The poor old books that nobody reads,
How lonely their days must be!
They stand up high on the dusty shelves,
Waiting and wishing, beside themselves,—
And nobody cares but me.
They have no pictures, they are no good,
But I'd read them through, if I only could.
The poor old books! They are fat and dull,
Their covers are dark and queer;
But every time I push the door,
And patter across the library floor,
They seem to cry, "Here, oh here!"
And I feel so sad for their lonely looks
That I hate to take down my picture-books.
The nice new books on the lower shelves
Are giddy in gold and red;
And they are happy and proud and gay,
For somebody reads in them every day,
And carries them up to bed.
But when I am big I'm going to read
The books that nobody else will heed.
ABBIE FARWELL BROWN.
SYMPATHY
Sometimes the world's asleep so soon
When all the winds are still,
That I can see the little moon
Come peeping o'er the hill.
It looks so small and scared and white,
The way I feel in bed
When I have just put out the light
And covered up my head.
It half seems wishing it had stayed,
And half creeps softly out.
"Dear moon," I say, "don't be afraid!
No bogies are about."