Around our board to sit; They with our house will be delighted, And we’ll enjoy their wit. Cold water, pure, sparkling, and bright, Cold water forever for me; Cold water you, too, must drink to-night, Who have come to our apple spree. For nothing else you will get to drink, Of that most sure you may be; No wine, no brandy will we allow At our red-apple spree. No cider, no rum, no lager bier, Or any such stuff will you see; But pure cold water, fresh from the pump, We will have at our apple spree. Drink as much as you will, good friends and true, For nothing it costs, you see, And in these hard times it is best to have An economical spree. So a spree we will have, and a jolly one too, And none the worse shall we be To-morrow, for having joined to-night In a real red-apple spree. Ruth. Let them laud the notes that in music float Through the bright and glittering hall, While the amorous whirl of the hair’s bright curl Round the shoulders of beauty fall; But dearest to me is the song of the tree, And the rich and the blossoming bough— Oh! these are the sweets which the rustic greets, As he follows the good old plow. All honor be, then, to those gray old men, When at last they are bowed with toil; Their warfare then o’er, they battle no more, For they’ve conquered the stubborn soil; And the chaplet he wears is his silver hairs, And ne’er shall the victor’s brow With a laurel crown in his grave go down, Like the sons of the good old plow. Who does not love the Winter, When all on earth below, The houses, streams, the trees, and rocks, Are covered o’er with snow— When all is fair which once was bare, And all is bright and gay, When down the hillside rush the sleds, Nor stop till far away? And then the noise of all the boys, When snow-balls fly around— The snow-king in the meadow-field, With icy jewels crowned— And sparkling as the purest gold, The scepter in his hand, While icy courtiers, grim and still, Await his high command. And then when evening closes in Around the household hearth, We love to sit while jokes pass round, And all is joy and mirth. And then recount with ready tongues The mishaps of the day, Of plunges in the deep snow-drifts When at our joyous play. And though the Spring may boast its flowers, And all its green-clad trees; Though Summer, with its healthy showers, Brings many a cooling breeze; And though in Autumn with the crops Of grain and fruit we’re blest, Yet still I can not help but say, I love the Winter best. S. W. JUNE.’Tis a truth that earnest students, With books and nature who commune, Are in thought and feeling quickened By the skies and breath of June. While in boyhood, what could match it? Schoolmates call so opportune; “Come with me and range the forest— Recreate, this day of June.” Sister-schoolmates, gathering posies, Stop to hear the red-breast’s tune, And laugh at pretty squirrels running Up the trees, in leafy June. After-life, for prizes striving, The student toils for lengthened rune— Spirit (so success) is wafted To him by the breath of June. Month of months—let’s sing its praises! Museum-readers, join the tune— The freshest leaves, the brightest flowers, All are thine, sweet month of June. With mamma for a teacher, ’Tis easy to learn; Her eye gives her boy courage, As hard pages turn. She says, “Now, my dear Freddy, Learn every word right; If you’re patient, the hard spots Will vanish from sight. “When this task is well finished, Your work will be done; Then the time comes for playing, Says every one. “Your fleet rock-horse is waiting; And baby shall see.” Freddy learned well his lessons, And rides full of glee. fancy rule Don’t tell me of to-morrow, There is much to do to-day, That can never be accomplished, If we throw the hours away. Every moment has its duty— Who the future can foretell? Then why put off till to-morrow, What to-day can do as well? “Don’t kill me,”—caterpillar said, As Clara raised her heel, Upon the humble worm to tread, As though it could not feel. “Don’t kill me—I will crawl away, And hide me from your sight, And when I come, some other day, You’ll view me with delight.” The caterpillar went and hid In some dark, quiet place, Where none could look on what he did, To change his form and face. And then, one day, as Clara read Within a shady nook, A butterfly, superbly dressed, Alighted on her book. His shining wings were dotted o’er With gold, and blue, and green, And Clara owned she naught before So beautiful had seen. You may boast of your brandy and wine as you please, Gin, cider, and all the rest; Cold water transcends them in all the degrees, It is good—it is better—’tis BEST. It is good to warm you when you are cold, Good to cool you when you are hot; It is