That His mother loved, as I love you; That grew up to teach you how you should seek To be in your spirit "lowly and meek," And onward higher and higher to go, Till you changed to an angel, whiter than snow; And offered freely (that all might take) The gift of Himself for the whole world's sake! And Christmas means this: A little child's bliss, And the love of the dear Christ felt like a kiss. MIDSUMMER SONGS. _And flow, since all the little birds are singing In bush and brake, And all the honey flower bells dimly ringing, And grasses shake-- And grasses shake before the reapers' coming.; While through and through This sweetness locusts shrill and bees are humming, I'll sing to you A little song, with bird-notes all a-twitter, With honey flowing From tilted flower-cups with dew a-glitter, With fireflies glowing; And over it roses in knots, and myrtle, As thickly lay (And violets) as on a maiden's kirtle, A holiday. Sweetened all through with flowers, with which 'tis filled So full, you see It needs (and also honey round it spilled) A sweet song be._ --M. E. W. [Illustration: 0042] "SAINT EMILY." By E. F. Frye. |WHEN grass grows green in spring-time And trees are budding gay, When the breath of bursting lilacs Makes sweet the air of May, When cowslips fringe the brooksides, And violets gem the dells, And tremble mid the grasses The wind-flower's slender bells, When the fragrant lily rises From its sheltering sheath of green, In the city's narrow alleys Saint Emily is seen. A modest little maiden, She walks secure from harm; A basket, flower-laden, Swings lightly on her arm, And right and left she scatters, Alike to bad and good, The beauties of the garden, The treasures of the wood. When summer days drag slowly, In languor, heat, and pain, To those who lie in hospital, Never to rise again, Dreaming, with fevered longing, Of shady country homes, Where roses hang in clusters, And honeysuckle blooms, From cot to cot so softly Moves dear Saint Emily; And here a rose she proffers, And there a bud lays she. The close abode of sickness She fills with fragrant bloom; Her gentle presence passes Like music through the room And many a moaning sufferer Hushes his sad complaint, And follows with his weary eyes The movements of this saint. When autumn paints the woodlands With scarlet and with gold, When the blue gentian's lids unclose In frosty meadows cold, From the little troop of children That crowd some Orphan Home The joyous shout arises,