that three-corner’d smile of bliss?
Three angels gave me at once a kiss.
Where did you get this pearly ear?
God spoke, and it came out to hear.
Where did you get those arms and hands?
Love made itself into hooks and bands.
Feet, whence did you come, you darling things?
From the same box as the cherubs’ wings.
How did they all come just to be you?
God thought of me and so I grew.
But how did you come to us, you dear?
God thought of you, and so I am here.
—George Macdonald.
THE LITTLE PLANT.
In the heart of a seed, buried deep, so deep,
A dear little plant lay fast asleep.
“Wake,” said the sunshine, “and creep to the light.”
“Wake,” said the voice of the rain-drops bright.
The little plant heard and rose to see
What the wonderful outside world might be.
—Anon.
SLEEP, BABY, SLEEP!
Sleep, baby, sleep!
Thy father watches his sheep;
Thy mother is shaking the dreamland tree,
And down comes a little dream on thee.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
Sleep, baby, sleep!
The large stars are the sheep;
The little stars are the lambs, I guess;
And the gentle moon is the shepherdess.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
Sleep, baby, sleep!
Our Saviour loves His sheep;
He is the Lamb of God on high,
Who for our sakes came down to die.
Sleep, baby, sleep!
—E. Prentiss (from the German).
ONE, TWO, THREE.
One, two, three, a bonny boat I see,
A silver boat and all afloat upon a rosy sea.
One, two, three, the riddle tell to me.
The moon afloat is the bonny boat, the sunset is the sea.
—Margaret Johnson.
THREE LITTLE BUGS IN A BASKET.
Three little bugs in a basket,
And hardly room for two;
And one was yellow, and one was black,
And one like me or you;
The space was small, no doubt, for all,
So what should the three bugs do?
Three little bugs in a basket,
And hardly crumbs for two;
And all were selfish in their hearts,
The same as I or you.
So the strong one said, “We will eat the bread,
And that’s what we will do!”
Three little bugs in a basket,
And the beds but two could hold;
And so they fell to quarreling—
The white, the black, and the gold—
And two of the bugs got under the rugs,
And one was out in the cold.
He that was left in the basket,
Without a crumb to chew,
Or a thread to wrap himself withal,
When the wind across him blew,
Pulled one of the rugs from one of the bugs,
And so the quarrel grew.
So there was war in the basket;
Ah! pity ’tis, ’tis true!
But he that was frozen and starved, at last
A strength from his weakness drew,
And pulled the rugs from both the bugs,
And killed and ate them, too!
Now when bugs live in a basket,
Though more than it well can hold,
It seems to me they had better agree—
The black, the white, and the gold—
And share what comes of beds and crumbs,
And leave no bug in the cold.
—Alice Cary.
WHENEVER A LITTLE CHILD IS BORN.
