VI—THE LILACS.
There was a great clump of lilac bushes out by the garden wall. These lilacs grew close together and made a thick hedge nearly around a little plot of ground, where the grass grew so thick and velvety that it was like a great green rug, and they bent their tall heads over this little green plot, and so formed a lovely summer-house.
Here we used to sew for our dolls, and here we used to give tea-parties. Raspberry shortcake was one of the dainties we used to have. This is the way we made it: Take a nice clean raspberry leaf, heap it with raspberries, and put another leaf on top. Eat at once.
In this lovely summer-house I used to keep school. I had a row of bricks for scholars. Each brick had its own name. Two or three of the bricks were nice and red and new. I named those new bricks after my dearest little school-friends.
The rest of the bricks were either broken or blackened a little. Those bricks were my naughty, idle scholars. I used to stand them up in a row to learn their lessons. The first thing I knew those bad bricks would all tumble down in a heap. Numbers of little lilac-switches grew about my schoolhouse, and I fear I was a severe teacher.
When the lilacs were in bloom, that dear little summer-house was a very gay little place. The great, purple plumes would nod in every little wind that blew. The air was full of sweetness. Butterflies made the trees bright with their slowly-waving wings. There was a drowsy hum of many bees. Sometimes we would catch hold of one of the slender trunks of the lilac trees, and give it a smart shake. Away would flash a bright cloud of butterflies, and a swarm of angry, buzzing bees!
Pleasant Sabbath afternoons, we used to take our Sunday-school books out under the lilacs to read. And as we read about good deeds and unselfish lives, our own choir of birds would sing sweet hymns. Then we would look up and smile, and say, “They have good singing at the lilac church, don’t they?”
Percia V. White.
I HAD A ROW OF BRICKS FOR SCHOLARS.
EIGHT YEARS OLD.
THE SINGING-LESSON.
A slender, liquid note,
Long-drawn and silver-sweet.
Obediently the little maid
Tries, timid still, and half afraid,
The lesson to repeat.
A breezy turn or two,
A blithe and bold refrain,
A ripple up and down the scale,
And still the learner does not fail
To echo soft the strain.
A burst of melody
Wild, rapturous, and long.
A thousand airy runs and trills
Like drops from overflowing rills,—
The vanquished pupil’s song
Breaks into laughter sweet.
And does her master chide?
Nay; little Ethel’s music-room
Is mid the sunny garden’s bloom,
Her roof the branches wide.
With parted lips she stands
Among the flowers alone.
Her teacher—hark! again he sings!
A stir—a flash of startled wings—
The little bird has flown!
MARGARET JOHNSON.
“One,
Two,
Buckle
My Shoe.”
Smile on me, Baby, my sweet,
As I kneel humbly here at your feet.
My Prince, with no crown for your head,
But your own sunny tresses instead.
And your lips and your eyes gravely sweet,
Smile down on me here at your feet,
Little one.