Little White Lily
    Smells very sweet;
    On her head sunshine,
    Rain at her feet. 
    Thanks to the sunshine,
    Thanks to the rain,
    Little White Lily
    Is happy again.

GEORGE MACDONALD.

 HOW THE LEAVES CAME DOWN.

“How the Leaves Came Down,” by Susan Coolidge (1845-), appeals to children because it helps to reconcile them to going to bed.  “I go to bed by day” is one of the crosses of childhood.

   “I’ll tell you how the leaves came down,”
      The great Tree to his children said: 
   “You’re getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown,
      Yes, very sleepy, little Red. 
      It is quite time to go to bed.”

   “Ah!” begged each silly, pouting leaf,
     “Let us a little longer stay;
    Dear Father Tree, behold our grief! 
     ’Tis such a very pleasant day,
      We do not want to go away.”

    So, for just one more merry day
      To the great Tree the leaflets clung,
    Frolicked and danced, and had their way,
      Upon the autumn breezes swung,
      Whispering all their sports among—­

   “Perhaps the great Tree will forget,
      And let us stay until the spring,
    If we all beg, and coax, and fret.” 
      But the great Tree did no such thing;
      He smiled to hear their whispering.

   “Come, children, all to bed,” he cried;
      And ere the leaves could urge their prayer,
    He shook his head, and far and wide,
      Fluttering and rustling everywhere,
      Down sped the leaflets through the air.

    I saw them; on the ground they lay,
      Golden and red, a huddled swarm,
    Waiting till one from far away,
      White bedclothes heaped upon her arm,
      Should come to wrap them safe and warm.

    The great bare Tree looked down and smiled. 
     “Good-night, dear little leaves,” he said. 
    And from below each sleepy child
      Replied, “Good-night,” and murmured,
     “It is so nice to go to bed!”

SUSAN COOLIDGE.

 WILLIE WINKIE.

“Wee Willie Winkie,” by William Miller (1810-72), is included in this volume out of respect to an eight-year-old child who chose it from among hundreds.  We had one poetry hour every week, and he studied and recited it with unabated interest to the end of the year.

    Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town,
    Up-stairs and doon-stairs, in his nicht-gown,
    Tirlin’ at the window, cryin’ at the lock,
   “Are the weans in their bed?—­for it’s now ten o’clock.”

    Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin’ ben? 
    The cat’s singin’ gay thrums to the sleepin’ hen,
    The doug’s speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep;
    But here’s a waukrife laddie that winna fa’ asleep.

    Onything but sleep, ye rogue! glow’rin’ like the moon,
    Rattlin’ in an airn jug wi’ an airn spoon,
    Rumblin’ tumblin’ roun’ about, crowin’ like a cock,
    Skirlin’ like a kenna-what—­wauknin’ sleepin’ folk.