--“And go, now,” said the grandmother, “Since falling is the dew, Go down unto the lonesome glen, And milk the mother-ewe!” All down into the lonesome glen, Through copses thick and wild; Through moist, rank grass, by trickling streams, Went on the willing child, And when she came to lonesome glen, She kept beside the burn, And neither plucked the strawberry-flower, Nor broke the lady-fern. And while she milked the mother-ewe Within the lonesome glen, She wished that little Amy Were strong and well again. And soon as she had thought this thought, She heard a coming sound, As if a thousand fairy-folk Were gathering all around. And then she heard a little voice, Shrill as the midge’s wing, That spake aloud, “a human child Is here--yet mark this thing! “The lady-fern is all unbroke, The strawberry-flower unta’en! What shall be done for her, who still From mischief can refrain?” “Give her a fairy-cake!” said one, “Grant her a wish!” said three; “The latest wish that she hath wished,” Said all, “whate’er it be!” --Kind Mabel heard the words they spake, And from the lonesome glen, Unto the good old grandmother Went gladly back again. Thus happened it to Mabel On that midsummer-day, And these three fairy-blessings She took with her away. --’Tis good to make all duty sweet, To be alert and kind: ’Tis good, like little Mabel, To have a willing mind! BIRDS AND FLOWERS AND OTHER COUNTRY THINGS. THE STORMY PETEREL. O stormy, stormy, Peterel, Come rest thee, bird, awhile; There is no storm, believe me, Anigh this summer isle. Come, rest thy waving pinions; Alight thee down by me; And tell me somewhat of the lore Thou learnest on the sea! Dost hear beneath the ocean The gathering tempest form? See’st thou afar the little cloud That grows into the storm? How is it in the billowy depths-- Doth sea-weed heave and swell? And is a sound of coming woe Rung from each caverned shell? Dost watch the stormy sunset In tempests of the west; And see the old moon riding slow With the new moon on her breast? Dost mark the billows heaving Before the coming gale; And scream for joy of every sound That turns the seaman pale? Are gusty tempests mirth to thee? Lov’st thou the lightning’s flash; The booming of the mountain waves-- The thunder’s deafening crash? O stormy, stormy Peterel, Thou art a bird of woe! Yet would I thou could’st tell me half Of the misery thou dost know!