Poems Teachers Ask For Volume II Part 68

Hey! little evergreens, St.u.r.dy and strong, Summer and autumn-time Hasten along.

Harvest the sunbeams, then, Bind them in sheaves, Range them and change them To tufts of green leaves.

Delve in the mellow-mold, Far, far below.

And so, Little evergreens, grow!

Grow! Grow!

Grow, little evergreens, grow!

Up, up so airily, To the blue sky, Lift up your leafy tips Stately and high; Clasp tight your tiny cones, Tawny and brown, By and by buffeting Rains will pelt down.

By and by bitterly Chill winds will blow, And so, Little evergreens, grow!

Grow! Grow!

Grow, little evergreens, grow!

Gather all uttermost Beauty, because,-- Hark, till I tell it now!

How Santa Claus, Out of the northern land, Over the seas, Soon shall come seeking you, Evergreen trees!

Seek you with reindeer soon, Over the snow: And so, Little evergreens, grow!

Grow! Grow!

Grow, little evergreens, grow!

What if the maple flare Flaunting and red, You shall wear waxen white Taper instead.

What if now, otherwhere, Birds are beguiled, You shall yet nestle The little Christ-Child.

Ah! the strange splendor The fir-trees shall know!

And so, Little evergreens, grow!

Grow! Grow!

Grow, little evergreens, grow!

_Evaleen Stein._

He Worried About It

The sun's heat will give out in ten million years more-- And he worried about it.

It will sure give out then, if it doesn't before-- And he worried about it.

It will surely give out, so the scientists said In all scientifical books he had read, And the whole boundless universe then will be dead-- And he worried about it.

And some day the earth will fall into the sun-- And he worried about it-- Just as sure and as straight as if shot from a gun-- And he worried about it.

When strong gravitation unbuckles her straps, "Just picture," he said, "what a fearful collapse!

It will come in a few million ages, perhaps"-- And he worried about it.

And the earth will become much too small for the race-- And he worried about it-- When we'll pay thirty dollars an inch for pure s.p.a.ce-- And he worried about it.

The earth will be crowded so much, without doubt, That there won't be room for one's tongue to stick out, Nor room for one's thought to wander about-- And he worried about it.

And the Gulf Stream will curve, and New England grow torrider-- And he worried about it-- Than was ever the climate of southernmost Florida-- And he worried about it.

Our ice crop will be knocked into small smithereens, And crocodiles block up our mowing-machines, And we'll lose our fine crops of potatoes and beans-- And he worried about it.

And in less than ten thousand years, there's no doubt-- And he worried about it-- Our supply of lumber and coal will give out-- And he worried about it.

Just then the ice-age will return cold and raw, Frozen men will stand stiff with arms outstretched in awe, As if vainly beseeching a general thaw-- And he worried about it.

His wife took in was.h.i.+ng--half a dollar a day-- He didn't worry about it-- His daughter sewed s.h.i.+rts the rude grocer to pay-- He didn't worry about it.

While his wife beat her tireless rub-a-dub-dub On the washboard drum of her old wooden tub, He sat by the stoves and he just let her rub-- He didn't worry about it.

_Sam Walter Foss._

The President

No gilt or tinsel taints the dress Of him who holds the natal power, No weighty helmet's fastenings press On brow that shares Columbia's dower, No blaring trumpets mark the step Of him with mind on peace intent, And so--HATS OFF! Here comes the State, A modest King: THE PRESIDENT.

No cavalcade with galloping squads Surrounds this man, whose mind controls The actions of the million minds Whose hearts the starry banner folds; Instead, in simple garb he rides, The King to whom grim Fate has lent Her dower of righteousness and faith To guide his will: THE PRESIDENT.

The ancient lands are struck with awe, Here stands a power at which they scoffed, Kings, rulers, scribes of pristine states.

Are dazed,--at Columbia they mocked; Yet human wills have forged new states, Their wills on justice full intent, And fas.h.i.+oned here a lowly King, The People's choice: THE PRESIDENT.

War-ravaged, spent, and torn--old worlds With hatred rent, turn to the West, "Give help!" they cry--"our souls are wracked, On every side our kingdom's pressed."

And see! Columbia hastens forth, Her healing hand to peace is lent, Her sword unsheathed has forged the calm, Her sons sent by THE PRESIDENT.

Full many a storm has tossed the barque Since first it had its maiden trip, Full many a conflagration's spark Has scorched and seared the laboring s.h.i.+p; And yet it ploughs a straightway course, Through wrack of billows; wind-tossed, spent, On sails the troubled s.h.i.+p of State, Steered forward by THE PRESIDENT.

STAND UP! HATS OFF! He's coming by, No roll of drums peals at his course, NOW GIVE A CHEER! He's part of you, Your will with his: the nation's force.

And--as he pa.s.ses--breathe a prayer, May justice to his mind be lent, And may the grace of Heaven be with The man who rules: OUR PRESIDENT.

_Charles H.L. Johnston._

Lullaby

Sleepy little, creepy little goblins in the gloaming, With their airy little, fairy little faces all aglow, Winking little, blinking little brownies gone a-roaming, Hear the rustling little, bustling little footfalls as they go.

Laughing little, chaffing little voices sweetly singing In the dearest little, queerest little baby lullabies, Creep! Creep! Creep!

Time to go to sleep!

Baby playing 'possum with his big brown eyes!

Cricket in the thicket with the oddest little clatter Sings his rattling little, prattling little, tattling little tune; Fleet the feet of tiny stars go patter, patter, patter, As they scamper from the heavens at the rising of the moon.

Beaming little, gleaming little fireflies go dreaming To the dearest little, queerest little baby lullabies.

Creep! Creep! Creep!

Time to go to sleep!

Baby playing 'possum with his big brown eyes!

Quaking little, shaking little voices all a-quiver In the mushy little, rushy little, weedy, reedy bogs, Droning little, moaning little chorus by the river, In the croaking little, joking little cadence of the frogs.

Eerie little, cheery little glowworms in the gloaming Where the clover heads like fairy little nightcaps rise, Creep! Creep! Creep!

Time to go to sleep!

Baby playing 'possum with his big brown eyes!