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SCHOOL POETRY BOOK.
LITTLE BLUE RIBBONS.
“Little Blue Ribbons!” We call her that
“Little Blue Ribbons” has eyes of blue,
She's a staid little woman! And so as well
“Little Blue Ribbons” believes, I think,
Dear “little Blue Ribbons !” She tells us all
THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE.
HOBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
When I was sick and lay abed,
Aud sometimes for an hour or so
And sometimes sent my ships in fleets
I was the giant great and still
THE WHITE-FOOTED DEER.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
It was a hundred years ago,
When by the woodland ways,
Or crop the birchen sprays.
Beneath a hill, whose rocky side
O’erbrowed a grassy mead,
A deer was wont to feed.
She only came when on the cliffs
The evening moonlight lay,
In which she walked by day.
White were her feet, hier forehead showed
A spot of silvery white,
In autumn's hazy night.
And here when sang the whippoorwill,
She cropped the sprouting leaves, And here her rustling steps were heard
On still October eves.
But when the broad midsummer moon
Rose o'er that grassy lawn, Beside the silver-footed deer
There grazed a spotted fawn.
The cottage dame forbade her son
To aim the rifle here; “ It were a sin,” she said, “to harm
Or fright that friendly deer.”
This spot has been my pleasant home
Ten peaceful years and more; And ever when the moonlight shines,
She feeds before our door.
“The red-men say that here she walked
A thousand moons ago;
And never twang the bow.
“I love to watch her as she feeds,
And think that all is well
The place in which we dwell.”
The youth obeyed, and sought for game
In forests far away,
The ancient woodland lay.
But once, in autumn's golden time
He ranged the wild in vain, Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer,
And wandered home again.
The crescent moon and crimson eve
Shone with a mingling light; The deer upon the grassy mead,
Was feeding full in sight.
He raised the rifle to his eye,
And from the cliffs around
Gave back its deadly sound.
Away, into the neighboring wood,
The startled creature flew,
Amid the glimmeripg dew.
Next evening shone the waxivg moon
As brightly as before;
Was seen again no more.
But ere that crescent moon was old,
By night the red-men came,
And slew the youth and dame.
Now woods have overgrown the mead
And hid the cliffs from sight;
And prowls the fox at night.
THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY.
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
The rose upon my balcony the morning air perfuming, Was leafless all the winter time and pining for the
spring; You ask me why her breath is sweet, and why her cheek
is blooming: It is because the sun is out and birds begin to sing. The nightingale, whose melody is through the greenwood
ringing, Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds were
blowing keen: And if, Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing,
It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are green. Thus each performs his part, Mamma: the birds have
found their voices, The blowing rose a flush, Mamma, her bonny cheek
to dye; And there's sunshine in my heart, Mamma, which wakenis
and rejoices, And so I sing and blush, Mamma, and that's the reason