'Tis when the lark goes soaring, And the bee is at the bud, When lightly dancing zephyrs Sing over field and flood; When all sweet things in Nature Seem joyfully a-chime-- 'Tis then I wake my darling, For it is kissing-time! Go, pretty lark, a-soaring, And suck your sweets, O bee; Sing, O ye winds of summer, Your songs to mine and me. For with your song and rapture Cometh the moment when It is half-past kissing-time And time to kiss again! So--so the days go fleeting Like golden fancies free, And every day that cometh Is full of sweets for me; And sweetest are those moments My darling comes to climb Into my lap to mind me That it is kissing-time. Sometimes, may be, he wanders A heedless, aimless way-- Sometimes, may be, he loiters In pretty, prattling play; But presently bethinks him And hastens to me then, For it's half-past kissing time And time to kiss again! THE FIFTH OF JULY. The sun climbs up, but still the tyrant Sleep Holds fast our baby boy in his embrace; The slumb'rer sighs, anon athwart his face Faint, half-suggested frowns like shadows creep, One little hand lies listless on his breast, One little thumb sticks up with mute appeal, While motley burns and powder marks reveal The fruits of boyhood's patriotic zest. Our baby's faithful poodle crouches near-- He, too, is weary of the din and play That come with glorious Independence Day, But which, thank God! come only once a year! And Fido, too, has suffered in this cause, Which once a year right noisily obtains, For Fido's tail--or what thereof remains-- Is not so fair a sight as once it was. PICNIC-TIME. It's June agin, an' in my soul I feel the fillin' joy That's sure to come this time o' year to every little boy; For, every June, the Sunday schools at picnics may be seen, Where "fields beyont the swellin' floods stand dressed in livin' green." Where little girls are skeered to death with spiders, bugs an' ants, An' little boys get grass-stains on their go-to-meetin' pants. It's June agin, an' with it all what happiness is mine-- There's goin' to be a picnic an' I'm goin' to jine! One year I jined the Baptists, an' goodness! how it rained! (But grampa says that that's the way "Baptizo" is explained.) And once I jined the 'piscopils an' had a heap o' fun-- But the boss of all the picnics was the Presbyterium! They had so many puddin's, sallids, sandwidges an' pies, That a feller wisht his stummick was as hungry as his eyes! Oh, yes, the eatin' Presbyteriums give yer is so fine That when _they_ have a picnic, you bet _I'm_ goin' to jine!