good for the young—it is good for the old, Whatever their outward lot. It is better than brandy to quicken the blood, It is better than gin for the colic; It is better than wine for the generous mood, Than whisky or rum for a frolic. ’Tis the best of all drinks for quenching your thirst, ’Twill revive you for work or for play; In sickness or health, ’tis the best and the first— Oh! try it—you’ll find it will pay. Looking up in musing wonder At the silent wires above him, And profoundly meditating, Suddenly says Mike—that’s Michael— Suddenly says Pat—that’s Patrick— “Can you show me, can you tell me, How it is that news and letters, How it is that big newspapers, Full of news, and fun, and wisdom, Travel ever back and forward, Travel with the speed of lightning— Always going, always coming, And yet never interfering; While we, sitting under, watching, Can not see them, can not hear them, Can not draw their secret from them; Can not tell how ’tis they do it, Can not quite believe they do it, Though we all the while do know it?” “Should you ask me, Mike”—that’s Michael— “Should you ask,” says Pat—that’s Patrick— “How these silent wires above us Talk, and write, and carry letters— Carry news, and carry orders, Though we can not see nor hear them, Sitting under, watching, listening— Can not see them, can not hear them, Can not catch the smallest whisper Of the messages they carry— I should answer, I should tell you, That those little wires are hollow, With a passage running through them From the one end to the other; And they send, not papers through them, And they send, not written letters; But they send—these strange magicians— Through those passages so narrow, Whispering spirits, living fairies, Flying ever back and forward, Message-bearing, hither, thither— Faithful messengers, that tell not You, nor me, though watching, listening, What the messages they carry.” “Och! indade,” says Mike—that’s Michael— “Do you know it, Pat”—that’s Patrick— “Do you know it, Pat, for certain? Have you seen the whispering spirits? Have you seen these living fairies? Have you heard them shooting by us? Have you heard their fairy whisper? Tell me, do you know it, surely? Tell me, is it only blarney?” Then in anger, Pat—that’s Patrick— Proudly answered, “Mike”—that’s Michael— “Sure you know I’m Pat”—that’s Patrick— “Sure you know I was in College; Four long years in F——m College— Hewing wood and bearing water, Kindling fires, and chores achieving, For the great and learned scholars Of the mighty F——m College. So you needn’t, Mike”—that’s Michael— “Set me down for a Know-Nothing; Needn’t reckon me a Hindoo; Needn’t doubt that what I tell you Is as true as if a lawyer Should have told it to a jury; Or as if a man in Congress Or in caucus said and swore it On his everlasting honor, On his faith and on his conscience; This, I trust, will satisfy you.” THE UMBRELLA, AND THE APRIL SHOWER.Keep close—we’ll crowd the closer, The harder it shall pour; ’Tis seldom one umbrella Is called to shelter four; But ours is large and generous, And has a heart for more. Yet faster, and yet faster, The pelting sheets arrive, And our one good umbrella Is bound to shelter five, For we are packed as snugly As bees within a hive. Now let it come in torrents— We’re snug as snug can be; What cares our brave umbrella For five, or four, or three? On every side ’tis shedding The rain in careless glee. The clouds are very leaky, The bottom must be out, But, with our good umbrella, We have no fear nor doubt, Though every stick above us Rains like a tiny spout. Heigho! ’tis coming faster, The bottles sure have burst; But hark! the brave umbrella Says, "Clouds, do now your worst, If you would wet these children, You must destroy me first." They must have thrown wide open The windows of the sky; But, with our good umbrella, I think we’ll get home dry; Or, if we do get sprinkled, We’ll neither fret nor cry. Step lightly, bonnie sister, Keep close, sweet little pet, With such a brave umbrella, We shall not be much wet; But Prink will have a drenching, On that I’ll make a bet. How like a river torrent It pours along the street! Prink cares not for umbrellas, To him a bath’s a treat, And our good India-rubbers Are umbrellas for our feet. What’s that you say, dear Nellie? ’Tis dropping on your arm? Indeed, our kind umbrella Didn’t mean you any harm; And soon the good snug parlor Will make all dry and warm. Ha! ha! the wind is rising, But we are almost there. What if our good umbrella Should fly away in air! Run, Prink, and say we’re coming, And open the gate—do you hear! Let the fur-clad Laplander boast Of the reindeer’s bird-like speed; Let the Arab, for riding post, Bet high on