Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two

Trailing Arbutus

I wandered lonely where the pine-trees madeAgainst the bitter East their barricade,And, guided by its sweetPerfume, I found, within a narrow dell,The trailing spring flower tinted like a shellAmid dry leaves and mosses at my feet.From under dead boughs, for whose loss the pinesMoaned ceaseless overhead, the blossoming vinesLifted their glad surprise,While yet the bluebird smoothed in leafless treesHis feathers ruffled by the chill sea-breeze,And snow-drifts lingered under April skies.As, pausing, o'er the lonely flower I bent,I thought of lives thus lowly clogged and pent,Which yet find room,Through care and cumber, coldness and decay,To lend a sweetness to the ungenial dayAnd make the sad earth happier for their bloom.J.G. Whittier.

When the Light Goes Out

Tho' yer lamp o' life is burnin' with a clear and steady light,An' it never seems ter flicker, but it's allers shinin' bright;Tho' it sheds its rays unbroken for a thousand happy days—Father Time is ever turnin' down the wick that feeds yer blaze.So it clearly is yer duty ef you've got a thing to doTer put yer shoulder to ther wheel an' try to push her through;Ef yer upon a wayward track you better turn about—You've lost ther chance to do itWhen theLightGoesOut.Speak kindly to the woman who is working fer yer praise,Ther same way as you used ter in those happy courtin' days;She likes appreciation just the same ez me an' you,And it's only right and proper that yer give her what is due.Don't wait until her lamp o' life is burnin' dim an' low,Afore you tell her what you orter told her long ago—Now's ther time ter cheer her up an' put her blues to rout—You've lost ther chance to do itWhen theLightGoesOut.Don't keep a-puttin' matters off an' settin' dates ahead—To-morrow's sun'll find a hundred thousand of us dead;Don't think because yer feelin well you won't be sick no more—Sometimes the reddest pippin has a worm-hole to the core.Don't let a killin' habit grow upon you soft and stillBecause you think thet you ken throw it from you at your will—Now's ther time ter quit it when yer feelin' brave an' stout—You've lost ther chance to do itWhen theLightGoesOut.I'd rather die with nothin' then ter hev ther people sayThat I had got my money in a robbin', graspin' way;No words above my restin' place from any tongue or penWould hev a deeper meanin' than "He helped his fellow-men."So ef you hev a fortune and you want to help the poor,Don't keep a-stavin' off until yon get a little more;Ef yer upon a miser's track you better turn about—Yer record keeps on burnin'When theLightGoesOut.Harry S. Chester.

Prayer and Potatoes

An old lady sat in her old arm-chair,With wrinkled visage and disheveled hair,And pale and hunger-worn features;For days and for weeks her only fare,As she sat there in her old arm-chair,Had been potatoes.But now they were gone; of bad or good.Not one was left for the old lady's foodOf those potatoes;And she sighed and said, "What shall I do?Where shall I send, and to whom shall I goFor more potatoes?"And she thought of the deacon over the way,The deacon so ready to worship and pray,Whose cellar was full of potatoes;And she said: "I will send for the deacon to come;He'll not mind much to give me someOf such a store of potatoes."And the deacon came over as fast as he could,Thinking to do the old lady some good,But never thought of potatoes;He asked her at once what was her chief want,And she, simple soul, expecting a grant,Immediately answered, "Potatoes."But the deacon's religion didn't lie that way;He was more accustomed to preach and prayThan to give of his hoarded potatoes;So, not hearing, of course, what the old lady said,He rose to pray with uncovered head,But she only thought of potatoes.He prayed for patience, and wisdom, and grace,But when he prayed, "Lord, give her peace,"She audibly sighed "Give potatoes";And at the end of each prayer which he said,He heard, or thought that he heard in its stead,The same request for potatoes.The deacon was troubled; knew not what to do;'Twas very embarrassing to have her act soAbout "those carnal potatoes."So, ending his prayer, he started for home;As the door closed behind him, he heard a deep groan,"Oh, give to the hungry, potatoes!"And that groan followed him all the way home;In the midst of the night it haunted his room—"Oh, give to the hungry, potatoes!"He could bear it no longer; arose and dressed;From his well-filled cellar taking in hasteA bag of his best potatoes.Again he went to the widow's lone hut;Her sleepless eyes she had not shut;But there she sat in that old arm-chair,With the same wan features, the same sad air,And, entering in, he poured on the floorA bushel or more from his goodly storeOf choicest potatoes.The widow's cup was running o'er,Her face was haggard and wan no more."Now," said the deacon, "shall we pray?""Yes," said the widow, "now you may."And he kneeled him down on the sanded floor,Where he had poured his goodly store,And such a prayer the deacon prayedAs never before his lips essayed;No longer embarrassed, but free and full,He poured out the voice of a liberal soul,And the widow responded aloud "Amen!"But spake no more of potatoes.And would you, who hear this simple tale,Pray for the poor, and praying, "prevail"?Then preface your prayers with alms and good deeds;Search out the poor, their wants and their needs;Pray for peace, and grace, and spiritual food,For wisdom and guidance,-for all these are good,—But don't forget the potatoes.J.T. Pettee.

