He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone
                In the air
                Nowhere
                Was a moonbeam bare;
    Far off and harmless the shy stars shone—­
    Sure and certain the Moon was gone!

    The Wind he took to his revels once more;
                On down,
                In town,
                Like a merry-mad clown,
    He leaped and hallooed with whistle and roar—­
   “What’s that?” The glimmering thread once more!

    He flew in a rage—­he danced and blew;
                But in vain
                Was the pain
                Of his bursting brain;
    For still the broader the Moon-scrap grew,
    The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew.

    Slowly she grew—­till she filled the night,
                And shone
                On her throne
                In the sky alone,
    A matchless, wonderful silvery light,
    Radiant and lovely, the queen of the night.

    Said the Wind:  “What a marvel of power am I
                With my breath,
                Good faith! 
                I blew her to death—­
    First blew her away right out of the sky—­
    Then blew her in; what strength have I!”

    But the Moon she knew nothing about the affair;
                For high
                In the sky,
                With her one white eye,
    Motionless, miles above the air,
    She had never heard the great Wind blare.

GEORGE MACDONALD.

 JESUS THE CARPENTER.

“Jesus the Carpenter”—­“same trade as me”—­strikes a high note in favour of honest toil. (1848-.)

   “Isn’t this Joseph’s son?”—­ay, it is He;
    Joseph the carpenter—­same trade as me—­
    I thought as I’d find it—­I knew it was here—­
        But my sight’s getting queer.

    I don’t know right where as His shed must ha’ stood—­
    But often, as I’ve been a-planing my wood,
    I’ve took off my hat, just with thinking of He
        At the same work as me.

    He warn’t that set up that He couldn’t stoop down
    And work in the country for folks in the town;
    And I’ll warrant He felt a bit pride, like I’ve done,
        At a good job begun.

    The parson he knows that I’ll not make too free,
    But on Sunday I feels as pleased as can be,
    When I wears my clean smock, and sits in a pew,
        And has taught a few.

    I think of as how not the parson hissen,
    As is teacher and father and shepherd o’ men,
    Not he knows as much of the Lord in that shed,
        Where He earned His own bread.

    And when I goes home to my missus, says she,
   “Are ye wanting your key?”
    For she knows my queer ways, and my love for the shed
        (We’ve been forty years wed).