These are the days when skies put on
The old, old sophistries of June,-
A blue and gold mistake.

Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,
Almost thy plausibility

Induces my belief,

Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,
And softly through the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf!

Oh, sacrament of summer days,
Oh, last communion in the haze,
Permit a child to join,

Thy sacred emblems to partake,
Thy consecrated bread to break,
Taste thine immortal wine!

EMILY DICKINSON.

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed

In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
The Snow-storm.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

CANDLEMAS.

O hearken all ye little weeds

That lie beneath the snow,

(So low, dear heart, in poverty so low!)

The sun hath risen for royal deeds,
A valiant wind the vanguard leads;
Now quicken ye, lest unborn seeds,
Before ye, rise and blow.

O furry living things adream,
On winter's drowsy breast,

(How rest ye there, how softly, safely rest!)
Arise and follow where a gleam

Of wizard gold unbinds the stream,

And all the woodland windings seem
With sweet expectance blest.

My birds, come back! the hollow sky
Is weary for your note.

(Sweet-throat, come back! O liquid, mellow throat!) Ere May's soft minions hereward fly,

Shame on ye, laggards, to deny

The brooding breast, the sun-bright eye,

The tawny, shining coat.

The stars of midnight shall be dear
To her; and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place

ALICE BROWN.

Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound

Shall pass into her face.

Three Years She Grew.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

And still when night is darkening o'er
And stars resume their tranquil ray,
We see how Nature gives us more
Than all she ever takes away.

Hymns of a Hermit.

JOHN STIRLING.

THE CAMP.*

The bed was made, the room was fit,
By punctual eve the stars were lit ;
The air was still, the water ran,
No need was there for maid or man,
When we put up, my ass and I,
At God's green caravanserai.

Travels with a Donkey.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

And Nature, the old nurse, took
The child upon her knee,
Saying: "Here is a story-book

Thy Father has written for thee."

"Come, wander with me," she said,
"Into regions yet untrod;

And read what is still unread
In the manuscripts of God."

And he wandered away and away
With Nature, the dear old nurse,
Who sang to him night and day
The rhymes of the universe.

And whenever the way seemed long,
Or his heart began to fail,

She would sing a more wonderful song,
Or tell a more marvellous tale.

The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

*"Poems and Ballads." Copyright, 1895 and 1896, Charles Scribner's Sons.

VIII.

The Larger Brotherhood.

God made all the creatures and gave them our love and our fear,

To give sign, we and they are his children, one family

here.

Saul.

ROBERT BROWNING.