The Parts of Speech

Three little words you often seeAre articles a, an, and the.A noun's the name of anything,As house or garden, hoop or swing.Instead of nouns the pronouns stand—Her head, your face, his arm, my hand.Adjectives tell the kind of noun,As great, small, pretty, white or brown.Verbs tell something to be done—To read, count, sing, laugh or run.How things are done the adverbs tell,As slowly, quickly, ill or well.Conjunctions join the words together,As men and women, wind or weather.The preposition stands beforeA noun, as in or through a door.The interjection shows surprise,As oh! how pretty, ah! how wise.The whole are called nine parts of speech,Which reading, writing, speaking teach.

A New Leaf

He came to my desk with, quivering lip—The lesson was done."Dear Teacher, I want a new leaf," he said,"I have spoiled this one."I took the old leaf, stained and blotted,And gave him a new one all unspotted,And into his sad eyes smiled,"Do better, now, my child."I went to the throne with a quivering soul—The old year was done."Dear Father, hast Thou a new leaf for me?I have spoiled this one."He took the old leaf, stained and blotted,And gave me a new one all unspotted,And into my sad heart smiled,"Do better, now, my child."Carrie Shaw Rice.

The Boy With the Hoe

How are you hoeing your row, my boy?Say, how are you hoeing your row?Do you hoe it fair?Do you hoe it square?Do you hoe it the best that you know?Do you cut out the weeds as you ought to do?Do you plant what is beautiful there?For the harvest, you know,Will be just what you sow;Are you working it on the square?Say, are you killing the weeds, my boy?Are you hoeing your row neat and clean?Are you going straightAt a hustling gait?Are you cutting out all that is mean?Do you whistle and sing as you toil along?Are you finding your work a delight?If you do it this wayYou will gladden the day,And your row will be tended right.Hoeing your row with a will, my boy,And giving it thought and care,Will insure successAnd your efforts bless,As the crop to the garner you bear;For the world will look on as you hoe your row,And will judge you by that which you do;Therefore, try for first prize,Though your utmost it tries,For the harvest depends on you.T.B. Weaver.

Our Flag

Fling it from mast and steeple,Symbol o'er land and seaOf the life of a happy people,Gallant and strong and free.Proudly we view its colors,Flag of the brave and true,With the clustered stars and the steadfast bars,The red, the white, and the blue.Flag of the fearless-hearted,Flag of the broken chain,Flag in a day-dawn started,Never to pale or wane.Dearly we prize its colors,With the heaven light breaking through,The clustered stars and the steadfast bars,The red, the white, and the blue.Flag of the sturdy fathers,Flag of the loyal sons,Beneath its folds it gathersEarth's best and noblest ones.Boldly we wave its colors,Our veins are thrilled anewBy the steadfast bars, the clustered stars,The red, the white, and the blue.Margaret E. Sangster.

