CROSSING THE BROOK.
O dear little rill!
Why don't you keep still!
I never can cross,
To that bank of moss,
With you racing past
The smooth stones so fast.
Are you ever still,
You swift little rill?
Don't you sometimes stay
In cool nooks to play,
For days or for hours,
With bees, birds, and flowers?
If only I knew,
I'd come and play too,
I don't think you'd mind,
Your voice sounds so kind.
Who taught you to sing,
You dear little thing!
And now for the moss!
I 'll toss you a bit,
You good-natured chit.
There! bear it away—
Since you will not stay—
And give it, for mo,
Dear rill, to the sea,—
The great sea so wide,
With ships on its tide!
Now please don't be rude,
Though I must intrude,
And wade fairly through
Your ruffles so blue.
How pretty they look,
You dear little brook!
Come on, Snip; don't fear!
You can't drown in here;
And, if you do get
Your dainty toes wet,
'T will not make you sick:
So come along, quick!
Thanks, kind little rill!
Though you can't keep still,
You did n't get cross.
—Mrs. M. J. TAYLOR.