Harper's Young People, July 18, 1882 / An Illustrated Weekly

Of all the lovely things we do, my sister Maud and I, In summer days, at grandpa's farm, where hills are green and high, There's nothing that we like so well as being sent to keep, All through the shady afternoon, a flock of milk-white sheep. You see, each lambkin knows its name; and when we call aloud, From every corner of the field the fleecy darlings crowd. At twilight when the sun goes down, to let the stars outshine, We bend for them some willow boughs, or dainty budding vine. And grandma bids us give them salt; they think it quite a treat, Just as we think of sugar-plums, or bonbons nice and sweet. But when the frisky little ones eat quick and run away, Excuse them, please, they're very young, their mothers seem to say. I wonder people think them dumb. I'm sure the wise old ewes Could tell some things to giddy girls who have no wit to lose. How patiently they pace along, and let the lambkins play, And chase their shadows on the grass, and skip about all day. One never sees them looking cross; and that's what grandpa meant— That silly once, in older days, was pure and innocent. And in the Good Book Maud and I together love to read Of pastures green and waters still, where happy flocks may feed. We know the Shepherd loves the lambs, and oft we pray to Him At eve low kneeling by our beds, when all the earth is dim; And when we wake and laugh and play, and when we go to sleep, We trust that He will keep us safe, as we have kept the sheep.

What a pretty boy!
Dare laughed and blushed as she jammed down the tiller of her little dory to let the larger boat, from which the remark had come, pass by.
That ain't a boy, she heard a rude voice reply; that's that Peters girl from Star Island.
Dare's laugh died out, and the flush turned into an angry red. The first speaker she did not know. It was a girl—a little younger than herself, Dare thought—with a frank, pleasant face and winning voice. But the other was a familiar foe, who had tormented Dare for ten years. Tom Suydam, she verily believed, was the most hateful boy that ever lived. Because he was a rich man's son, and boarded at the hotel every summer, while she was a fisherman's daughter who lived on the beach, he seemed to feel at liberty to tease and annoy her in every possible way. When she was a little girl he had amused himself by destroying her castles in the sand; and now that she was thirteen years old, and did not build sand castles, he would make uncomplimentary remarks loud enough for her to overhear. Dare almost hated Tom Suydam.