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They take the sickle from the wall
When morning dews shine pearly ; And the mower whets the ringing scythe,
To cut the bearded barley.
Come, then, into the harvest fields;
The robin sings his song ;,
And autumn stays not long.
They reaped to-day so early,
Each little mouse with eye so clear,
dear little bird we see
There is no painted butterfly,
No creature in the world we find
And who such care for all doth take?
FROM THE GERMAN. THE FROST.
The frost looked forth one still clear night, And whispered, “Now I shall be out of sight; So thro' the valley, and over the height,
In silence I'll take my way. I will not go on like that blustering train, The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, Who make so much bustle and noise in vain,
But I'll be as busy as they."
Then he flew to the mountain and powdered
its crest ; He lit on the trees, and their boughs he drest In diamond beads and over the breast
Of the quivering lake, he spread
Where a rock could rear its head.
He went to the window of those who slept,
By the light of the moon were seen
Most beautiful things—there were flowers and
trees ; There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees; There were cities with temples, and towers
and these All pictured in silver sheen!
But he did one thing that was hardly fair ;
“ Now just to set them a thinking, I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he, “This costly pitcher I'll burst in three ; And this glass of water they've left for me, Shall ‘tchiek' to tell them I'm drinking."
THE BIRD OF PASSAGE.
Sweet wanderer ! the gentle Spring
Hath strew'd the earth with flowers ;
Bird of the summer hours.
Nay, tarry not! the primrose pale
Hath rais'd her starry eye;
Hath breath'd where violets lie.
The trees that were so dead and sere,
Clad in their vernal dress-
In very loveliness.
Where art thou lingering ? in some clime,
Some dreamy clime of flowers ; Where it is ever summer time,
Amid the fragrant bowers ?
There, in some scented orange grove,
Beneath a cloudless sky, How sweetly, wanderer, canst thou rove,
And pour thy melody!
Or, gliding o'er the crystal stream,
Fed by some rippling spring, How canst thou rest thyself awhile,
And lave thy weary wing!