Once there was a robin
Lived outside the door,
Who wanted to go inside
And hop upon the floor.
"No, no," said the mother,
You must stay with me;
Little birds are safest
Sitting in a tree!"
"I don't care," said robin,
And gave his tail a fling
"I don't think the old folks;
Know quite everything."
Down he flew, and kitty seized him,
Before he'd time to blink;
"Oh!" he cried, "I'm sorry,
But I didn't think."
Knowest thou, Gretchen, how it happens
That the dear ones die?
God walks daily in His garden
While the sun shines high.
In that garden there are roses,
Beautiful and bright,
And He gazes round, delighted
With the lovely sight.
If He marks one gayly blooming,
Than the rest more fair,
He will pause and gaze upon it,
Full of tender care,
And the beauteous rose He gathers
In His bosom lies;
But on earth are tears and sorrow,
For a dear one dies.
"Over the river," the Summer Land" lies
Fadeless its blossoms, unclouded its skies,
Towers shimmer not in the sun-ray's light,
Stars never glow-for there falleth no night.
O'er it God's glory transcendently flows,
Bathing it ever in holy repose.
Ah! we get gleams of that glorious land,
When by the river's bank trembling we stand,
Watching the waves that unceasingly flow
Over the crossing where loved ones must go.
They see the beams of the heavenly light
Gilding its glittering columns of white.
They hear the songs and rustle of wings,
We-but the echo their ecstasy brings-
Why do we sorrow when happy they lie
Ready for angels to bear them on high?
Such treasures we need their sunlight to throw
Over our pathway while waiting below.
Are there no flowers in the bright Summer Land?
Aye! tenderly kept by our Father's hand,
Borne in His love from the chill light of Time,
Transplanted, they bloom in a heavenly clime.
-May we be welcomed at last to the band,
Who, "sinless," are roaming the blest Summer Land.
WHY HE WOULDN'T DIE.
Listen, my boy, and you shall know
A thing that happened a long time ago,
When I was a boy not as large as you,
And the youngest of all the children, too.
I laugh even now as I think it o'er,
And the more I think I laugh the more.
'Twas the chilly eve of an autumn day,
We were all in the kitchen cheery and gay;
The fire burned bright on the old brick hearth;
And its cheerful light gave zest to our mirth.
My elder sister, addressing me,
"To-morrow's Thanksgiving, you know,” said ab¤;
"We must kill the chickens to-night, you see.
Now light the lantern and come with me;
I will wring their necks until they are dead,
And have them all dressed ere we go to bed."
So the huge old lantern, made of tin,
Punched full of holes, and a candle within,
Put in its appearance in a shorter time
Than it takes to make this jingling rhyme.
We started off, and the way I led,
For a raid on the chickens under the shed.
A pile of roots filled the open space,
Thus making a splendid roosting place;
And a motley tribe of domestic fowls
Sat perched there as grave and demure as owls.
My sister, unused to sights of blood,
And pale with excitement, trembling stood;
But summoning courage, she laid her plans,
And seized the old rooster with both her hands,
And with triumph written all over her face,
Her victim bore to the open space.
Then she wrung and wrung with might and main,
And wrung and twisted, and wrung again,
"Till, sure that the spark of life had fled,
She threw him down on the ground for dead.
But the rooster would not consent to die,
And be made up into chicken pie,
So he sprang away with a cackle ana bound,
Almost as soon as he touched the ground,
And hiding away from the candle's light,
Escaped the slaughter of that dark night.
My sister, thus brought to a sudden stand,
And looking at what she held in her hand,
Soon saw why the rooster was not dead-
She had wrung off his tail instead of his head.
LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS.
The breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky
Their giant branches tost.
And the heavy night hung dark,
The hills and waters o'er,
When a band of exiles moored their bark
On the wild New England shore.
Not as the conqueror comes,
They, the true-hearted, came ;
Not with the roil of the stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame.
Not as the flying come,
In silence and in fear;
They shook the depths of the forest gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.
Amidst the storm they sang.
And the stars heard, and the sea;
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free.
The ocean eagle soared
From his nest by the white waves' foam,
And the rocking pines of the forest roared-
This was their welcome home!
There were men with hoary hair
Amidst that pilgrim band :-
Why had they come to wither there,
Away from their childhood's land?
There was woman's fearless eye,
Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow, serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth!
What sought they thus afar?
Bright jewels of the mine?
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ?—
They sought a faith's pure shrine !
Aye call it holy ground,
The soil where first they trod,
They have left unstained what there they found— Freedom to worship God!
Even now methinks
Each little cottage of my native vale
Swells out its earthen sides, upheaves its roof,
Like to a hillock moved by lab'ring mole,
And with green trail weeds clamb'ring up its walls,
Roses and every gay and fragrant plant.
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