I mount him often, hurriedly,
And ride him fast and ride him far;
With whip and spur I make him fly
Along the road where robbers are;
But when I've galloped madly home
He is not wet or flecked with foam.
He does not plunge against the rein,
Nor take a ditch nor clear a rail.
He does not toss his flowing mane,
He does not even switch his tail.
Oh, well, he does his best, of course;
He's nothing but a hobby-horse!
NANCY BYRD TURNER.
MAY-TIME
Sing a song of May-time,
And picnics in the park.
Such a happy playtime!
Birds are singing—hark!
Bluebird calls to bluebird,
Robins chirp between,
And little lads and lasses
Are dancing on the green.
Marigolds are golden
All along the brooks.
Violets are peeping
In the shady nooks.
Out into the fields now!
Choose your happy queen;
For all the lads and lasses
Are dancing on the green.
HANNAH G. FERNALD.