his mettlesome steed; Let the Briton talk loud of the chase With the fox, or the hare, or the stag; Let the Yankee, stark mad in the race, Count miles by the minutes, and brag; The bird of the desert is ours— Competitors all we defy— A bird of such wonderful powers— We scarce know if we ride or we fly. You have all of the hippogriff heard, For mettle and speed a rare thing, Half-breed betwixt courser and bird, Keeping pace with foot and with wing. The bird of the desert is he, The ostrich of beautiful plume, Skimming earth, as a swallow the sea, Or an eagle the lofty blue dome. He laughs at the speed of the hind, For pursuers he feels no concern, He travels ahead of the wind, And leaves the dull lightning astern. Turn up the generous soil— ’Tis rich in hidden wealth, And well repays your earnest toil With plenty, peace, and health. Plow with a bold, strong hand— Drive deep the glittering share; No surface-scratching will command Earth’s treasures rich and rare. Then, if you’d freely reap, With bounteous freedom sow— And while you wake, and while you sleep, The precious grain will grow. Poor faithful Watch! thy watch of life is o’er, And mute and senseless near the kitchen door Thou lay’st, a breathless corpse, Where thou stood to guard before; Thy pliant temper, known and praised by all, Thy prompt obedience to thy master’s call; Whether to climb the hill, or scour the plain, Or drive encroaching hogs from out the lane; Thy quick return, on motion of his hand, To guard the door, or wait a fresh command; Thy joy to meet at eve, with fawning play, Domestic faces, absent but a day; Thy bark, that might the boldest thief affright, And patient watch through many a dreary night— All speak thy worth, but none could save thy breath, For what is merit ’gainst the shafts of Death? Sleep, then, my dog! thy tour of duty o’er, Where thief and trav’ler can disturb no more; Content t’ have gained all that thou now canst have— Thy master’s plaudit and a peaceful grave! GONE—ALL GONE!By the bubbling fount ’mid the greenwood shades, In the leafy world of the forest glades, No more the birds, at the blush of morn, Trill their sweet notes; they are gone—all gone! Voices of summer, I’ve listed long For the witching strains of your matin song; Through the woodland dim, o’er the rustling lawn, I have sought you oft; but you’re gone—all gone? No more do you start in your still retreat At the thundering tramp of the horses’ feet, Or the wandering note of the bugle horn; But the woods are mute, for you’re gone—all gone! ’Mid the wild wood’s haunts, through your lonely nests, The rude winds play, and the snow-wreath rests In their yielding curve, while in jeering scorn The cold blast whistles, "Gone—all gone!" They say that ye sing ’neath a sunnier arch Of the azure skies, where the seasons’ march Brings but one endless vernal dawn; But my heart is sad, for you’re gone—all gone! The Christmas tree! The Christmas tree! O gather around it now; Its fruits are free For you and for me, And they hang from every bough. Its flowers are bright, And they grew in a night, For yesterday it was bare Did ever you see An evergreen tree So fruitful and so fair? Look! here is a rose! And who would suppose An orange and a pear Would grow by the side Of the garden’s pride? But here, you see, they are. And, stranger yet, Here’s a bon-bon, set On the same identical stem, With two plums, so big That a neighboring fig Seems lost in the shadow of them. And here, what’s this? As I live, ’tis a kiss, And just where a kiss should be; A tulip full blown, Hard by it is shown— Indeed, ’tis a wonderful tree. Here, bravo! I’ve found Merry’s Museum, bound— This must be the Tree of Knowledge; Besides which, behold! All lettered in gold, A poem fresh out from the college. Hold! hold! my good sirs, Here’s a nice set of furs— ’Tis a fir-tree, you all must agree; And here, not incog., Is a sweet sugar-hog— Does that make a mahogany-tree? Oh! who would have guessed? Here’s a nice little chest, Of course ’tis a chestnut-tree; Not so fast, cousin Knox, Here’s a beautiful box— A box-tree it surely must be. Your proof something lacks, For here is an ax. You must own ’tis an axle-tree now; Hallo! here’s a whip, For your horsemanship— ’Tis a whipple-tree, then, you’ll allow. What now shall be said? Here are needles and thread— Let’s see—shall we call it tre-mend(o)us? Oh, pshaw! pray do stop, I’m ready to drop— Your puns are absurdly stupendous. It was just outside of the village, In a cool, sequestered nook, On the right was the murmuring forest, On the left was the babbling brook. Behind, the o’ershadowing mountain Reared its gray old head to the sky, While before it, the widening valley