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Do you see Martha Hunt, how she bears all the brunt

Of the chilly, damp, blustering day? How gladly she picks all the littering sticks, Her kettle will soon boil


How snug she will sit by the fireplace and knit, While Daniel her fortune will praise.

The wind roars away. 'Master Wind,' they will say,

'We thank you for this pretty blaze.'

Then, spite of the rooks, what we read in the books

Is true, and the storm has done good;

It seems hard, I own, when the nests are o'erthrown,

But Daniel and Martha get wood.




Brother, before we go to bed,

Let's run to the meadow gate,
And pull a bunch of cuckoo flowers;
To-morrow 'twill be too late.
For John says he must mow the grass
Before the sun is high.

I wonder do the flowers know

To-morrow they must die?

All day to-morrow you and John
Will toss out in the sun

Dead leaves and faded flowers together;
You'll only think of the fun.
But I shall feel a little sad,

For you know I always say
That the glory of the year is gone
When the flowers are cut away.

When all the pleasant meadow-lands
Are bare, and still, and green,
They never look so bright to me
As in the spring they've been,
I like to see the meadow-sweet
In the wind move to and fro;
Purples growing high in the grass,
Red pimpernels below.

The cuckoo flowers stand boldly up,
But I think if we were near,
We should see that every glittering bud
Hung heavy with a tear.

And see the poppies near the hedge,
Each slowly bends its head;
Can they be telling one another,
'To-morrow you'll be dead?'

I shall not join the haymaking,
Or play in the hay with you;
I am so sorry for the flowers

We have loved the summer through.


I am glad the sun shone out so warm,
That sweetly passed the hours,
And that the air was soft and still,
On the last day of the flowers.

Annie Keary.



The blind boy's been at play, mother,
And many games we had,
We led him on the way, mother,
And every step was glad.
But when we found a starry flower,
And praised its varied hue,

A tear came trembling down his cheek,
Just like a drop of dew.

We took him to the mill, mother,

Where falling waters made
A rainbow o'er the rill, mother,

As golden sun-rays played.
But when we shouted at the scene,
And hailed the clear blue sky,
He stood quite still upon the bank,
And breathed a long, long sigh.

We asked him why he wept, mother,
Whene'er we found the spots
Where periwinkle crept, mother,
O'er wild forget-me-nots.

'Ah me!' he said, while tears ran down As fast as summer showers;

'It is because I cannot see

The sunshine and the flowers.

Oh, that poor sightless boy, mother,
Has taught me I am blest,
For I can look with joy, mother,
On all I love the best.

And when I see the dancing stream,
And daisies red and white,

I'll kneel upon the meadow-grass,
And thank God for my sight.

E. Cook.



I've got my broidered kerchief on,
My hat is trimmed with ribbons rare,
And John is waiting at the gate
To take me with him to the fair.

He says the sun will surely shine,
For mists are rising from the dell,
But not a single step I'll take

Till I've consulted pimpernel.

Grandfather's weather-glass says 'Dry'
(The seaweed hanging from the wall),
The swallows, too, are soaring high;
But I must ask my pimpernel.

Ah, pimpernel, you're wide awake!
Brightly your scarlet flowers glow;
No rain will fall this livelong day,
So, John, I am ready to go.

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From Summer Songs.'



January brings the snow, makes our feet and fingers glow,

February brings the rain, thaws the frozen lake again.

March brings breezes loud and shrill, stirs the dancing daffodil.

April brings the primrose sweet, scatters daisies at our feet.

May brings flocks of pretty lambs, skipping by their fleecy dams.

June brings tulips, lilies, roses, fills the children's hands with posies.

Hot July brings cooling showers, apricots and gilliflowers,

August brings the sheaves of corn; then the harvest home is borne.

Warm September brings the fruit; sportsmen, too, begin to shoot.

Fresh October brings the pheasant; then to gather nuts is pleasant.

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