Buttercups and daisies, Oh, the pretty flowers— Coming ere the spring time, To tell of sunny hours. While the trees are leafless, While the fields are bare, Buttercups and daisies Spring up here and there. Ere the snowdrop peepeth, Ere the crocus bold, Ere the early primrose Opes its paly gold, Somewhere on the sunny bank Buttercups are bright; Somewhere ’mong the frozen grass Peeps the daisy white. Little hardy flowers, Like to children poor, Playing in their sturdy health By their mother’s door, Purple with the north wind, Yet alert and bold; Fearing not, and caring not, Though they be a-cold! What to them is Winter! What are stormy showers! Buttercups and daisies Are these human flowers! He who gave them hardships And a life of care, Gave them likewise hardy strength And patient hearts to bear. —_Mary Howitt._ [Illustration] _A Farmer Went Trotting._ A farmer went trotting Upon his grey mare, Bumpety, bumpety, bump! With his daughter behind him, So rosy and fair, Lumpety, lumpety, lump! A raven cried “Croak!” And they all tumbled down, Bumpety, bumpety, bump! The mare broke her knees, And the farmer his crown, Lumpety, lumpety, lump! The mischievous raven Flew laughing away, Bumpety, bumpety, bump! And vowed he would serve them The same next day, Lumpety, lumpety, lump! _Black We Are._ Black we are, but much admired; Men seek for us till they are tired; We tire the horse, but comfort man; Tell me this riddle if you can. (_Coals._) [Illustration] THE LITTLE ELF. I met a little Elf-man, once, Down where the lilies blow. I asked him why he was so small And why he didn’t grow. He slightly frowned, and with his eye He looked me through and through. “I’m quite as big for me,” said he, “As you are big for you.” —_John Kendrick Bangs._ [Illustration] HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE. How doth the little busy bee Improve each shining hour, And gather honey all the day From every opening flow’r! How skilfully she builds her cell! How neat she spreads the wax! And labors hard to store it well With the sweet food she makes. In works of labor or of skill, I would be busy, too; For Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do. In books, or work, or healthful play, Let my first years be past, That I may give for ev’ry day Some good account at last.