Stretched out like a sea to the eye. ’Twas a rare, sweet spot, and a lovely As ever this fair world knew; There spring came earliest always, And summer the latest withdrew. Day reluctantly left it at evening, And hastened to greet it at dawn, And stars, birds, and flowers loved to visit The place where my mother was born. It was a beautiful morning, quite early in May, The fathers all plowing, the children all play; The mothers all spinning, as busy as bees, And the birds quite as busy all round in the trees; While some were singing songs over and over, Sometimes in the tree-tops, then down in the clover, Young Robert was trying his very best notes, And the strength of his song by the length of his throat. Chorus—Envy me, envy me, Cordially, cordially, Fiddlesticks, fiddlesticks! Just act your pleasure, sir. Sometimes he was singing to Jemmy the farmer, And then to Miss Alice, and trying to charm her; Next moment he’d light on the top of a thistle, And either be singing or trying to whistle: Miss Alice, Miss Alice! it will give me much pleasure To sing you a sonnet while I am at leisure. I will sing you a good one, and very explicit, And stop when I choose, or whenever you wish it. Chorus—Certainly, certainly, etc. While Jemmy is plowing and learning to whistle, My wife is at home, in the shade of a thistle, In a neat little nest, with a wild rose behind it. You need not look for it, for you never can find it. The farmer is plowing, and soon will be mowing; While he’s cutting the daisies his corn will be growing. When the heads on the barley are ripe, and the cherry, Mary Lincoln and I will be singing so merry. Chorus—Cordially, cordially, Envy me, envy me, Fiddlesticks, fiddlesticks! Just act your pleasure, sir. When the leaves on the trees and the flowers on the clover Are withered and faded, and Summer is over; When the grass on the meadows is leveled and gone, We will sing our last sonnet and leave you alone. We will fly far away to the rice and the cotton; But let not our thistle and rose be forgotten. We are certain to come again early in Spring, And bring some choice music, which we promise to sing. Chorus—Cordially, cordially, Envy me, envy me, Fiddlesticks, fiddlesticks! Just act your pleasure, sir. A Lapland merchant must needs, one day, To a distant market go; But he had no horse, and he had no sleigh, To carry him over the snow. "Yet go I must," said the sturdy man— "There is a way for every will— Each new necessity has its plan, For the earnest mind to fulfill." So he drew, from the ice-bound river, a scow, And lined it with furs and moss, Then harnessed a reindeer to its prow, With a rope his horns across. No track was there—but the traveler knew The way over valley and plain; Like a well-trained steed, the reindeer flew, And brought him safe back again. The fashion he set is in fashion now, Among the fur-clad Norse; They use for a sleigh a flat-bottomed scow, And a reindeer for a horse. Said the resolute man, "They shall serve my turn; Whatever we must, we may, And sooner or later each man will learn, That where there’s a will there’s a way." The boys were blowing bubbles, Bright red, and green, and blue, And every changing color That ever mortal knew. They floated in the window, And glided past my chair, But in a moment perished, And faded in the air. The boys, with shouts and laughter, Blew till quite out of breath, While high in the leafy maple The bubbles gleamed till death. Too much like earthly pleasure Seemed the bubbles, bright and gay; They charm a fleeting moment, Then vanish, away—away. Sweet love’s ecstatic potion Our spirits long to sip, But Death may dash the nectar From the unsullied lip. And he who quaffs the longest, Whose heart divinely glows, Finds clouds will gather round him, For earthly joys must close. Some grasp at wealth’s bright beacon, And follow where it leads— Sometimes to fairest honor, Sometimes to foulest deeds And often proves a bubble, A floating thing of air— Eludes the weary victim, And leaves him starving there. If love’s so frail a treasure, And wealth may fade away; If earthly joys are changing, And fame lives but a day; Then where are shining jewels That will not break at last, And leave us, eager viewers, All mourning for the past? High in the holy heavens, A pearl of price untold Shines brighter far than rubies, More precious than fine gold. It can not fade or perish, Can never pass away; It is a hope in Jesus, A trust in God alway! M. A. L. AFTER SCHOOL.Just look upon that group of boys, Brim full of frolic, spunk, and noise, When, at the word, "The school is done," They rush to liberty and fun. Pell-mell, they run, and jump, and leap, Tumbling in one promiscuous