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THE

SCHOOL POETRY BOOK.

LITTLE BLUE RIBBONS.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

“Little Blue Ribbons!” We call her that
From the ribbons she wears in her favorite hat;
For may not a person be only five,
And yet have the neatest of taste alive?
As a matter of fact, this one has views
Of the strictest sort as to frocks and shoes;
And we never object to a sash or how,.
When “little Blue Ribbons” prefers it so.

“Little Blue Ribbons” has eyes of blue,
And an arch little mouth, when the teeth peep

through;
And her primitive look is wise and grave,
With a sense of the weight of the word "behave,
Though now and again she may condescend
To a radiant smile for a private friend;
But to smile forever is weak, you know,
And “little Blue Ribbons " regards it so.

She's a staid little woman! And so as well
Is her ladyship’s doll, “Miss Bonnibelle;"'
But I think what at present the most takes up
The thoughts of her heart is her last new cup;
For the object thereon,-be it understood,
Is the “Robin that buried the ‘Babes in the Wood'".
It is not in the least like a robin, though,
But “jittle Blue Ribbons" declares it so.

“Little Blue Ribbons” believes, I think,
That the rain comes down for the birds to drink;
Moreover, she holds, in a cab you'd get
To the spot where the suns of yesterday set;
And I know that she fully expects to meet
With a lion or wolf in Regent street !
We may smile, and deny as we like-But, no;
For “little Blue Ribbons” still dreams it so.

Dear “little Blue Ribbons !” She tells us all
That she never intends to be “great” and “tall;"
(For how could she ever contrive to sit
In her “own own chair," if she grew one bit !)
And, further, she says, she intends to stay
In her “ darling home” till she gets “quite gray;"
Alas! we are gray; and we doubt, you know,
But “little Blue Ribbons will have it so !

THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE.

HOBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

When I was sick and lay abed,
I had two pillows at my head,
And all my toys beside me lay
To keep me happy all the day;

Aud sometimes for an hour or so
I watched my leaden soldiers go,
With different uniforms and drills,
Among the bed-clothes, through the hills;

And sometimes sent my ships in fleets
All up and down among the sheets;
Or brought my trees and houses out,
And planted cities all about.

I was the giant great and still
That sits upon the pillow-hill,
And sees before him, dale and plain,
The pleasant land of counterpane.

THE WHITE-FOOTED DEER.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

It was a hundred years ago,

When by the woodland ways,
The traveller saw the wild deer drink,

Or crop the birchen sprays.

Beneath a hill, whose rocky side

O’erbrowed a grassy mead,
And fenced a cottage from the wind,

A deer was wont to feed.

She only came when on the cliffs

The evening moonlight lay,
And no man knew the secret haunts

In which she walked by day.

White were her feet, hier forehead showed

A spot of silvery white,
That seemed to glimmer like a star

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;
They never raise the war-whoop here

And never twang the bow.

“I love to watch her as she feeds,

And think that all is well
While such a gentle creature haunts

The place in which we dwell.”

The youth obeyed, and sought for game

In forests far away,
Where, deep in silence and in moss,

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
A sudden echo, shrill and sharp,

Gave back its deadly sound.

Away, into the neighboring wood,

The startled creature flew,
And crimson drops at morning lay

Amid the glimmeripg dew.

Next evening shone the waxivg moon

As brightly as before;
The deer upon the grassy mead

Was seen again no more.

But ere that crescent moon was old,

By night the red-men came,
And burnt the cottage to the ground,

And slew the youth and dame.

Now woods have overgrown the mead

And hid the cliffs from sight;
There shrieks the lovering hawk at noon,

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

hy.

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