Have you ever heard the wind go “Yooooo”? 
  ’Tis a pitiful sound to hear! 
It seems to chill you through and through
  With a strange and speechless fear. 
’Tis the voice of the night that broods outside
  When folk should be asleep,
And many and many’s the time I’ve cried
To the darkness brooding far and wide
  Over the land and the deep: 
  “Whom do you want, O lonely night,
  That you wail the long hours through?”
And the night would say in its ghostly way: 
                “Yoooooooo! 
                Yoooooooo! 
                Yoooooooo!”

My mother told me long ago
  (When I was a little tad)
That when the night went wailing so,
  Somebody had been bad;

And then, when I was snug in bed,
  Whither I had been sent,
With the blankets pulled up round my head,
I’d think of what my mother’d said,
  And wonder what boy she meant! 
  And “Who’s been bad to-day?” I’d ask
  Of the wind that hoarsely blew;
And the voice would say in its meaningful way: 
                “Yoooooooo! 
                Yoooooooo! 
                Yoooooooo!”

That this was true I must allow—­
  You’ll not believe it, though! 
Yes, though I’m quite a model now,
  I was not always so. 
And if you doubt what things I say,
  Suppose you make the test;
Suppose, when you’ve been bad some day
And up to bed are sent away
  From mother and the rest—­
  Suppose you ask, “Who has been bad?”
  And then you’ll hear what’s true;
For the wind will moan in its ruefulest tone: 
                “Yoooooooo! 
                Yoooooooo! 
                Yoooooooo!”
                                Eugene Field.

DON’T KILL THE BIRDS

Don’t kill the birds, the pretty birds
  That sing about your door,
Soon as the joyous spring has come
  And chilling storms are o’er. 
The little birds, how sweet they sing! 
  Oh, let them joyous live,
And never seek to take the life
  That you can never give!

Don’t kill the birds, the pretty birds
  That play among the trees;
’Twould make the earth a cheerless place
  Should we dispense with these. 
The little birds, how fond they play! 
  Do not disturb their sport;
But let them warble forth their songs
  Till winter cuts them short.

Don’t kill the birds, the happy birds,
  That bless the fields and grove;
So innocent to look upon,
  They claim our warmest love. 
The happy birds, the tuneful birds,
  How pleasant ’tis to see! 
No spot can be a cheerless place
  Where’er their presence be.
                           J.  Colesworthy.

A THANKSGIVING FABLE

It was a hungry pussy cat, upon Thanksgiving morn,
And she watched a thankful little mouse, that ate an ear of corn. 
“If I ate that thankful little mouse, how thankful he should be,
When he has made a meal himself, to make a meal for me!