Child.
Five speckled thrushes,
In leafy bushes,
Singing sweet songs to the hot summer sky.
In and out twitting,
Here and there flitting,
Happy in life as the long days go by.
Chorus.
Hush! hush! hush!
'Tis the song of the thrush:
Hatched are the blue eggs, the brown birds do sing—
Keeping the promise made in the spring.
If you liked, one voice, or half the party, might sing, "When the blue eggs hatch," and the other, "The brown birds will sing." Some are doubtful about the last lines, but the word "promise" had a jubilant musical rhythm in my head. However, you can alter it; if it has not the same in yours.... I don't set up for a versifier, and you may do what you please with this.
There is a certain class of child's song which is always taught in the National system by certificated infant school mistresses. They are semi-theatrical, very pretty, and serve at once as music, discipline, and amusement. Such as "The Clock," in which they beat the hours, swing for the pendulum, etc. There are certain actions in these songs which express listening.... I am very fond of the National system for teaching children, and it has struck me that this song is a little of that type.... I am doubly vexed it is so poor, because your next thing to "Jerusalem the Golden" ought to be very good. If you can, make your Processional Hymn very grand, and I will do my very best. I have more hope of that. Would the metre of Longfellow's "Coplas de Manrique" be good for music? It would be a fine hymn measure.... Don't hamper yourself about the metre. I will fit the words to the music.
To Mrs. Gatty.
S.S. China. June 10, 1867.
I staggered up yesterday morning to have my first sight of an iceberg.... The sea was dark-blue, a low line of land (Cape Race) was visible, and the iceberg stood in the distance dead white, like a lump of sugar.... I think the first sight of Halifax was one of the prettiest sights I ever saw. When I first came up there was no horizon, we were in a sea of mist. Gradually the horizon line appeared—then a line of low coast—muddy-looking at first—it soon became marked with lines of dark wood—then the shore dotted with grey huts—then the sun came out—the breeze got milder—and the air became strongly redolent of pine-woods. Nearer, the coast became more defined, though still low, rather bare, and dotted with brushwood, and grey stones low down, and crowned always with "murmuring pines." As we came to habitations, which are dotted, and sparkle along the shore, the effect was what we noticed in Belgium, as if a box of very bright new toys had been put out to play with, red roofs—even red houses—cardboard-looking churches—little bright wooden houses—and stiffish trees mixed everywhere. It looks more like a quaint watering-place than a city, though there are some fine buildings.... We took a great fancy to the place, which was like a new child's picture book, and I was rather disappointed to learn it is not to be our home. But Fredericton, where we are going, has superior advantages in some respects, and will very likely be quite as pretty.
Halifax. June 19, 1867.