See where the fire-logs glow and spark, Glitter the lights of the shadowland, The raining drops on the window, hark! Are ripples lapping upon its strand. There, where the mirror is glancing dim, A lake lies shimmering, cool and still. Blossoms are waving above its brim, Those over there on the window-sill. Rock slow, more slow in the dusky light, Silently lower the anchor down; Dear little passenger, say "Good-night." We've reached the harbor of Shadowtown. HUSH-A-BYE, BABY Hush-a-bye, baby, in the tree top: When the wind blows, the cradle will rock; When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, Down will come baby, cradle, and all. THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING LEAVES BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH See the kitten on the wall, Sporting with the leaves that fall, Withered leaves--one--two--and three-- From the lofty elder tree! Through the calm and frosty air Of this morning bright and fair, Eddying round and round they sink Softly, slowly: one might think From the motions that are made, Every little leaf conveyed Sylph or fairy hither tending, To this lower world descending, Each invisible and mute, In his wavering parachute. But the kitten, how she starts, Crouches, stretches, paws and darts! First at one and then its fellow, Just as light and just as yellow; There are many now--now one-- Now they stop and there are none: What intenseness of desire In her upward eye of fire! With a tiger-leap, halfway, Now she meets the coming prey; Lets it go as fast and then Has it in her power again. Now she works with three or four, Like an Indian conjuror; Quick as he in feats of art, Far beyond in joy of heart. LATE By Josephine Preston Peabody My father brought Somebody up To show us all asleep. They came as softly up the Stairs As you could creep. They whispered in the Doorway there, And looked at us awhile. I had my Eyes shut up, but I Could feel him smile. I shut my Eyes up close, and lay As still as I could keep. Because I knew He wanted us To be asleep. From "The Book of the Little Past," by Josephine Preston Peabody; used by permission of the publishers, Houghton Mifflin Co. A BLESSING FOR THE BLESSED BY LAURENCE ALMA-TADEMA When the sun has left the hilltop, And the daisy-fringe is furled, When the birds from wood and meadow In their hidden nests are curled, Then I think of all the babies That are sleeping in the world. There are babies in the high lands And babies in the low, There are pale ones wrapped in furry skins On the margin of the snow, And brown ones naked in the isles Where all the spices grow.