The Little Fir-Trees

Hey! little evergreens,Sturdy and strong,Summer and autumn-timeHasten along.Harvest the sunbeams, then,Bind them in sheaves,Range them and change themTo 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 tipsStately and high;Clasp tight your tiny cones,Tawny and brown,By and by buffetingRains will pelt down.By and by bitterlyChill winds will blow,And so,Little evergreens, grow!Grow! Grow!Grow, little evergreens, grow!Gather all uttermostBeauty, 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 flareFlaunting and red,You shall wear waxen whiteTaper instead.What if now, otherwhere,Birds are beguiled,You shall yet nestleThe little Christ-Child.Ah! the strange splendorThe 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 saidIn 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 space—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 washing—half a dollar a day—He didn't worry about it—His daughter sewed shirts the rude grocer to pay—He didn't worry about it.While his wife beat her tireless rub-a-dub-dubOn 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 dressOf him who holds the natal power,No weighty helmet's fastenings pressOn brow that shares Columbia's dower,No blaring trumpets mark the stepOf him with mind on peace intent,And so—HATS OFF! Here comes the State,A modest King:THE PRESIDENT.No cavalcade with galloping squadsSurrounds this man, whose mind controlsThe actions of the million mindsWhose hearts the starry banner folds;Instead, in simple garb he rides,The King to whom grim Fate has lentHer dower of righteousness and faithTo 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 fashioned here a lowly King,The People's choice:THE PRESIDENT.War-ravaged, spent, and torn—old worldsWith 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 byTHE PRESIDENT.Full many a storm has tossed the barqueSince first it had its maiden trip,Full many a conflagration's sparkHas scorched and seared the laboring ship;And yet it ploughs a straightway course,Through wrack of billows; wind-tossed, spent,On sails the troubled Ship of State,Steered forward byTHE 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 passes—breathe a prayer,May justice to his mind be lent,And may the grace of Heaven be withThe 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 singingIn 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 clatterSings 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 dreamingTo 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-quiverIn 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 gloamingWhere the clover heads like fairy little nightcaps rise,Creep! Creep! Creep!Time to go to sleep!Baby playing 'possum with his big brown eyes!J.W. Foley.

Chums

If we should be shipwrecked togetherAnd only had water for one,And it was the hottest of weatherRight out in the boiling sun,He'd tell me—no matter how bad heMight want it—to take a drink first;And then he would smile—oh, so glad heHad saved me!—and perish from thirst!Or, if we were lost on the prairieAnd only had food for a day,He'd come and would give me the share heHad wrapped up and hidden away;And after I ate it with sadnessHe'd smile with his very last breath,And lay himself down full of gladnessTo save me—and starve right to death.And if I was wounded in battleAnd out where great danger might be,He'd come through the roar and the rattleOf guns and of bullets to me,He'd carry me out, full of glory,No matter what trouble he had,And then he would fall down, all goryWith wounds, and would die—but be glad!We're chums—that's the reason he'd do it;And that's what a chum ought to be.And if it was fire he'd go through it,If I should call him to me.You see other fellows may know you,And friends that you have go and come;But a boy has one boy he can go to,For help all the time—that's his chum.J.W. Foley.

Jim Brady's Big Brother

Jim Brady's big brother's a wonderful lad,And wonderful, wonderful muscles he had;He swung by one arm from the limb of a treeAnd hung there while Jim counted up forty-threeJust as slow as he could; and he leaped at a boundAcross a wide creek and lit square on the groundJust as light as a deer; and the things he can do,So Jimmy told us, you would hardly think true.Jim Brady's big brother could throw a fly ballFrom center to home just like nothing at all;And often while playing a game he would standAnd take a high fly with just only one hand;Jim Brady showed us where he knocked a home runAnd won the big game when it stood three to oneAgainst the home team, and Jim Brady, he showedThe place where it lit in the old wagon road!Jim Brady's big brother could bat up a flyThat you hardly could see, for it went up so high;He'd bring up his muscle and break any stringThat you tied on his arm like it wasn't a thing!He used to turn handsprings, and cartwheels, and heCould jump through his hands just as slick as could be,And circuses often would want him to goAnd be in the ring, but his mother said no.Jim Brady's big brother would often make betsWith boys that he'd turn two complete summersetsFrom off of the spring-board before he would dive,And you'd hardly think he would come up alive;And nobody else who went there to swimCould do it, but it was just easy for him;And they'd all be scared, so Jim said, when he'd stayIn under and come up a half mile away.Jim Brady's big brother, so Jim said, could runFive miles in a race just as easy as one.Right often he walked on his hands half a blockAnd could have walked more if he'd wanted to walk!And Jimmy says wait till he comes home from school,Where he is gone now, and some day, when it's cool,He'll get him to prove everything to be trueThat Jimmy told us his big brother could do!J.W. Foley.

