The Posy Ring Part 13

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me, Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care; Off is his holiday garment laid, Half forgotten that merry air: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, n.o.body knows but my mate and I Where our nest and our nestlings lie, Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes; the children are grown; Fun and frolic no more he knows, Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again, Chee, chee, chee.

William Cullen Bryant.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] _Courtesy of D. Appleton & Co., Publishers of Bryant's Complete Poetical Works._

_White b.u.t.terflies_

Fly, white b.u.t.terflies, out to sea, Frail, pale wings for the wind to try, Small white wings that we scarce can see, Fly!

Some fly light as a laugh of glee, Some fly soft as a long, low sigh; All to the haven where each would be, Fly!

Algernon Charles Swinburne.

_The Ant and the Cricket_

A silly young cricket, accustomed to sing Through the warm, sunny months of gay summer and spring, Began to complain, when he found that at home His cupboard was empty and winter was come.

Not a crumb to be found On the snow-covered ground; Not a flower could he see, Not a leaf on a tree: "Oh, what will become," says the cricket, "of me?"

At last by starvation and famine made bold, All dripping with wet and all trembling with cold, Away he set off to a miserly ant, To see if, to keep him alive, he would grant Him shelter from rain: A mouthful of grain He wished only to borrow, He'd repay it to-morrow: If not, he must die of starvation and sorrow.

Says the ant to the cricket, "I'm your servant and friend, But we ants never borrow, we ants never lend; But tell me, dear sir, did you lay nothing by When the weather was warm?" Said the cricket, "Not I.

My heart was so light That I sang day and night, For all nature looked gay."

"You _sang_, sir, you say?

Go then," said the ant, "and _dance_ winter away."

Thus ending, he hastily lifted the wicket And out of the door turned the poor little cricket.

Though this is a fable, the moral is good: If you live without work, you must live without food.

Unknown.

IV

THE FLOWER FOLK

_Hope is like a harebell, trembling from its birth, Love is like a rose, the joy of all the earth; Faith is like a lily, lifted high and white, Love is like a lovely rose, the world's delight; Harebells and sweet lilies show a thornless growth, But the rose with all its thorns excels them both._

_Christina G. Rossetti._

THE FLOWER FOLK

_Little White Lily_

Little white Lily Sat by a stone, Drooping and waiting Till the sun shone.

Little white Lily Suns.h.i.+ne has fed; Little white Lily Is lifting her head.

Little white Lily Said, "It is good-- Little white Lily's Clothing and food."

Little white Lily Drest like a bride!

s.h.i.+ning with whiteness, And crowned beside!

Little white Lily Droopeth with pain, Waiting and waiting For the wet rain.

Little white Lily Holdeth her cup; Rain is fast falling And filling it up.

Little white Lily Said, "Good again-- When I am thirsty To have fresh rain!

Now I am stronger; Now I am cool; Heat cannot burn me, My veins are so full."

Little white Lily Smells very sweet: On her head suns.h.i.+ne, Rain at her feet.

"Thanks to the suns.h.i.+ne, Thanks to the rain!

Little white Lily Is happy again!"

George Macdonald.

_Violets_

Violets, violets, sweet March violets, Sure as March comes, they'll come too, First the white and then the blue-- Pretty violets!

White, with just a pinky dye, Blue as little baby's eye,-- So like violets.

Though the rough wind shakes the house, Knocks about the budding boughs, There are violets.

Though the pa.s.sing snow-storms come, And the frozen birds sit dumb, Up spring violets.