Produced by Mark C. Orton, David E. Brown and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
_Copyright, 1899_ _By Small, Maynard & Company_ (_Incorporated._)
_First Edition (1250 copies) November, 1899_ _Second Edition (1000 copies) December, 1899_
_The Rockwell and Churchill Press_ _Boston, U.S.A._
TO MY LITTLE FRIEND Henry Dinneen WITH MY LOVE AND BLESSING
_Some of these verses have appeared in other places: one in St. Nicholas, one in Harper's Young People; and the Sunday School Times, the Youth's Companion, and the Independent have each published others. To this class belong, I think, all I reprint from my Poems and Lyrics. Most of the contents, however, is new._
Ring! The little Rabbits' eyes, In the morning clear, Moisten to the melodies They alone can hear.
Ring! The little Rabbits' feet, Shod with racing rhyme, If the breezes they would beat, Must be beating time.
Ring! When summer days are o'er, And the snowfalls come, Rabbits count the hours no more, For the bells are dumb.
Crow! For the night has thrice denied The glory of the Sun, And now, repentant, turns aside To weep what he has done.
A little yellow Bird above, A little yellow Flower below; The little Bird can _sing_ the love That Bird and Blossom know; The Blossom has no song nor wing, But _breathes_ the love he cannot sing.
Your notes are few, But sweet your song As honey-dew; And all day long, Dear Bobolink, a-listening, I never tire to hear you sing.
When God had made a host of them, One little flower still lacked a stem To hold its blossom blue; So into it He breathed a song, And suddenly, with petals strong As wings, away it flew.
The wizard of the woods is he; For in his daily round, Where'er he finds a rotting tree, He makes the timber sound.
In winter's cold and summer's heat The hospitable chimneys greet Their never-failing guests; For when the sparks are upward gone, The swallows downward come anon, To build their neighboring nests.
Butterfly, Butterfly, sipping the sand, Have you forgotten the flowers of the land? Or are you so sated with honey and dew That sand-filtered water tastes better to you?