The Gray Swan

"Oh tell me, sailor, tell me true,Is my little lad, my Elihu,A-sailing with your ship?"The sailor's eyes were dim with dew,—"Your little lad, your Elihu?"He said with trembling lip,—"What little lad? what ship?""What little lad! as if there could beAnother such a one as he!What little lad, do you say?Why, Elihu, that took to the seaThe moment I put him off my knee!It was just the other dayThe Gray Swan sailed away.""The other day?" the sailor's eyesStood open with a great surprise,—"The other day? the Swan?"His heart began in his throat to rise."Ay, ay, sir, here in the cupboard liesThe jacket he had on.""And so your lad is gone?""Gone with the Swan." "And did she standWith her anchor clutching hold of the sand,For a month, and never stir?""Why, to be sure! I've seen from the land,Like a lover kissing his lady's hand,The wild sea kissing her,—A sight to remember, sir.""But, my good mother, do you knowAll this was twenty years ago?I stood on the Gray Swan's deck,And to that lad I saw you throw,Taking it off, as it might be, so,The kerchief from your neck.""Ay, and he'll bring it back!""And did the little lawless ladThat has made you sick and made you sad,Sail with the Gray Swan's crew?""Lawless! the man is going mad!The best boy ever mother had,—Be sure he sailed with the crew!What would you have him do?""And he has never written line,Nor sent you word, nor made you signTo say he was alive?""Hold! if 'twas wrong, the wrong is mine;Besides, he may be in the brine,And could he write from the grave?Tut, man, what would you have?""Gone twenty years,—a long, long cruise,'Twas wicked thus your love to abuse;But if the lad still live,And come back home, think you you canForgive him?"—"Miserable man,You're mad as the sea,—you rave,—What have I to forgive?"The sailor twitched his shirt so blue,And from within his bosom drewThe kerchief. She was wild."My God! my Father! is it trueMy little lad, My Elihu?My blessed boy, my child!My dead,—my living child!"Alice Cary.

The Circling Year

SPRINGThe joys of living wreathe my face,My heart keeps time to freshet's race;Of balmy airs I drink my fill—Why, there's a yellow daffodil!Along the stream a soft green tingeGives hint of feathery willow fringe;Methinks I heard a Robin's "Cheer"—I'm glad Spring's here!SUMMERAn afternoon of buzzing flies.Heat waves that sear, and quivering rise;The long white road, the plodding team,The deep, cool grass in which to dream;The distant cawing of the crows,Tall, waving grain, long orchard rows;The peaceful cattle in the stream—Midsummer's dream!AUTUMNA cold, gray day, a lowering sky,A lonesome pigeon wheeling by;The soft, blue smoke that hangs and fades,The shivering crane that flaps and wades;Dead leaves that, whispering, quit their tree,The peace the river sings to me;The chill aloofness of the Fall—I love it all!WINTERA sheet of ice, the ring of steel,The crunch of snow beneath the heel;Loud, jingling bells, the straw-lined sleigh,A restless pair that prance and neigh;The early coming of the night,Red glowing logs, a shaded light;The firelit realm of books is mine—Oh, Winter's fine!Ramona Graham.

1

A line in the opera "II Trovatore" meaning "Do not forget me."

2

Nicht verstehen:—"I don't understand."