Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out.
You stare In the air Like a ghost in a chair, Always looking what I am about; I hate to be watched--I will blow you out."
The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon.
So deep, On a heap Of clouds, to sleep, Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon-- Muttering low, "I"ve done for that Moon."
He turned in his bed; she was there again!
On high In the sky With her one clear eye, The Moon shone white and alive and plain.
Said the Wind--"I will blow you out again."
The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim.
"With my sledge And my wedge I have knocked off her edge!
If only I blow right fierce and grim, The creature will soon be dimmer than dim."
He blew and blew, and she thinned to a thread.
"One puff More"s enough To blow her to snuff!
One good puff more where the last was bred, And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go the thread!"
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 halloed 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-sc.r.a.p 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 a 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._
The Little Plant
In the heart of a seed, Buried deep, so deep, A dear little plant Lay fast asleep!
"Wake!" said the sunshine, "And creep to the light!"
"Wake!" said the voice Of the raindrop bright.
The little plant heard And it rose to see What the wonderful Outside world might be.
_Kate L. Brown._
Paul Revere"s Ride
Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, "If the British march By land or sea from the town tonight, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church tower, as a signal light,-- One, if by land, and two, if by sea; And I on the opposite sh.o.r.e will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middles.e.x village and farm, For the country folk to be up and to arm."
Then he said, "Good-night"; and with m.u.f.fled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown sh.o.r.e, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where, swinging wide at her moorings, lay The Somerset, British man-of-war, A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon like a prison bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till, in the silence around him, he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers Marching down to their boats on the sh.o.r.e.
Then he climbed to the tower of the old North Church, By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Ma.s.ses and moving shapes of shade; By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen, and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead In their night encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel"s tread, The watchful night wind, as it went, Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead, For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay, A line of black, that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride On the opposite sh.o.r.e walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse"s side, Now gazed on the landscape far and near, Then impetuous stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry tower of the old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral, and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry"s height A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns.
A harry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath from the pebbles, in pa.s.sing, a spark Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet; That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; And under the alders, that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the c.o.c.k, And the barking of the farmer"s dog, And felt the damp of the river fog, That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock When he galloped into Lexington, He saw the gilded weatherc.o.c.k Swim in the moonlight as he pa.s.sed, And the meeting house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare As if they already stood aghast At the b.l.o.o.d.y work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twittering of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read How the British regulars fired and fled-- How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farmyard wall, Chasing the red coats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middles.e.x village and farm-- A cry of defiance, and not of fear-- A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forever-more; For borne on the night wind of the past, Through all our history to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
_Henry W. Longfellow._
In Flanders Fields
In Flanders fields the poppies grow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly, Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved; and now we lie In Flanders fields.