“Then with his thanks for having fed, and his thanks for feeding me,
With all his thankfulness inside, how thankful I shall be!”
Thus mused the hungry pussy cat, upon Thanksgiving Day;
But the little mouse had overheard and declined (with thanks) to stay.
          
                                             Oliver Herford.

THE BALLAD OF THE TEMPEST

We were crowded in the cabin,
  Not a soul would dare to sleep,—­
It was midnight on the waters,
  And a storm was on the deep.

’Tis a fearful thing in winter
  To be shattered by the blast,
And to hear the rattling trumpet
  Thunder, “Cut away the mast!”

So we shuddered there in silence,—­
  For the stoutest held his breath,
While the hungry sea was roaring
  And the breakers talked with Death.

As thus we sat in darkness,
  Each one busy with his prayers,
“We are lost!” the captain shouted,
  As he staggered down the stairs.

But his little daughter whispered,
  As she took his icy hand,
“Isn’t God upon the ocean,
  Just the same as on the land?”

Then we kissed the little maiden,
  And we spoke in better cheer,
And we anchored safe in harbor,
  When the morn was shining clear.
                         James T. Fields.

A CHILD’S PRAYER

God make my life a little light,
  Within the world to glow,—­
A tiny flame that burneth bright,
  Wherever I may go.

God make my life a little flower,
  That giveth joy to all;—­
Content to bloom in native bower
  Although its place be small.

God make my life a little song,
  That comforteth the sad;
That helpeth others to be strong,
  And makes the singer glad.

God make my life a little staff
  Whereon the weak may rest,—­
That so what health and strength I have
  May serve my neighbor best.

God make my life a little hymn
  Of tenderness and praise,—­
Of faith, that never waxeth dim,
  In all His wondrous ways.
                Matilda B. Edwards.

JACK FROST

The Frost looked forth one still, clear night,
And whispered, “Now I shall be out of sight;
So, through the valley, and over the height,
        In silence I’ll take my way. 
I will not go on like that blustering train,
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
That make such a bustle and noise in vain,
        But I’ll be as busy as they!”

So he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest;
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he drest
With diamonds and pearls; and over the breast
        Of the quivering lake he spread
A coat of mail, that it need not fear
The downward point of many a spear
That he hung on its margin, far and near,
        Where a rock could rear its head.