Gather them into the baskets, Empty them into the bin; What a luscious store to go to When the winter wild sets in! Oh, if the apples Eve saw Were as handsome as some of these, How ever could she help saying— “I’ll take one, if you please”? Yellow, and white, and rosy, Crimson, purple, and brown, Apples, apples, apples, Here they come tumbling down. GOOD-BY, LITTLE BIRD. Good-by, little bird, the storm-clouds Are gathering gray and drear; At the chilly touch of the Frost-king The sunbeams have paled with fear; Wither’d, the leaves, and fallen lie; Sadly the winds of autumn sigh; Good-by, little bird, good-by, good-by; Little bird, stay not here. Good-by, little bird, I see thee Winging thy southward way To a sunny land thou knowest, Caroling as thou goest, Singing a blithesome lay. Alas, and alas, no longer Shall thy tuneful voice be heard, Till the leafless limbs be clothed again, And the blossoms gladden hill and glen. Good-by, good-by, little bird, till then; Good-by, good-by, little bird. HE WILL COME BACK. Slow the sunset’s glory fades In a thousand shifting shades, Crimson passing into gray, Where the waters of the bay, Mirror, serve the sky alway. From the dim, far-reaching sea Blows the cool wind merrily, Fills the snowy sails spread wide, And the fishers gaily glide Out against a rising tide. Children on the sea-beach white Watch them speeding out of sight; Rose, the eldest of the band, Sees but him who waves his hand— Boldest sailor in the land. “All is well when father goes,” Softly murmurs little Rose, Listening to the breaker’s moan, As she wends her way alone Up the cliff-side to her home. Thro’ the night the storm-bells toll, And she hears the thunder’s roll, Sees across the heaven’s black The red lightning’s zigzag track; Still, “I know he will come back!” Broken spar and shattered mast, By the reckless billows cast On the shore at early day, As they, guilty, steal away, Find the villagers and say— While above them smiles the sun— “’Twill go hard with such an one, ’Twill be sad for these and those, But who shall the news disclose To the little orphan Rose?” Rose, small housewife, mixing bread, When they tell her shakes her head: “Do you think I can forget All the perils he has met, And naught ever harmed him yet?” And the neighbors say, “Poor child!” Whispering, “Grief has made her wild.” But at eve white sails behold! Flashing up a path of gold, Just as little Rose foretold. KATY.