THE SCHOOL POETRY BOOK. LITTLE BLUE RIBBONS. AUSTIN DOBSON. "Little Blue Ribbons!" We call her that. And yet have the neatest of taste alive? "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," To a radiant smile for a private friend; But to smile forever is weak, you know, And "little Blue Ribbons " regards it so. 66 She's a staid little woman! And so as well Is the "Robin that buried the 'Babes in the Wood'' "Little Blue Ribbons " believes, I think, That the rain comes down for the birds to drink; We may smile, and deny as we like-But, no; Dear "little Blue Ribbons !" She tells us all 66 In her own own chair," if she grew one bit!) In her "darling home" till she gets "quite gray;" But "little Blue Ribbons" will have it so! THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. When I was sick and lay abed, And 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, Beneath a hill, whose rocky side And fenced a cottage from the wind, She only came when on the cliffs And no man knew the secret haunts In which she walked by day. White were her feet, her 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, But when the broad midsummer moon Beside the silver-footed deer There grazed a spotted fawn. The cottage dame forbade her son "It were a sin," she said, "to harm This spot has been my pleasant home "The red-men say that here she walked A thousand moons ago; They never raise the war-whoop here "I love to watch her as she feeds, While such a gentle creature haunts The youth obeyed, and sought for game Where, deep in silence and in moss, But once, in autumn's golden time The crescent moon and crimson eve He raised the rifle to his eye, Away, into the neighboring wood, Next evening shone the waxing moon The deer upon the grassy mead But ere that crescent moon was old, Now woods have overgrown the mead 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 wakens and rejoices, And so I sing and blush, Mamma, and that's the reason why. |