Poems Teachers Ask For Volume II Part 45

Her simple dress of sprinkled pink, Her double, dimpled chin; Her pucker'd lip and bonny mou', With nae ane tooth between.

Her een sae like her mither's een, Twa gentle, liquid things; Her face is like an angel's face-- We're glad she has nae wings.

_Hugh Miller._

A Legend of the Northland

Away, away in the Northland, Where the hours of the day are few, And the nights are so long in winter, They cannot sleep them through;

Where they harness the swift reindeer To the sledges, when it snows; And the children look like bears' cubs In their funny, furry clothes:

They tell them a curious story-- I don't believe 't is true; And yet you may learn a lesson If I tell the tale to you

Once, when the good Saint Peter Lived in the world below, And walked about it, preaching, Just as he did, you know;

He came to the door of a cottage, In traveling round the earth, Where a little woman was making cakes, And baking them on the hearth;

And being faint with fasting, For the day was almost done, He asked her, from her store of cakes, To give him a single one.

So she made a very little cake, But as it baking lay, She looked at it, and thought it seemed Too large to give away.

Therefore she kneaded another, And still a smaller one; But it looked, when she turned it over, As large as the first had done.

Then she took a tiny sc.r.a.p of dough, And rolled, and rolled it flat; And baked it thin as a wafer-- But she couldn't part with that.

For she said, "My cakes that seem too small When I eat of them myself, Are yet too large to give away,"

So she put them on the shelf.

Then good Saint Peter grew angry, For he was hungry and faint; And surely such a woman Was enough to provoke a saint.

And he said, "You are far too selfish To dwell in a human form, To have both food and shelter, And fire to keep you warm.

"Now, you shall build as the birds do, And shall get your scanty food By boring, and boring, and boring, All day in the hard dry wood,"

Then up she went through the chimney, Never speaking a word, And out of the top flew a woodp.e.c.k.e.r.

For she was changed to a bird.

She had a scarlet cap on her head, And that was left the same, Bat all the rest of her clothes were burned Black as a coal in the flame.

And every country school boy Has seen her in the wood; Where she lives in the woods till this very day, Boring and boring for food.

And this is the lesson she teaches: Live not for yourself alone, Lest the needs you will not pity Shall one day be your own.

Give plenty of what is given to you, Listen to pity's call; Don't think the little you give is great, And the much you get is small.

Now, my little boy, remember that, And try to be kind and good, When you see the woodp.e.c.k.e.r's sooty dress, And see her scarlet hood.

You mayn't be changed to a bird, though you live As selfishly as you can; But you will be changed to a smaller thing-- A mean and selfish man.

_Phoebe Cary._

How Did You Die?

Did you tackle the trouble that came your way With a resolute heart and cheerful?

Or hide year face from the light of day With a craven soul and fearful?

Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce, Or a trouble is what you make it, And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts, But only how did you take it?

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?

Come up with a smiling face, Its nothing against you to fall down flat, But to lie there--that's disgrace.

The harder you're thrown, why, the higher the bounce; Be proud of your blackened eye!

It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts; It's how did you fight--and why?

And though you be done to the death, what then?

If you battled the best you could, If you played your part in the world of men, Why, the Critic will call it good.

Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce, And whether he's slow or spry, It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts, But only how did you die?

_Edmund Vance Cooke._

The Children

When the lessons and tasks are all ended, And the school for the day is dismissed, And the little ones gather around me, To bid me good-night and be kissed,-- Oh, the little white arms that encircle My neck in a tender embrace!

Oh, the smiles that are halos of Heaven, Shedding suns.h.i.+ne and love on my face!

And when they, are gone, I sit dreaming Of my childhood, too lovely to last; Of love that my heart will remember When it wakes to the pulse of the past; Ere the world and its wickedness made me A partner of sorrow and sin; When the glory of G.o.d was about me, And the glory of gladness within.

Oh, my heart grows as weak as a woman's And the fountains of feeling will flow, When I think of the paths, steep and stony Where the feet of the dear ones must go.

Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them, Of the tempests of fate blowing wild-- Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy As the innocent heart of a child!

They are idols of hearts and of households, They are angels of G.o.d in disguise.

His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, His glory still beams in their eyes: Oh, those truants from earth and from heaven, They have made me more manly and mild!

And I know how Jesus could liken The Kingdom of G.o.d to a child.

Seek not a life for the dear ones All radiant, as others have done.

But that life may have just enough shadow To temper the glare of the sun; I would pray G.o.d to guard them from evil, But my prayer would bound back to myself.

Ah! A seraph may pray for a sinner, But the sinner must pray for himself.

The twig is so easily bended, I have banished the rule of the rod; I have taught them the goodness of Knowledge, They have taught me the goodness of G.o.d.

My heart is a dungeon of darkness, Where I shut them from breaking a rule; My frown is sufficient correction, My love is the law of the school.