heap, Until you wonder by what token They ’scape with heads and limbs unbroken. Bold, reckless, cunning, cool, or sly, What won’t they do? what won’t they try? They’re up to every kind of scheme, To test their strength, and let off steam. ’Tis an epitome of life, Without its shades of care and strife; Each has his private joke, and cracks it, Regardless how the other takes it. And there’s the point—boys take rough jokes More pleasantly than older folks, Not heeding much what’s said or done, So they can have their fill of fun. Sweet bird! that through the shadows Of the night, so sad and lone, Warblest thy notes of gladness, With softly thrilling tone. ’Tis when the gloom is deepest, And all is hushed in fear, Save that night-winds are moaning Through the stillness dark and drear; ’Tis then thy voice is sweetest, And seems wafted from above, As to the sad and sorrowing Come words of hope and love. Thou’rt heard within the casement, Through the weary night of pain; And thy warble is an earnest That the day will come again. Methinks thou art a spirit-bird, Sent from a holier sphere; Such spirits do not linger Amidst the sorrowing here. That’s right, Benny, go it strong, Go it high, and go it long, Swiftly run, and boldly leap, Froggy Charles is quite a heap. Charley Frog, now take your jump; Benny, make yourself a lump; ’Tis a wholesome sport and rare— Rest and toil an equal share. Now you’re down, and now you’re up; Now you leap, and now you stoop; Now you rest, and now you run; Any way, ’tis right good fun. The earth hath treasures fair and bright, Deep buried in her caves, And ocean hideth many a gem With his blue, curling waves; Yet not within her bosom dark, Or ’neath the dashing foam, Lives there a treasure equaling A world of love at home! True, sterling happiness and joy Are not with gold allied, Nor can it yield a pleasure like A merry fireside. I envy not the man who dwells In stately hall or dome, If, ’mid his splendor, he hath not A world of love at home. The friends whom time hath proved sincere, ’Tis they alone can bring A sure relief to hearts that droop ’Neath sorrow’s heavy wing. Though care and trouble may be mine, As down life’s path I roam, I’ll heed them not while still I have A world of love at home. I must hasten home, said a rosy child, Who had gayly roamed for hours; I must hasten home to my mother dear— She will seek me amid the bowers. If she chides, I will seal her lips with a kiss, And offer her all my flowers. I must hasten home, said a beggar girl, As she carried the pitiful store Of crumbs and scraps of crusted bread, She had gathered from door to door; I must hasten home to my mother dear— She is feeble, and old, and poor! I must hasten home, said the ball-room belle, As day began to dawn; And the glittering jewels her dark hair decked, Shone bright as the dews of morn; I’ll forsake the joys of this changing world, Which leave in the heart but a thorn. I must hasten home, said a dying youth, Who had vainly sought for fame— Who had vowed to win a laurel wreath, And immortalize his name; But, a stranger, he died on a foreign shore— All the hopes he had cherished were vain. I am hastening home, said an aged man, As he gazed on the grassy sod, Where oft, ere age had silvered his hairs, His feet had lightly trod; Farewell! farewell to this lovely earth— I am hastening home to God! With meek and simple faith, A child’s confiding love, The infant cherub kneels to breathe His prayer to God above. And all the host of heaven is there, To listen to that infant prayer. "God, bring dear father home, God, make dear mother well, God, make me good, and let us come All in Thy house to dwell." Then, while their watch good angels keep, "God giveth His beloved sleep." Roses and tulips, with all their gay train, O’er garden and landscape cause beauty to reign. By the brook, or the hillside, or light woody grove, Enchanted—delighted—on, smiling, we rove; ’Rapt up in fond thoughts of the verdure and bloom, ’Till autumn’s cold frost sweeps the whole to the tomb. My emotions, when life seems thus passing and vain, Even wisdom and prudence can hardly restrain. Rude winter now comes, and with sleet, hail, and snow, Right and left sends his arrows, as shivering we go. Yet I see there’s a chance, even now, to be cheery, Sitting snug by the fire, with old Robert Merry. My cosy old friend, no winter is found Unfurled in thy pages the whole season round! Still birds sing their songs in some warm, sunny clime, Ever speaking in music and talking in rhyme; Unless you may tell us some odd tale that’s true, Making all of us merry, Old Merry, with you! B. Sure I am, I do not know Why we love our Nebby so; But I am sure, as sure