THE CHILDREN OF THE WIND
My little dresses are alive—
See, out upon the line,
How full and free they’re blowing there,
Those crumpled gowns of mine!
I never thought ’twould happen, when
Nurse put them out to air them;
The little children of the wind
Have crept inside, to wear them!
And now they’re swaying to and fro—
With lifted arms they’re clinging
Fast holding to the friendly rope
And swinging, swinging, swinging!
The pink gown and the blue gown, too,
The white one trimmed with laces,
O, little children of the wind,
Why can’t I see your faces?
THE SOLEMN FROG
I think he’s judge of all the rest,
My friend, the solemn frog;
He’s judge of all the water things,
The skimming bugs with dripping wings,
The turtle on the log;
He sits upon a lily pad
And if he ever sees them bad
With sternness he will say:
“Go hide among the darkest weeds
Down deep, among the dungeon reeds,
And there repent your wicked deeds,
Away, young thing, away!”
