The Baby Trafficking Ring

A YEAR'S WINDFALLS

Who comes dancing over the snow,

His soft little feet all bare and rosy?

Open the door, though the wild winds blow,

Take the child in and make him cosy.

Take him in and hold him dear,

He is the wonderful glad New Year.

Dinah M. Mulock.

* * *

A YEAR'S WINDFALLS

Marjorie's Almanac

Robins in the tree-top,

Blossoms in the grass,

Green things a-growing

Everywhere you pass;

Sudden little breezes,

Showers of silver dew,

Black bough and bent twig

Budding out anew;

Pine-tree and willow-tree,

Fringèd elm and larch,-

Don't you think that May-time's

Pleasanter than March?

Apples in the orchard

Mellowing one by one;

Strawberries upturning

Soft cheeks to the sun;

Roses faint with sweetness,

Lilies fair of face,

Drowsy scents and murmurs

Haunting every place;

Lengths of golden sunshine,

Moonlight bright as day,-

Don't you think that summer's

Pleasanter than May?

Roger in the corn-patch

Whistling negro songs;

Pussy by the hearth-side

Romping with the tongs;

Chestnuts in the ashes

Bursting through the rind;

Red leaf and gold leaf

Rustling down the wind;

Mother "doin' peaches"

All the afternoon,-

Don't you think that autumn's

Pleasanter than June?

Little fairy snow-flakes

Dancing in the flue;

Old Mr. Santa Claus,

What is keeping you?

Twilight and firelight

Shadows come and go;

Merry chime of sleigh-bells

Tinkling through the snow;

Mother knitting stockings

(Pussy's got the ball),-

Don't you think that winter's

Pleasanter than all?

Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

In February

The birds have been singing to-day,

And saying: "The spring is near!

The sun is as warm as in May,

And the deep blue heavens are clear."

The little bird on the boughs

Of the sombre snow-laden pine

Thinks: "Where shall I build me my house,

And how shall I make it fine?

"For the season of snow is past;

The mild south wind is on high;

And the scent of the spring is cast

From his wing as he hurries by."

The little birds twitter and cheep

To their loves on the leafless larch;

But seven feet deep the snow-wreaths sleep,

And the year hath not worn to March.

John Addington Symonds.

March

The cock is crowing,

The stream is flowing,

The small birds twitter,

The lake doth glitter,

The green field sleeps in the sun;

The oldest and youngest

Are at work with the strongest;

The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising;

There are forty feeding like one.

Like an army defeated

The snow hath retreated,

And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill;

The ploughboy is whooping-anon-anon!

There's joy on the mountains;

There's life in the fountains;

Small clouds are sailing,

Blue sky prevailing;

The rain is over and gone.

William Wordsworth.

Nearly Ready[A]

In the snowing and the blowing,

In the cruel sleet,

Little flowers begin their growing

Far beneath our feet.

Softly taps the Spring, and cheerly,

"Darlings, are you here?"

Till they answer, "We are nearly,

Nearly ready, dear."

"Where is Winter, with his snowing?

Tell us, Spring," they say.

Then she answers, "He is going,

Going on his way.

Poor old Winter does not love you;

But his time is past;

Soon my birds shall sing above you,-

Set you free at last."

Mary Mapes Dodge.

Spring Song

Spring comes hither,

Buds the rose;

Roses wither,

Sweet spring goes.

Summer soars,-

Wide-winged day;

White light pours,

Flies away.

Soft winds blow,

Westward born;

Onward go,

Toward the morn.

George Eliot

In April

The poplar drops beside the way

Its tasselled plumes of silver-gray;

The chestnut pouts its great brown buds

Impatient for the laggard May.

The honeysuckles lace the wall,

The hyacinths grow fair and tall;

And mellow sun and pleasant wind

And odorous bees are over all.

Elizabeth Akers.

Spring

The alder by the river

Shakes out her powdery curls;

The willow buds in silver

For little boys and girls.

The little birds fly over,

And oh, how sweet they sing!

To tell the happy children

That once again 'tis spring.

The gay green grass comes creeping

So soft beneath their feet;

The frogs begin to ripple

A music clear and sweet.

And buttercups are coming,

And scarlet columbine;

And in the sunny meadows

The dandelions shine.

And just as many daisies

As their soft hands can hold

The little ones may gather,

All fair in white and gold.

Here blows the warm red clover,

There peeps the violet blue;

O happy little children,

God made them all for you!

Celia Thaxter.

The Voice of Spring

I am coming, I am coming!

Hark! the little bee is humming;

See, the lark is soaring high

In the blue and sunny sky;

And the gnats are on the wing,

Wheeling round in airy ring.

See, the yellow catkins cover

All the slender willows over!

And on the banks of mossy green

Star-like primroses are seen;

And, their clustering leaves below,

White and purple violets blow.

Hark! the new-born lambs are bleating,

And the cawing rooks are meeting

In the elms,-a noisy crowd;

All the birds are singing loud;

And the first white butterfly

In the sunshine dances by.

Look around thee, look around!

Flowers in all the fields abound;

Every running stream is bright;

All the orchard trees are white;

And each small and waving shoot

Promises sweet flowers and fruit.

Turn thine eyes to earth and heaven:

God for thee the spring has given,

Taught the birds their melodies,

Clothed the earth, and cleared the skies,

For thy pleasure or thy food:

Pour thy soul in gratitude.

Mary Howitt.

The Coming of Spring

There's something in the air

That's new and sweet and rare-

A scent of summer things,

A whir as if of wings.

There's something, too, that's new

In the color of the blue

That's in the morning sky,

Before the sun is high.

And though on plain and hill

'Tis winter, winter still,

There's something seems to say

That winter's had its day.

And all this changing tint,

This whispering stir and hint

Of bud and bloom and wing,

Is the coming of the spring.

And to-morrow or to-day

The brooks will break away

From their icy, frozen sleep,

And run, and laugh, and leap.

And the next thing, in the woods,

The catkins in their hoods

Of fur and silk will stand,

A sturdy little band.

And the tassels soft and fine

Of the hazel will entwine,

And the elder branches show

Their buds against the snow.

So, silently but swift,

Above the wintry drift,

The long days gain and gain,

Until on hill and plain,-

Once more, and yet once more,

Returning as before,

We see the bloom of birth

Make young again the earth.

Nora Perry.

May

May shall make the world anew;

Golden sun and silver dew,

Money minted in the sky,

Shall the earth's new garments buy.

May shall make the orchards bloom;

And the blossoms' fine perfume

Shall set all the honey-bees

Murmuring among the trees.

May shall make the bud appear

Like a jewel, crystal clear,

'Mid the leaves upon the limb

Where the robin lilts his hymn.

May shall make the wild flowers tell

Where the shining snowflakes fell;