A little brook goes dancing by at the foot of the hill. You can see the little white stones through the water.
They have a great many pets—colts and calves and chickens and rabbits and cats.
And there are ever so many nice things for them to do. They fish in the brook or take off their shoes and stockings and wade in the water. They hunt in the grass for red berries. They swing in the big swing under the maple-tree. They go after the cows and hunt butterflies, and tumble on the hay in the barn.
Such good times!
This bright May morning mamma and all six of them are out in the orchard. The apple-trees are full of pink and white flowers, and the cherry-trees are all white, like pop corn.
What a pretty sight!
The air is sweet with the breath of the blossoms. Everything is gay and happy. The brook is tinkling, the bees are humming, the birds are singing.
Little children must sing, too. Hark! hear them.
It is a little song which begins:
“Blooming May