E.R.  SILL.

Dutch Lullaby.[14]

  Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
    Sailed off in a wooden shoe,—­
  Sailed on a river of misty light
    Into a sea of dew. 
  “Where are you going, and what do you wish?”
    The old moon asked the three. 
  “We have come to fish for the herring-fish
    That live in this beautiful sea;
    Nets of silver and gold have we,”
        Said Wynken,
        Blynken,
        And Nod.

  The old moon laughed and sung a song,
    As they rocked in the wooden shoe;
  And the wind that sped them all night long
    Ruffled the waves of dew;
  The little stars were the herring-fish
    That lived in the beautiful sea. 
  “Now cast your nets wherever you wish,
    But never afeard are we!”
    So cried the stars to the fishermen three,
        Wynken,
        Blynken,
        And Nod.

  All night long their nets they threw
    For the fish in the twinkling foam,
  Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe,
    Bringing the fishermen home;
  ’Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed
    As if it could not be;
  And some folk thought ’twas a dream they’d dreamed
    Of sailing that beautiful sea;
    But I shall name you the fishermen three: 
        Wynken,
        Blynken,
        And Nod.

  Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
    And Nod is a little head,
  And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
    Is a wee one’s trundle-bed;
  So shut your eyes while Mother sings
    Of wonderful sights that be,
    And you shall see the beautiful things
    As you rock on the misty sea
    Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three,—­
        Wynken,
        Blynken,
        And Nod.

E. FIELD.

[14] From “A Little Book of Western Verse,” copyright, 1889, by Eugene Field, published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.

The Maryland Yellow-throat.[15]

  While May bedecks the naked trees
  With tassels and embroideries,
  And many blue-eyed violets beam
  Along the edges of the stream,
  I hear a voice that seems to say,
  Now near at hand, now far away,
    “Witchery—­witchery—­witchery.”

  An incantation so serene,
  So innocent, befits the scene: 
  There’s magic in that small bird’s note—­
  See, there he flits—­the yellow-throat: 
  A living sunbeam, tipped with wings,
  A spark of light that shines and sings
    “Witchery—­witchery—­witchery.”

  You prophet with a pleasant name,
  If out of Mary-land you came,
  You know the way that thither goes
  Where Mary’s lovely garden grows: 
  Fly swiftly back to her, I pray,
  And try, to call her down this way,
    “Witchery—­witchery—­witchery!”

  Tell her to leave her cockleshells,
  And all her little silver bells
  That blossom into melody,
  And all her maids less fair than she. 
  She does not need these pretty things,
  For everywhere she comes, she brings
    “Witchery—­witchery—­witchery!”