Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky, Touch - for there is a spirit in the woods. - William Wordsworth. THE SQUIRREL. THE HE pretty, black Squirrel lives up in a tree, A little blithe creature as ever can be; Far in the shades of the green sum mer woods; His food is the young juicy cones of the Pine, And the milky Beechnut is his bread and his wine. In the joy of his nature he frisks with a bound And from tree to tree with a vaulting spring; But small as he is, he knows he may want, So he finds a hole in an old tree's core, And there makes his nest, and lays up his store; And when cold winter comes, and the trees are bare, When the white snow is falling, and keen is the air, He heeds it not as he sits by himself, In his warm little nest, with his nuts on his shelf, O, wise little squirrel! no wonder that he In the green summer woods is as blithe as can be. Mary Howitt. A FABLE. THE MOUNTAIN AND THE SQUIRREL. T Had a quarrel; HE mountain and the squirrel And the former called the latter "Little Prig; Bun replied, "You are doubtless very big; But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together, To make up a year And a sphere; And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I'm not so large as you, You are not so small as I, I'll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track ; Talents differ; all is well and wisely put ; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut." - Ralph Waldo Emerson. TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. THOU HOU blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue, That openest when the quiet light Thou comest not when violets lean unseen, Or columbines, in purple dressed, nest. Thou waitest late, and com'st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, And frosts and shortening days por tend The aged year is near his end. Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye I would that thus, when I shall see FADED LEAVES. THE HE hills are bright with maples yet, The beech leaves rustle in the wind, As dry and brown as sand. The clouds in bars of rusty red And in the still, sharp air, the frost The berries of the brier-rose The cricket grows more friendly now, The pigeons in black wavering lines His store of nuts and acorns now 'Tis time to light the evening fire, The low and lovely songs, that breathe - Alice Cary. THE THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. HE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, brown and sear. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. |