The Flying Squirrel.
“The Flying Squirrel” is an honest account of a live creature that won his way into scores of hearts by his mad pranks and affectionate ways. It is enough that John Burroughs has commended the poem.
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Of all the woodland creatures, The quaintest little sprite Is the dainty flying squirrel In vest of shining white, In coat of silver gray, And vest of shining white. His furry Quaker jacket Is trimmed with stripe of black; A furry plume to match it Is curling o’er his back; New curved with every motion, His plume curls o’er his back. No little new-born baby Has pinker feet than he; Each tiny toe is cushioned With velvet cushions three; Three wee, pink, velvet cushions Almost too small to see. Who said, “The foot of baby Might tempt an angel’s kiss”? I know a score of school-boys Who put their lips to this,— This wee foot of the squirrel, And left a loving kiss. The tiny thief has hidden My candy and my plum; Ah, there he comes unbidden To gently nip my thumb,— Down in his home (my pocket) He gently nips my thumb. How strange the food he covets, The restless, restless wight;— Fred’s old stuffed armadillo He found a tempting bite, Fred’s old stuffed armadillo, With ears a perfect fright. The Lady Ruth’s great bureau, Each foot a dragon’s paw! The midget ate the nails from His famous antique claw. Oh, what a cruel beastie To hurt a dragon’s claw! To autographic copies Upon my choicest shelf,— To every dainty volume The rogue has helped himself. My books! Oh dear! No matter! The rogue has helped himself. And yet, my little squirrel, Your taste is not so bad; You’ve swallowed Caird completely And psychologic Ladd. Rosmini you’ve digested, And Kant in rags you’ve clad. Gnaw on, my elfish rodent! Lay all the sages low! My pretty lace and ribbons, They’re yours for weal or woe! My pocket-book’s in tatters Because you like it so. |
Mary E. Burt.
Warren’s Address to the American Soldiers.
There is never a boy who objects to learning “Warren’s Address,” by John Pierpont (1785-1866). To stand by one’s own rights is inherent in every true American. This poem is doubtless developed from Robert Burns’s “Bannockburn.” (1785-1866.)
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Stand! the ground’s your own, my braves! Will ye give it up to slaves? Will ye look for greener graves? Hope ye mercy still? What’s the mercy despots feel? Hear it in that battle-peal! Read it on yon bristling steel! Ask it,—ye who will. Fear ye foes who kill for hire? Will ye to your homes retire? Look behind you! they’re afire! And, before you, see Who have done it!—From the vale On they come!—And will ye quail?— Leaden rain and iron hail Let their welcome be! In the God of battles trust! Die we may,—and die we must; But, O, where can dust to dust Be consigned so well, As where Heaven its dews shall shed On the martyred patriot’s bed, And the rocks shall raise their head, Of his deeds to tell! |
John Pierpont.
The Song in Camp.
“The Song in Camp” is Bayard Taylor’s best effort as far as young boys and girls are concerned. It is a most valuable poem. I once heard a clergyman in Chicago use it as a text for his sermon. Since then “Annie Laurie” has become the song of the Labour party. “The Song in Camp” voices a universal feeling. (1825-78.)