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The Visitor

Where one can talk with animals,
And walk about unseen;

Where Little People live in nuts,
And ride on butterflies,

And wonders kindly come to pass
Before your very eyes;

Where candy grows on every bush,
And playthings on the trees,

And visitors pick basketfuls
As often as they please.

It is the nicest time of day-
Though Bedtime is so near,-
When Mother takes the Fairy Book
And we curl up to hear.

Abbie Farwell Brown [18

THE VISITOR

THE white goat Amaryllis,

She wandered at her will

At time of daffodillies

Afar and up the hill:

We hunted and we holloa'd

And back she came at dawn,

But what d'you think had followed?—
A little, pagan Faun!

His face was like a berry,

His ears were high and pricked:
Tip-tap-his hoofs came merry
As up the path he clicked;

A junket for his winning
We set in dairy delf;
He eat it peart and grinning
As Christian as yourself!

He stayed about the steading
A fortnight, say, or more;
A blanket for his bedding
We spread beside the door;

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And when the cocks crowed clearly
Before the dawn was ripe,
He'd call the milkmaids cheerly
Upon a reedy pipe!

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The Satyrs and the Moon

He slightly frowned, and with his eye He looked me through and through. "I'm quite as big for me," said he,

"As you are big for you."

-John Kendrick Bangs [1862

THE SATYRS AND THE MOON

WITHIN the wood behind the hill

The moon got tangled in the trees. Her splendor made the branches thrill And thrilled the breeze.

The satyrs in the grotto bent

Their heads to see the wondrous sight.

"It is a god in banishment

That stirs the night."

The little satyr looked and guessed:
"It is an apple that one sees,

Brought from that garden of the West-
Hesperides."

"It is a cyclops' glaring eye."

"A temple dome from Babylon."

"A Titan's cup of ivory."

"A little sun."

The tiny satyr jumped for joy,

And kicked his hoofs in utmost glee. "It is a wondrous silver toy-

Bring it to me!"

A great wind whistled through the blue

And caught the moon and tossed it high; A bubble of pale fire it flew

Across the sky.

The satyrs gasped and looked and smiled,

And wagged their heads from side to side, Except their shaggy little child,

Who cried and cried.

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Herbert S. Gorman [18

THE CHILDREN

THE CHILDREN

WHEN the lessons and tasks are all ended,
And the school for the day is dismissed,
The little ones gather around me,

To bid me good night and be kissed;
Oh, the little white arms that encircle
My neck in their tender embrace!
Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven,
Shedding sunshine of love on my face!

And when they are gone, I sit dreaming
Of my childhood too lovely to last,-
Of joy that my heart will remember,
While it wakes to the pulse of the past,
Ere the world and its wickedness made me
A partner of sorrow and sin,

When the glory of God was about me,
And the glory of gladness within.

All my heart grows as weak as a woman's,
And the fountain of feeling will flow,
When I think of the paths steep and stony,
Where the feet of the dear ones must go,-
Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them,
Of the tempest of fate blowing wild;—
Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy
As the innocent heart of a child!

They are idols of hearts and of households;
They are angels of God in disguise;
His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses,
His glory still shines in their eyes;

The Children

Those truants from home and from heaven,-
They have made me more manly and mild;
And I know now how Jesus could liken
The kingdom of God to a child.

I ask not a life for the dear ones,

All radiant, as others have done,

But that life may have just enough shadow
To temper the glare of the sun;

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I would pray God to guard them from evil,
But my prayer would bound back to myself;-

Ah! a seraph may pray for a sinner,

But a sinner must pray for himself.

The twig is so easily bended,

I have banished the rule and the rod

I have taught them the goodness of knowledge,
They have taught me the goodness of God:
My heart is the dungeon of darkness

Where I shut them for breaking a rule;

My frown is sufficient correction;
My love is the law of the school.

I shall leave the old house in the autumn,
To traverse its threshold no more;
Ah, how I shall sigh for the dear ones

That meet me each morn at the door!
I shall miss the "good nights" and the kisses,
And the gush of their innocent glee,
The group on the green, and the flowers
That are brought every morning for me.

I shall miss them at morn and at even,
Their song in the school and the street;
I shall miss the low hum of their voices,
And the tread of their delicate feet.
When the lessons of life are all ended,

And death says: "The school is dismissed!"

May the little ones gather around me,

To bid me good night and be kissed!

Charles Monroe Dickinson [1842

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