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

Summer Days

      Winter is cold-hearted;

       Spring is yea and nay;

       Autumn is a weathercock,

       Blown every way:

       Summer days for me,

       When every leaf is on its tree,

       When Robin's not a beggar,

       And Jenny Wren's a bride,

       And larks hang, singing, singing, singing,

       Over the wheat-fields wide,

       And anchored lilies ride,

       And the pendulum spider

       Swings from side to side,

       And blue-black beetles transact business,

       And gnats fly in a host, And furry caterpillars hasten That no time be lost, And moths grow fat and thrive, And ladybirds arrive. Before green apples blush, Before green nuts embrown, Why, one day in the country Is worth a month in town— Is worth a day and a year Of the dusty, musty, lag-last fashion That days drone elsewhere.

      Christina G. Rossetti.

       September

      The goldenrod is yellow,

       The corn is turning brown,

       The trees in apple orchards

       With fruit are bending down;

       The gentian's bluest fringes

       Are curling in the sun;

       In dusty pods the milkweed

       Its hidden silk has spun;

       The sedges flaunt their harvest

       In every meadow nook,

       And asters by the brookside

       Make asters in the brook; From dewy lanes at morning The grapes' sweet odors rise; At noon the roads all flutter With yellow butterflies— By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer's best of weather And autumn's best of cheer.

      H. H.

       How the Leaves Came Down

      I'll tell you how the leaves came down.

       The great Tree to his children said,

       "You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown,

       Yes, very sleepy, little Red;

       It is quite time you went to bed."

       "Ah!" begged each silly, pouting leaf,

       "Let us a little longer stay;

       Dear Father Tree, behold our grief,

       'Tis such a very pleasant day

       We do not want to go away."

       So, just for one more merry day

       To the great Tree the leaflets clung,

       Frolicked and danced and had their way,

       Upon the autumn breezes swung,

       Whispering all their sports among,

       "Perhaps the great Tree will forget

       And let us stay until the spring,

       If we all beg and coax and fret."

       But the great Tree did no such thing;

       He smiled to hear their whispering.

       "Come, children all, to bed," he cried;

       And ere the leaves could urge their prayer

       He shook his head, and far and wide,

       Fluttering and rustling everywhere,

       Down sped the leaflets through the air.

       I saw them; on the ground they lay,

       Golden and red, a huddled swarm,

       Waiting till one from far away,

       White bed-clothes heaped upon her arm,

       Should come to wrap them safe and warm.

       The great bare Tree looked down and smiled.

       "Good-night, dear little leaves," he said;

       And from below each sleepy child

       Replied "Good-night," and murmured,

       "It is so nice to go to bed."

      Susan Coolidge.

      

       Winter Night

      Blow, wind, blow!

       Drift the flying snow!

       Send it twirling, whirling overhead!

       There's a bedroom in a tree

       Where, snug as snug can be,

       The squirrel nests in his cosey bed.

       Shriek, wind, shriek!

       Make the branches creak!

       Battle with the boughs till break o' day!

       In a snow-cave warm and tight,

       Through the icy winter night

       The rabbit sleeps the peaceful hours away.

       Call, wind, call,

       In entry and in hall,

       Straight from off the mountain white and wild!

       Soft purrs the pussy-cat

       On her little fluffy mat,

       And beside her nestles close her furry child.

       Scold, wind, scold,

       So bitter and so bold!

       Shake the windows with your tap, tap, tap!

       With half-shut, dreamy eyes

       The drowsy baby lies

       Cuddled closely in his mother's lap.

      Mary F. Butts.

      

      A Year's Windfalls

      On the wind of January

       Down flits the snow,

       Travelling from the frozen North

       As cold as it can blow.

       Poor robin redbreast,

       Look where he comes;

       Let him in to feel your fire,

       And toss him of your crumbs.

       On the wind in February

       Snowflakes float still,

       Half inclined to turn to rain,

       Nipping, dripping, chill.

       Then the thaws swell the streams,

       And swollen rivers swell the sea:—

       If the winter ever ends

       How pleasant it will be.

       In the wind of windy March

       The catkins drop down,

       Curly, caterpillar-like,

       Curious green and brown.

       With concourse of nest-building