’Tis the patter of the rain-drops On the grass, Makes it grow so green and shining As they pass. And each leaf upon the trees Waves, like jewels in the breeze, Liquid glass. ’Tis the patter of the rain-drops On the brook, Makes it dimple, dimple, dimple, As we look: Saying as they run away, “We write records every day In Love’s Book.” ’Tis the cradle song of summer That we hear, In the patter of the rain-drops, Coming near. Though the dark skies seem to frown Every drop brings blessings down, Baby dear. KISSING THE SUNBEAM A babe not old enough to speak or walk was creeping on the floor. By and by a bright ray of sunshine fell upon the carpet. Baby saw it and crept towards the dazzling spot. She looked at it, with the greatest interest in her sweet face; and then, putting down her little lips, she kissed it. O sweet little babe, in thy innocent glee, Kissing the sunbeam so golden and bright; God sent it, a messenger lovely, to thee, From the blue fields of heaven, all fledged with the light. Then kiss the bright beaming, thou dear little one; And mayest thou ever be grateful to Him Who gave to redeem us His glorious Son And filleth our cup of sweet joy to the brim. O kiss the bright sunbeam that gladdens thy home, Though ’tween the dark storm clouds that sunbeam may come; It cometh so golden, so beautiful ever; Then welcome the sunbeam, and praise the kind Giver. The Lord, in His love to the children of earth, Showers His mercies and joys ’round the hearth; Crowns the year with His goodness and bounty of love, ’Till the earth teems with blessings all fresh from above. God scatters them freely and kindly on all: Every moment they come, and how thickly they fall; But blessings, like sunbeams in showers of gold, Are drunk without praises by hearts dark and cold. He sends them to tell us how kind is His care. He sends them to tell us how thankless we are. He sends them to beautify Life’s troubled stream; O praise ye the Giver Who sendeth the beam. JEWEL OF THE CRADLE How fondly the heart of the mother is stirred, As she bends o’er the cradle where Innocence sleeps, And the sweetest of names and the tenderest word For her little birdling she carefully keeps. How precious its smiles and its cooing to her; And the light of its eye gives her joy anew, And e’en while she sleeps, her fond heart waketh still, Like a list’ning star in Night’s curtain of blue. Her fond, circling arms press it still to her breast, Where lulled by her heart-throb it slumbers again. If aught should awake it, the mother will start From dreaming and patiently comfort it then.