[PUSSY WILLOW.]
BY MARIAN DOUGLAS.
The brook is brimmed with melted snow,
The maple sap is running,
And on the highest elm a crow
His big black wings is sunning.
A close green bud the May-flower lies
Upon its mossy pillow;
And sweet and low the South Wind blows,
And through the brown fields calling goes,
"Come, Pussy! Pussy Willow!
Within your close brown wrapper stir;
Come out and show your silver fur;
Come, Pussy! Pussy Willow!"
Soon red will bud the maple-trees,
The bluebirds will be singing,
And yellow tassels in the breeze
Be from the poplars swinging;
And rosy will the May-flower lie
Upon its mossy pillow,
But you must come the first of all.
"Come, Pussy!" is the South Wind's call—
"Come, Pussy! Pussy Willow!"
A fairy gift to children dear,
The downy firstling of the year—
Come, Pussy! Pussy Willow!
[THE ANTS AT HOME.]
BY CHARLES MORRIS.
The brook that ran merrily by the garden of Woodbine Cottage, prattling like a happy child on a holiday, grew sober and quiet further down, spreading into a broad sheet of gleaming water, through whose liquid surface glistened the silvery sands that adorned its bed.
Here the soft green verdure spread like a rich carpet, and Harry and Willie Mason lay buried in the deep grasses until only their heads appeared above the waving blades. On the bank of the brook sat their uncle Ben, his kindly face turned with a pleasant smile to the questioning boys.
"So you want to hear some more queer stories about ants?" he said. "Why, I thought we were well done with the subject."