The Singing-lesson

She ran the chromatics through every key,
And ended triumphant on upper C;

Airing the graces her mother had taught her
In a manner quite worthy of Madame's daughter.

But his lordship glared down the leafy aisle
With never so much as a nod or smile,
Till, out in the shade of a blackberry thicket,
He all of a sudden spied little Miss Cricket;
And, roused from his gloom, like an angry bat,
He sternly demanded, "Who is that?"
"Miss Cricket, my lord, may it please you so,
A charity scholar-ahem!—you know—
Quite worthy, of course, but we couldn't bring”—
Thundered His Mightiness, "Let her sing!"
The Nightingale opened her little eyes
Extremely wide in her blank surprise;

But catching a glimpse of his lordship's rage,
Led little Miss Cricket upon the stage,

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Where she modestly sang, in her simple measures,
Of "Home, sweet Home," and its humble pleasures.
And the lord of Glendare cried out in his glee,
"This little Miss Cricket shall sing for me!"

Of course, of comment there was no need;
But the world said, "Really!" and "Ah, indeed!"
Yet, notwithstanding, we find it true

As his lordship docs will the neighbors do;

So this is the way, as the legends tell,

In the very beginning it befell

That the Crickets came, in the evening's gloom,
To sing at our hearths of "Home, sweet Home."
Emma Huntington Nason [1845-

THE SINGING-LESSON

A NIGHTINGALE made a mistake;
She sang a few notes out of tune;
Her heart was ready to break,

And she hid away from the moon.

She wrung her claws, poor thing!
But was far too proud to weep;
She tucked her head under her wing,
And pretended to be asleep.

A lark, arm in arm with a thrush,
Came sauntering up to the place;
The nightingale felt herself blush,
Though feathers hid her face.
She knew they had heard her song,
She felt them snicker and sneer;
She thought that life was too long,
And wished she could skip a year.

"Oh, Nightingale," cooed a dove"Oh, Nightingale, what's the use? You bird of beauty and love,

Why behave like a goose? Don't skulk away from our sight,

Like a common, contemptible fowl;

You bird of joy and delight,

Why behave like an owl?

"Only think of all you have done,
Only think of all you can do;
A false note is really fun

From such a bird as you!
Lift up your proud little crest,

Open your musical beak;

Other birds have to do their best

You need only to speak."

The nightingale shyly took

Her head from under her wing, And, giving the dove a look,

Straightway began to sing.

There was never a bird could pass;

The night was divinely calm, And the people stood on the grass To hear that wonderful psalm.

Chanticleer

The nightingale did not care;
She only sang to the skies;
Her song ascended there,

And there she fixed her eyes.
The people that stood below
She knew but little about;
And this tale has a moral, I know,
If you'll try to find it out.

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Jean Ingelow [1820-1897]

CHANTICLEER

OF all the birds from East to West
That tuneful are and dear,

I love that farmyard bird the best,
They call him Chanticleer.

Gold plume and copper plume,
Comb of scarlet gay;

'Tis he that scatters night and gloom,
And whistles back the day!

He is the sun's brave herald
That, ringing his blithe horn,
Calls round a world dew-pearled
The heavenly airs of morn.

O clear gold, shrill and bold!

He calls through creeping mist

The mountains from the night and cold
To rose and amethyst.

He sets the birds to singing,

And calls the flowers to rise; The morning cometh, bringing Sweet sleep to heavy eyes.

Gold plume and silver plume,

Comb of coral gay;

'Tis he packs off the night and gloom,

And summons home the day!

Jack Frost

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NURSE'S SONG

WHEN the voices of children are heard on the green

And laughing is heard on the hill,

My heart is at rest within my breast,

And everything else is still.

"Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down, And the dews of the night arise;

Come, come, leave off play, and let us away

Till the morning appears in the skies."

"No, no, let us play, for it is yet day, And we cannot go to sleep;

Besides in the sky the little birds fly,

And the hills are all covered with sheep."

"Well, well, go and play till the light fades away,
And then go home to bed."

The little ones leaped and shouted and laughed;
And all the hills echoed.

William Blake [1757-1827]

JACK FROST

THE door was shut, as doors should be,
Before you went to bed last night;

Yet Jack Frost has got in, you see,
And left your window silver white.

He must have waited till you slept;
And not a single word he spoke,
But pencilled o'er the panes and crept
Away again before you woke.

And now you cannot see the hills

Nor fields that stretch beyond the lane;
But there are fairer things than these

His fingers traced on every pane.