Riding on a Gate
Sing, sing,
What shall we sing,
A gate is a capital
Sort of thing.
If you have not a horse,
Or haven't a swing,
A gate is a capital
Sort of thing.
Cry, cry,
Finger in eye,
Go home to mother
And tell her why;
You've been riding,
And why not I?
Each in turn, isn't that the rule
For work or play, at home or school.
Walking Song
Come, my children, come away,
For the sun shines bright to-day;
Little children, come with me,
Birds, and brooks, and posies see;
Get your hats and come away,
For it is a pleasant day.
Bring the hoop and bring the ball,
Come with happy faces all,
Let us make a merry ring,
Talk, and laugh, and dance, and sing
Quickly, quickly come away,
For it is a pleasant day.
The Lost Playmate
The old school-house is still to day,
The rooms have no gay throng;
No ringing laugh is on the air,
There is no snatch of song.
The white-haired master sits upon
The seat beneath the tree,
And thinks upon the vanished face,
With all its boyish glee.
But a few short days ago, the lad
Was gayest of the gay,
Quick at the page of knowledge, and
The heartiest in play.
The pride of the home beside the stream,
With his pigeons in their cots,
And finding life a very dream,
In pleasant homely spots.
His school companions loving him,
And old folks speaking praise,
Of the well-loved boy, with frankest eyes,
And cheery, happy ways.
All in the village knew the boy,
From parson down to clerk,
And his whistle in the village street
Was clear as the song of lark.
But like a dream he's passed away,
And from the chamber dim,
In the fair light of summer day,
The peasants carry him.
And playmates gather at the grave,
The old schoolmaster there,
While blossomed boughs wave over-head,
And all around is fair.
True is the grief that brings the tear,
There is no empty show;
The simple neighbours see their loss,
And there is heart-felt woe.
They talk of the bright and lively lad,
Cut down in boyish prime,
And old folks think how strange is life,
More strange with passing time!
Oh! simple sight on green hill-side,
Away from pomp and power;
Here are the truths so oft denied
To the imperial hour.
Dear child, how precious are the tears,
Suffusing friendly eyes!
Sublimity is in their gleam,
A light from God's own skies.

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Page 83—Play Land

In the Toy Shop
Cups and saucers, pots and pans,
China figures, Chinese fans,
Railway trains, with tops and tables,
Fairy tales, and Aesop's fables.
Clockwork mice, and colored marbles,
Painted bird that sweetly warbles,
Dolls of every age and size,
With flaxen curls and moving eyes.
Cows and horses, chickens, cats,
Rattles, windmills, boats and bats,
Ducks and geese, and golden fishes,
Skipping ropes, and copper dishes.
Books with coloured pictures, too,
And a thousand other things for you;
Dainty maidens, merry boys,
Here you are, all sorts of toys.
Neat Little Clara
"Little Clara, come away,
Little Clara, come and play;
Leave your work, Maria's here,
So come and play with me, my dear."
"I will come, and very soon,
For I always play at noon;
But must put my work away,
Ere with you I come and play.
First my bodkin I must place
With my needles in their case;
I like to put them by with care,
And then I always find them there.
There's my cotton, there's my thread
Thimble in its little bed;
All is safe—my box I lock,
Now I come—'tis twelve o'clock."