“All glory be to God on high,
  And to the earth be peace: 
Good-will henceforth from heaven to men
  Begin and never cease!”
                        Nahum Tate.

THE SNOW-BIRD’S SONG

The ground was all covered with snow one day,
And two little sisters were busy at play,
When a snow-bird was sitting close by on a tree,
And merrily singing his chick-a-dee-dee,
       Chick-a-dee-dee, chick-a-dee-dee,
And merrily singing his chick-a-dee-dee.

He had not been singing that tune very long,
Ere Emily heard him, so loud was his song;
“Oh, sister, look out of the window,” said she,
“Here’s a dear little bird singing chick-a-dee-dee. 
       Chick-a-dee-dee, chick-a-dee-dee,
Here’s a dear little bird singing chick-a-dee-dee.

“Oh, mother, do get him some stockings and shoes,
And a nice little frock, and a hat if you choose;
I wish he’d come into the parlor, and see
How warm we would make him, poor chick-a-dee-dee! 
      Chick-a-dee-dee, chick-a-dee-dee,
How warm we would make him, poor chick-a-dee-dee!”

“There is One, my dear child, though I cannot tell who,
Has clothed me already, and warm enough too. 
Good morning!  Oh, who are so happy as we?”
And away he went singing his chick-a-dee-dee. 
      Chick-a-dee-dee, chick-a-dee-dee,
And away he went singing his chick-a-dee-dee.
                                      F.C.  Woodworth.

SPRING

The alder by the river
  Shakes out her powdery curls;
The willow buds in silver
  For little boys and girls.

The little birds fly over
  And oh, how sweet they sing! 
To tell the happy children
  That once again ’tis spring.

The gay green grass comes creeping
  So soft beneath their feet;
The frogs begin to ripple
  A music clear and sweet.

And buttercups are coming,
  And scarlet columbine,
And in the sunny meadows
  The dandelions shine.

And just as many daisies
  As their soft hands can hold
The little ones may gather,
  All fair in white and gold.

Here blows the warm red clover,
  There peeps the violet blue;
O happy little children! 
  God made them all for you.
                         Celia Thaxter.

THE SANDPIPER

Across the narrow beach we flit,
  One little sandpiper and I;
And fast I gather, bit by bit,
  The scattered driftwood bleached and dry. 
The wild waves reach their hands for it,
  The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,
As up and down the beach we flit,
  One little sandpiper and I.

Above our heads the sullen clouds
  Scud black and swift across the sky;
Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds
  Stand out the white lighthouses high. 
Almost as far as eye can reach
  I see the close-reefed vessels fly,
As fast we flit along the beach,—­
  One little sandpiper and I.