Graded Memory Selections

WYNKEN, BLYNKEN AND NOD.2

Wynken, Blynken and Nod one nightSailed off in a wooden shoe,Sailed on a river of crystal lightInto a sea of dew.“Where are you going?” “What do you wish?”The old Moon asked the three.“We come to fish for the herring fishThat live in the beautiful sea,Nets of silver and gold have we,”Said Wynken, Blynken and Nod.The old Moon laughed and sang a songAs they rocked in the wooden shoe,And the wind that sped them all night longRuffled the waves of dew.The little stars were the herring fishThat lived in that beautiful sea,—“Now cast your nets whenever you wish,Never afeard are we!”So cried the stars to the fishermen three—Wynken, Blynken and Nod.All night long their nets they threwTo the stars in the twinkling foam.Then down from the skies came the wooden shoeBringing the fishermen home.’Twas all so pretty a sail it seemedAs if it could not be,And some folks thought ’twas a dream they’d dreamedOf sailing that beautiful sea.But I can name you the fishermen three—Wynken, Blynken and Nod.Wynken and Blynken are two little eyesAnd Nod is a little head,And the wooden shoe that sailed the skiesIs a wee one’s trundle bed.So shut your eyes while mother singsOf wonderful sights that be,And you shall see the beautiful thingsAs you rock on the misty sea,—Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three—Wynken, Blynken and Nod.—Eugene Field.

PRETTY IS THAT PRETTY DOES

The spider wears a plain brown dress,And she is a steady spinner;To see her, quiet as a mouse,Going about her silver house,You would never, never, never guessThe way she gets her dinner.She looks as if no thought of illIn all her life had stirred her;But while she moves with careful tread,And while she spins her silken thread,She is planning, planning, planning stillThe way to do some murder.My child, who reads this simple lay,With eyes down-dropt and tender,Remember the old proverb saysThat pretty is which pretty does,And that worth does not go nor stayFor poverty nor splendor.’Tis not the house, and not the dress,That makes the saint or sinner.To see the spider sit and spin,Shut with her walls of silver in,You would never, never, never guessThe way she gets her dinner.—Alice Cary.

LULLABY.3

Over the cradle the mother hung,Softly crooning a slumber song:And these were the simple words she sungAll the evening long.“Cheek or chin, or knuckle or kneeWhere shall the baby’s dimple be?Where shall the angel’s finger restWhen he comes down to the baby’s nest?Where shall the angel’s touch remainWhen he awakens my babe again?”Still as she bent and sang so low,A murmur into her music broke:And she paused to hear, for she could but knowThe baby’s angel spoke.“Cheek or chin, or knuckle or knee,Where shall the baby’s dimple be?Where shall my finger fall and restWhen I come down to the baby’s nest?Where shall my finger touch remainWhen I awaken your babe again?”Silent the mother sat and dweltLong in the sweet delay of choice,And then by her baby’s side she knelt,And sang with a pleasant voice:“Not on the limb, O angel dear!For the charm with its youth will disappear;Not on the cheek shall the dimple be,For the harboring smile will fade and flee;But touch thou the chin with an impress deep,And my baby the angel’s seal shall keep.”—J. G. Holland.

THIRD GRADE

DISCONTENT

Down in a field one day in June, the flowers all bloomed together,Save one who tried to hide herself, and drooped that pleasant weather.A robin who had flown too high, and felt a little lazy,Was resting near this buttercup who wished she was a daisy.For daisies grow so slim and tall! She always had a passionFor wearing frills about her neck in just the daisies’ fashion.And buttercups must always be the same old tiresome color;While daisies dress in gold and white, although their gold is duller.“Dear Robin,” said the sad young flower, “Perhaps you’d not mind tryingTo find a nice white frill for me, some day when you are flying.”“You silly thing!” the Robin said, “I think you must be crazy;I’d rather be my honest self, than any made-up daisy.“You’re nicer in your own bright gown; the little children love you.Be the best buttercup you can, and think no flower above you.Though swallows leave me out of sight, we’d better keep our places:Perhaps the world would all go wrong with one too many daisies.Look bravely up into the sky and be content with knowingThat God wished for a buttercup, just here where you are growing.”—Sarah Orne Jewett.

OUR FLAG

There are many flags in many lands,There are flags of every hue,But there is no flag in any landLike our own Red, White and Blue.I know where the prettiest colors are,I’m sure, if I only knewHow to get them here, I could make a flagOf glorious Red, White and Blue.I would cut a piece from the evening skyWhere the stars were shining through,And use it just as it was on highFor my stars and field of Blue.Then I want a part of a fleecy cloudAnd some red from a rainbow bright,And I’d put them together, side by sideFor my stripes of Red and White.Then “Hurrah for the Flag!” our country’s flag,Its stripes and white stars too;There is no flag in any landLike our own “Red, White and Blue.”—Anon.

SONG FROM “PIPPA PASSES.”

The year’s at the spring,And day’s at the morn;Morning’s at seven;The hill-side’s dew-pearled;The lark’s on the wing;The snail’s on the thorn:God’s in his heaven—All’s right with the world.—Robert Browning.

