The Posy Ring: A Book of Verse for Children. Various

Pleasanter than May?

       Roger in the corn-patch

       Whistling negro songs;

       Pussy by the hearth-side

       Romping with the tongs;

       Chestnuts in the ashes

       Bursting through the rind;

       Red leaf and gold leaf

       Rustling down the wind;

       Mother "doin' peaches"

       All the afternoon—

       Don't you think that autumn's

       Pleasanter than June?

       Little fairy snow-flakes

       Dancing in the flue;

       Old Mr. Santa Claus,

       What is keeping you?

       Twilight and firelight

       Shadows come and go;

       Merry chime of sleigh-bells

       Tinkling through the snow;

       Mother knitting stockings

       (Pussy's got the ball)— Don't you think that winter's Pleasanter than all?

      Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

       In February

      The birds have been singing to-day,

       And saying: "The spring is near!

       The sun is as warm as in May,

       And the deep blue heavens are clear."

       The little bird on the boughs

       Of the sombre snow-laden pine

       Thinks: "Where shall I build me my house,

       And how shall I make it fine?

       "For the season of snow is past;

       The mild south wind is on high;

       And the scent of the spring is cast

       From his wing as he hurries by."

       The little birds twitter and cheep

       To their loves on the leafless larch;

       But seven feet deep the snow-wreaths sleep,

       And the year hath not worn to March.

      John Addington Symonds.

      

       March

      The cock is crowing,

       The stream is flowing,

       The small birds twitter,

       The lake doth glitter,

       The green field sleeps in the sun;

       The oldest and youngest

       Are at work with the strongest;

       The cattle are grazing,

       Their heads never raising;

       There are forty feeding like one.

       Like an army defeated

       The snow hath retreated,

       And now doth fare ill

       On the top of the bare hill;

       The ploughboy is whooping—anon—anon!

       There's joy on the mountains;

       There's life in the fountains;

       Small clouds are sailing,

       Blue sky prevailing;

       The rain is over and gone.

      William Wordsworth.

      Nearly Ready[A]

      

      In the snowing and the blowing,

       In the cruel sleet,

       Little flowers begin their growing

       Far beneath our feet.

       Softly taps the Spring, and cheerly,

       "Darlings, are you here?"

       Till they answer, "We are nearly,

       Nearly ready, dear."

       "Where is Winter, with his snowing?

       Tell us, Spring," they say.

       Then she answers, "He is going,

       Going on his way.

       Poor old Winter does not love you;

       But his time is past;

       Soon my birds shall sing above you—

       Set you free at last."

      Mary Mapes Dodge.

       Spring Song

      Spring comes hither,

       Buds the rose;

       Roses wither,

       Sweet spring goes. Summer soars— Wide-winged day; White light pours, Flies away. Soft winds blow, Westward born; Onward go, Toward the morn.

      George Eliot

       In April

      The poplar drops beside the way

       Its tasselled plumes of silver-gray;

       The chestnut pouts its great brown buds

       Impatient for the laggard May.

       The honeysuckles lace the wall,

       The hyacinths grow fair and tall;

       And mellow sun and pleasant wind

       And odorous bees are over all.

      Elizabeth Akers.

      

       Spring

      The alder by the river

       Shakes out her powdery curls;

       The willow buds in silver

       For little boys and girls.

       The little birds fly over,

       And oh, how sweet they sing!

       To tell the happy children

       That once again 'tis spring.

       The gay green grass comes creeping

       So soft beneath their feet;

       The frogs begin to ripple

       A music clear and sweet.

       And buttercups are coming,

       And scarlet columbine;

       And in the sunny meadows

       The dandelions shine.

       And just as many daisies

       As their soft hands can hold

       The little ones may gather,

       All fair in white and gold.