can be, Nebby knows why he loves me. Mattie feeds Neb every day, And ’tis as good as any play, Just to see his pranks and freaks, When to Nebby Mattie speaks. When I go home from the store, Nebby meets me at the door, And says, most eloquently dumb, "Nebby’s glad that you have come." Nebby is a little pet; Nebby don’t know how to fret; But he knows the tenderest part Of our Mattie’s tender heart. Whence that sweet, inspiring strain, Pealing on my ravished ear? Hark! its thrilling notes again From the courts of heaven I hear— “Hallelujah to the Lamb, Who hath bought us with His blood! Honor, glory to His name, We through Him are sons of God.” Angels fain their notes would join With that vast, triumphant song; But their harps, though all divine, Ne’er can reach that wondrous song Learned on earth, and new in heaven, Only they its chords can know Who to God by grace are given, Ransomed from the depths of wo. Angels can not know or tell, In their pure, unfallen bliss, How a soul, redeemed from hell, Sings the mystery of grace! They the chosen, countless throng, Ever round the throne above, In their new and endless song, Celebrate redeeming love. The Chinaman his life consumes, On opium regaling— The Yankee his tobacco fumes With equal zest inhaling— Though trembling nerves and fitful glooms Warn them that health is failing. For almost everything that’s done Some reason wit supposes, But for the smoker’s faith, not one The keenest wit discloses; ’Tis filthy, vulgar, costly fun, Hateful to all good noses. Well, isn’t that a funny dress? You think he must be cruel, With human bones set round his crown, And skulls in place of jewels. Yet in his countenance you see Nothing severe or savage, As if, with cannibal intent, Our whole domain he’d ravage. There’s no accounting for our tastes, ("De gustibus," and so forth;) Some dote on very slender waists, Some like hooped cisterns go forth. Sneer not at Indian or Malay, Nor get into a passion; He does as you do day by day— Follows the latest fashion. White dandies strut in stove-pipe hats, White women go bare-headed; Which is most proper, red or white, We leave in doubt deep shaded. One sunny day a child went Maying— When lo, while ’mid the zephyrs playing, He saw his shadow at his back! He turned and fled, but on his track The seeming goblin came apace, And step for step gave deadly chase! Weary at last, with desperate might The urchin paused and faced the fright, When lo, the demon, thin and gray, Faded amid the grass away! ’Tis thus in life—when shadows chase, If we but meet them face to face, What seemed a fiend in fear arrayed, Sinks at our feet a harmless shade. Peter Parley. Missing or damaged punctuation has been repaired. Book 1.Page 86: 11.: 'stich' corrected to 'stitch'. "Stitch! stitch! stitch!" Page 87: 42.: '10,000' corrected to '10,100'. "Arithmetic!: 202 x 50 = 10,100" Page 91: 123.: 123.
corrected to 123.
Page 92: 156. 'chittim wood' Genesis 6, 14 in the King James Bible and the Revised Standard Version state that the ark was made of gopher wood, covered with pitch, inside and out. The New English Bible gives cypress ribs, covered with reeds, and then pitched, inside and out. Concise Oxford English Dictionary agrees with the King James version (and RSV). Some other versions of the Bible may have given chittim wood - an American shrub: Pp. various: 'rod' is a pre-decimal measure of length. A rod, pole, or perch - 5½ yards, or 16½ feet. = 5.03 metres Book 2.Page 18: 'wh' correctred to 'who'. 68. Behead an article of apparel, and leave one who sometimes wears it. Page 35: 'diamter' corrected to 'diameter'. "The third, of which the diameter is one foot, circumscribes the first and second." Page 62: 'know' corrected to 'known'. "My first in cities is well known" Page 89: Second '102.' corrected to '103.'. "103. Apollos." Page 90: 'I'ts' corrected to 'It's'. "146. When It's mild (it smiled.)" Page 92: 242. 'Heah-less.' corrected to 'head-less.' Page 93: 317. 'Heartseaso.' corrected to 'Heartsease.' Page 94: 383. A yard and a quarter. Abe—Abe-L. Ell (from Wikipedia) ... In England, the ell was usually 45 in (1.143 m), or a yard and a quarter. It was mainly used in the tailoring business but is now obsolete.... Book 3.Pages 21-22: Illustration moved to front of poem to avoid breaking the stanza. Page 51: 'Know-Kothing' corrected to 'Know-Nothing' "Set me down for a Know-Nothing;" Page 84: 'wo' is probably an old form of 'woe'. "Ransomed from the depths of wo." Page 90: The following extraneous entries have been removed from the list of Contents, and the (correct) page numbers below reinstated with the correct Poem titles.
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