"Do you think I believe that the sun can shine On a boy or a girl half so sweet as mine? The lark, and the cat, and the cow were all right-- Each baby seems best in its own mother's sight!" [Illustration: 0053] A YOUNG INQUIRER. By Charlotte Mellen Packard. |HOW does life look behind the Hill? All the suns I have ever seen Peeped from over a mountain screen, Stretched a finger of rosy light Through some crevice to paint "Good-night;" Up the darkness the great round moon Floated by like a red balloon, Hung and glittered awhile, until It went to the people behind the Hill. The earth spins round, the mountain is still Men and women they come and they go, Children play in the valley below. Winds are roaring, or winds are whist, Sun may pass, there is rain and mist, The world we know is a bright world still, But ah, for the other behind the Hill! Voices are calling me day by day-- I listen, and wonder whatever they say! The valleys are pleasant, and days are long With play and study, with work and song-- But a boy keeps planning for other things, There's room in his restless body for wings, And fancy will never fold them until He sees for himself what is over the Hill. But most I dream of the unknown sea Where brave ships hasten like birds set free, Where plunging breakers ride high and loud Till the sailor is lost between wave and cloud. Oh the sunny lands, and the frozen zone, The forests where never a man is known! There are wonders and wonders waiting still For a boy who has never looked over the Hill! [Illustration: 0054] [Illustration: 0055] IN MIDSUMMER. By Mrs. L. C. Whiton. |INTO silence of the morning's splendor There is shaken a golden robin's dream; Kissed by sunshine to divine surrender, Bloom the snowy lilies in the stream; Soft south winds the hidden wild flowers Woo; And between the tangled leaves in view-- Hush! I see the Summer, Summer, Summer floating through. Climbs the sun, with ecstasy of shining, From the blush of rising into gold; And the river's heart, with close defining, Tells the same sweet story it is told; Hills are veiled in tender mists anew; From the liquid skies' unshadowed blue- Hush! I see the Summer, Summer, Summer flooding through. A MIDSUMMER SONG. By Mary E. Wilkins. |I WANT to sing a little song to please you, How midsummer comes following after June, And shall I pitch it by the lark or robin?-- For songs in midsummer should be in tune. And shall I give it sweetness like the roses?-- For midsummer has roses, as you know, As well as June; and sprinkled o'er with spices