LITTLE BROWN HANDS

They drive home the cows from the pasture,Up through the long shady lane,Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-fields,That are yellow with ripening grain.They find, in the thick, waving grasses,Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows.They gather the earliest snowdrops,And the first crimson buds of the rose.They toss the new hay in the meadow;They gather the elder-bloom white;They find where the dusky grapes purpleIn the soft-tinted October light.They know where the apples hang ripest,And are sweeter than Italy’s wines;They know where the fruit hangs the thickestOn the long, thorny blackberry-vines.They gather the delicate sea-weeds,And build tiny castles of sand;They pick up the beautiful sea-shells—Fairy barks that have drifted to land.They wave from the tall, rocking tree-topsWhere the oriole’s hammock-nest swings;And at night-time are folded in slumberBy a song that a fond mother sings.Those who toil bravely are strongest;The humble and poor become great;And so from these brown-handed childrenShall grow mighty rulers of state.The pen of the author and statesman—The noble and wise of the land—The sword, and the chisel, and palette,Shall be held in the little brown hand.—M. H. Krout.

WINTER AND SUMMER

Oh, I wish the Winter would go,And I wish the Summer would come,Then the big brown farmers will hoe,And the little brown bee will hum.Then the robin his fife will trill,And the wood-piper beat his drum;And out of their tents on the hillThe little green troops will come.Then around and over the treesWith a flutter and flirt we’ll go,A rollicking, frolicking breeze,And away with a frisk ho! ho!—Anon.

THE BROOK

I come from haunts of coot and hern,I make a sudden sally,And sparkle out among the fern,To bicker down the valley.By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges,By twenty thorps, a little town,And half a hundred bridges.Till last by Philip’s farm I flowTo join the brimming river;For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.I chatter over stony ways,In little sharps and trebles;I bubble into eddying bays;I babble on the pebbles.With many a curve my bank I fretBy many a field and fallow,And many a fairy foreland setWith willow-weed and mallow.I chatter, chatter as I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.I wind about, and in and out,With here a blossom sailing,And here and there a lusty trout,And here and there a grayling,And here and there a foamy flakeUpon me as I travel,With many a silvery waterbreakAbove the golden gravel,And draw them all along and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come, and men may go,But I go on forever.I steal by lawns and grassy plots,I slide by hazel covers,I move the sweet forget-me-notsThat grow for happy lovers.I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,Among my skimming swallows;I make the netted sunbeam danceAgainst my sandy shallows.I murmur under moon and starsIn brambly wildernesses;I linger by my shingly bars;I loiter round my cresses;And out again I curve and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may goBut I go on forever.—Tennyson.

THE WONDERFUL WORLD

Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,With the wonderful water around you curled,And the wonderful grass upon your breast—World, you are beautifully dressed.The wonderful air is over me,And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree,It walks on the water, and whirls the mills,And talks to itself on the tops of the hills.You, friendly Earth, how far do you go,With the wheatfields that nod and the rivers that flow,With cities and gardens, and cliffs, and isles,And people upon you for thousands of miles?Ah, you are so great, and I am so small,I tremble to think of you, World, at all;And yet, when I said my prayers, to-day,A whisper inside me seemed to say,“You are more than the earth, though you are such a dot:You can love and think, and the Earth can not!”—W. B. Rands.

DON’T GIVE UP

If you’ve tried and have not won,Never stop for crying;All that’s great and good is doneJust by patient trying.Though young birds, in flying, fall,Still their wings grow stronger;And the next time they can keepUp a little longer.Though the sturdy oak has knownMany a blast that bowed her,She has risen again, and grownLoftier and prouder.If by easy work you beat,Who the more will prize you?Gaining victory from defeat,That’s the test that tries you!—Phœbe Cary.

WE ARE SEVEN

—A simple child,That lightly draws its breath,And feels its life in every limb,What should it know of death?I met a little cottage girl:She was eight years old, she said;Her hair was thick with many a curlThat clustered round her head.She had a rustic, woodland air,And she was wildly clad:Her eyes were fair, and very fair—Her beauty made me glad.“Sisters and brothers, little Maid,How many may you be?”“How many? Seven in all,” she said,And wondering looked at me.“And where are they? I pray you tell.”She answered, “Seven are we;And two of us at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea.“Two of us in the churchyard lie,My sister and my brother;And in the churchyard cottage, IDwell near them with my mother.”“You say that two at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea,Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,Sweet Maid, how this may be.”Then did the little maid reply,“Seven boys and girls are we;

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.

1

From “Along the Way,” copyright 1879 by Mary Mapes Dodge, and published by Chas. Scribner’s Sons.

2

From “Love Songs of Childhood.” Copyright, 1894, by Eugene Field. Reprinted by permission of the publishers, Chas. Scribner’s Sons.

3

From “The Complete Poetical Writings of J. G. Holland,” copyright 1879-1881 by Charles Scribner’s Sons.