Two little seeds sank deep in the earth,
Down through the narrow darkening way,
Side by side in a slow descent,
Away from the light, on an April day.
Two little seeds—you scarce could tell
One from the other—both brown and round,
Planted, that day by the self-same hand
In the mellow depths of the self same ground.
Nestling together they chattered thus,
As close in their cozy nest they lay:
"What are we here for down in the dark
Hidden so deep from the light of day?"
"What are we here for? I, for one,"
Said the first little seed, in a gruesome tone,
"Shall just go to sleep, and sleep right on,
Close by the side of this round smooth stone.
I shall not stir, but I'll sweetly sleep,
Until old Mother Earth must surely see
That here, in the damp of the chilly ground,
Is never the place for the like of me."
Proud and idle, it went to sleep,
And it slept right on, though the warm rain fell,
And Nature found, when she came to look,
Nothing at all but an empty shell.
The other seed mused—"It cannot be right
Thus in the earth to so idly lie,
This life of ours will wasted be
And soon in this gloom, unused, must die.
I shall not sleep—from this narrow shell
I'll find my way, and out of this night
I shall reach right up, until day by day
I nearer and nearer approach the light.
Already I feel the welcome heat
Warming the loam that around me lies,
Already I see in my sweetest dreams
The genial sun and the azure skies.
Oh! slumber then in your slothful ease,
By your foolish fancies alone deceived,
While the grandest victories Earth e'er knew
Are only waiting to be achieved."
So out from his shell the wee seed burst,
And stretched to the full of its graceful length,
While the light and warmth of the Summer sun
Added each day to its beauty and strength.
Its slender fingers of tender green
Catches the trellis here and there,
Higher and higher reaching up,
Branching out in the Summer air.
Oh, fair are the blossoms it bears for all,
And fragrant the breath of its golden bells;
Glad is the music they ring for you,
From the perfumed depths where the dewdrop dwells.
They wake you out of your sluggish sleep—
Their voices are ringing—Arise! Arise!
God gave you your life to use for Him,
And can you the gift of a King despise?
Your strength will waste if it is not used,
The life He has lent He will ask again,
Can you bring but the empty shell to Him,
And tell Him His gift has been in vain?
Edith
One flower within my garden grows—
My friend's is crowded,
But mine is rarer than the rose,
My skies unclouded.
I shield it when the north winds blow
So harsh across it,
I cannot let them kiss it so,
And rudely toss it.
So beautiful it is and frail,
I almost dread
The butterflies that soar and sail
So near its bed.
I envy not the wealth of flowers
Across the way;
My radiant flower exhales perfume
For me each day.
My gratitude to Heaven for this,
My one late flower;
And such a sense of rapturous bliss
Ascends each hour.
Dear Heaven, still a gift bestow
And grant to me
The grace to train my flower to grow
For Heaven and Thee.
And yet, because I love it so
My heart will fail,
When life's rude tempests 'gin to blow
My blossom frail.
Help me to shield it from the rain—
From winter's blast—
And I will give it back again
To Thee at last.
The Theft
A crow flew down from a tall oak tree,
Just as important as he could be;
For a Congress of birds was to meet that day,
And he had determined to have his say.
He plumed his feathers and looked severe,
As the birds flew in from far and near.
A Mocking Bird sat on a limb near by,
With a desperate look in his round, dark eye;
He was the culprit—a thief he had been,
The Thrush and the Blackbird had "run him in."
He had stolen the nest of the little brown Wren
From the tangled depth of a shady glen.
The Hawk was the Judge, and sat in state,
Ready to seal the prisoner's fate.
"A thief is worse," said the Bobolink,
"Than anything else on earth, I think."
But—"Order in Court"—rang close to his ear,
Robin, the Sheriff, was standing near.
Then the Crow began in his deep sub-bass,
And his pompous manner to plead the case.
He spoke of the prisoner's youth at first,
But a murmur of scorn from the audience burst,
So he changed his tactics and said: "I hear
Of late the prisoner has acted queer.
In fact, I can make it to you quite plain
That most of his ancestors were insane.
Young as he is, and with such a taint,
'Tis folly to make against him complaint."
He talked till the Mocking Bird felt secure,
Feeling acquittal was coming sure.
Then the Owl rose up, and his blinking eyes,
Droll and uncanny, looked wondrous wise:
"Tu whit, tu whoo! You will find it vain
To plead that the prisoner's now insane;
Insane, did you say? Oh, well, perhaps—
But there is a prison for all such chaps,
The Mocking Bird's record has always been
Soiled and blotted by many a sin.
If this were the first of his insane tricks—
But the family trait to the fellow sticks.
Only last week—but you all have heard—
How he broke up the home of the Humming Bird.
Stealing and hiding the theft by a lie
Is the poorest rule for a bird to try.
We have borne with him for many a year,
But now we must act. Have I made it clear?"
And he loudly read from the law a clause,
Then flew to his perch, amid loud applause.
The charge to the jury was something fine,
Pathos and power in every line.
They were out but a moment, then entered again,
Nor had the eloquent charge been vain;
For the verdict "Guilty," rang out clear,
Filling the pris'ner with abject fear.
Then the Judge rose up, and shaking his head,
Solemnly, thus the sentence read:
"Let every bird from yon prisoner's breast,
A feather pluck for the Wren's new nest."
Scarce had they heard the words pronounced
Ere they all in a mob on the culprit pounced,
Each plucking a feather, he flew to the glen
Eager to comfort the poor little Wren.
The Mocking Bird shivered with cold and pain,
"Oh! never," he cried, "will I steal again,
And I'll try, oh! I'll try to do what is right,
Nor ever be found in such a sad plight."
The dear, gentle Dove, who had lingered behind,
Came close to the prisoner, loving and kind,
And she whispered so low, "Come home to my nest;
I'll care for you tenderly, give you my best.
I know you are sorry, I know you will try,
So come, let us home to my warm nest fly."
So nursed by the Dove, one fair summer day,
He kissed her and blessed her, and then flew away.
But whether he truly became a good bird
I'm sure I can't say, as I never have heard.
But I know on his record there'll ever remain,
Though the act be repented, its dark, ugly stain;
And he'll find o'er and o'er such tricks do not pay,
For punishment comes, and oft comes to stay.
No matter how small is the act that we do,
This thing, little children, you'll find always true:
That somehow or some way it does come about,
The wrong that we do will soon find us out,
And we're filled with such sorrow and in such a plight,
We see very clearly, "'Tis best to do right."
Who's Afraid
Run, little man, or old Jack Frost
Will catch you ere you know it,
I am sure you are half afraid of him,
Though your manner does not show it.
With your soft warm cap and your overcoat,
You think you can safely meet him.
The harsh old fellow will have to look sharp,
Or the coy little man will cheat him.
See how bravely he faces the piercing wind,
Not afraid of the cold is he,
And the roses bloom on his rounded cheek,
As he romps in his boyish glee.
Heigh-ho, little man, if you meet the storms,
That blow o'er the hills of life,
With half the courage you show to-day,
You are sure to win in the strife.
Then go, little man, and never you fear
But look the world in the face,
And you'll find on the heights of life, my boy,
That world will make you a place.
'Tis only the brave that fortune finds,
'Tis only the good who win;
The sluggards' bulwarks are tumbled down,
And he falls in the gutters of sin.
So up, little man, and never say fail,
Though frosts of adversity fall;
With courage your armor, and hope for a sword,
There is naught your heart can appall.