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There is a flower, a little flower,
There were three kings into the east,
The rosy hills adorning,
The sun is down, the day gone by,
True story of Web-spinner,
Truthful boy, The
Up! quit thy bower, late wears the hour,
Up! up! let us a voyage take,
Voice of the grass,
Walking, ladies, now go we,
Water and Wine,
Web-Spinner was a miser old,
Welcome, red and roundy sun,
We watch for the light of the morn to brcak,
What does little birdie say?
When raging storms deform the air,
When squirrels dance, and humble-bees,
Wherefore is thy song so gay,
White-footed deer, The
Will you walk into my parlour?
With sickles gleaming brightly,
Woodcutter's evening song,
Wood-mouse, The

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A POETICAL

READING-BOOK.

CRADLE SONG.
FROM "MACMILLAN'S MAGAZINE."
What does little birdie say
In her nest at peep of day?
Let me fly, says little birdie,
Mother, let me fly away.
Birdie, rest a little longer,
Till the little wings are stronger.
So she rests a little longer,
Then she flies away.
What does little baby say,
In her bed at peep of day?
Baby says, like little birdie,
Let me rise and fly away.
Baby, sleep a little longer,
Till the little limbs are stronger,
If she sleeps a little longer,
Baby too shall fly away.

Alfred Tennyson.

THE LAMB.
Little lamb, who made thee?

Dost thou know who made thee ?
Gave thee life and bid thee feed,
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice;

Little lamb, who made thee ?
Dost thou know who made thee ?

Little lamb, I'll tell thee;
Little lamb, I'll tell thee.
He is called by thy name,
For He calls himself a Lamb.
He is meek, and He is mild,
He became a little child:
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by his name.

Little lamb, God bless thee;
Little lamb, God bless thee!

William Blake.

THE PET LAMB. The dew was falling fast,

The stars began to blinkI heard a voice, it said,

“Drink, pretty creature, drink!” And, looking o'er the hedge,

Before me I espied
A snow-white mountain lamb,

With a maiden by its side.
No other sheep was near,

The lamb was all alone, And, by a slender cord,

'Twas tethered to a stone; With one knee on the grass

Did the little maiden kneel, While to that mountain lamb

She gave its evening meal. “Rest, little one,” she said,

“Hast thou forgot the day When my father found thee first

In places far away?
Many flocks were on the hills,

But thou wert owned by none,
And thy mother from thy side

For evermore was gone. “Thou know*st that twice a-day

I have brought thee, in this can, Fresh water from the brook

As clear as ever ran; And twice, too, in the day,

When the ground is wet with dew, I bring thee draughts of milk,

Varm milk it is and new.

"See here thou need’st not fear,

The raven in the sky;
Both night and day thou'rt safe,

Our cottage is hard by.
Why bleat so after me?

Why pull so at thy chain?
Sleep, and at break of day
I will come to thee again.”

Wordsworth.

THE ROBIN RED-BREAST.
Little bird with bosom red,
Welcome to my humble shed!
Daily near my table steal
While I pick my scanty meal;
Doubt not, little though there be,
But I'll cast a crumb to thee;
Well rewarded if I spy
Pleasure glancing in thine eye.
See thee when thou'st ate thy fill
Plume thy breast and wipe thy bill;
Pouring forth thy grateful note,
Innocent as sweet thy throat!
Come my feathered friend again,
Well thou know'st the broken pane;
Ask of me thy daily store,
Ever welcome to my door.

Langhorne

DON'T KILL THE BIRDS.
Don't kill the birds, the little birds

That sing about your door,
Soon as the joyous spring has come,

And chilling storms are o'er.
The little birds, how sweet they sing!

0! let them joyous live!
And never seek to take that life

Which you can never give.
Don't kill the birds, the little birds

That sing among the trees; 'Twould make the earth a cheerless place

Were we deprived of these.

The little birds, how fond they play!

Do not disturb their sport!
But let them warble forth their songs

Till winter cuts them short.
Don't kill the birds, the happy birds

That bless the field and grove;
So innocent to look upon,

They well may win our love.
The happy birds, the tuneful birds,

How pleasant 'tis to see!
No spot can be a joyless place
Where they are glad and free.

E. L. White.

THE FOUR SISTERS.

I have four sisters beyond the sea,
And they did send four presents to me,
The first it was a bird without e'er a bone;
The second was a cherry without e'er a stone;
The third it was a blanket without e'er a thread,
The fourth it was a book which no man could read.
How can there be a bird without e'er a bone?
How can there be a cherry without e'er a stone?
How can there be a blanket without e'er a thread?
How can there be a book which no man can read?
When the bird is in the shell, there is no bone;
When the cherry's in the bud, there is no stone;
When the blanket's in the fleece, there is no thread;
When the book's in the press, no man can read.

THE CRICKET.
Little inmate, full of mirth,
Chirping on my kitchen hearth,
Where-soe'er be thine abode,
Always harbinger of good,
Pay me for thy warm retreat
With a song more soft and sweet;
In return thou shalt receive
Such a strain as I can give.

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