LITMIR.BIZ

      Little white snowdrop, I pray you arise:

      Bright yellow crocus, come, open your eyes:

      Sweet little violets hid from the cold,

      Put on your mantles of purple and gold.

      Daffodils, daffodils, say, do you hear?

      Summer is coming and springtime is here.

      Suppose the little cowslip

      Should hang its golden cup,

      And say, “I’m such a tiny flower,

      I’d better not grow up;”

      How many a weary traveler

      Would miss its fragrant smell,

      And many a little child would grieve

      To lose it from the dell.

      Suppose the little breezes,

      Upon a summer’s day,

      Should think themselves too small

      To cool the traveler on his way;

      Who would not miss the smallest

      And softest ones that blow,

      And think they made a great mistake,

      If they were talking so?

      Suppose the little dewdrop

      Upon the grass should say,

      “What can a little dewdrop do?

      I’d better roll away.”

      The blade on which it rested,

      Before the day was done,

      Without a drop to moisten it,

      Would wither in the sun.

      How many deeds of kindness

      A little child can do,

      Although it has but little strength,

      And little wisdom, too!

      It wants a loving spirit,

      Much more than strength, to prove

      How many things a child may do

      For others by its love.

      “Come, little leaves,” said the wind one day;

      “Come over the meadows with me, and play,

      Put on your dresses of red and gold,

      Summer is gone and the days grow cold.”

      Soon the leaves heard the wind’s loud call,

      Down they fell fluttering, one and all.

      Over the brown fields they danced and flew,

      Singing the soft little songs they knew.

      Dancing and flying, the little leaves went;

      Winter had called them, and they were content.

      Soon fast asleep in their earthy beds,

      The snow laid a white blanket over their heads.

      “If I were a sunbeam,

      I know what I’d do:

      I would seek white lilies

      Rainy woodlands through:

      I would steal among them,

      Softest light I’d shed,

      Until every lily

      Raised its drooping head.

      “If I were a sunbeam,

      I know where I’d go:

      Into lowliest hovels,

      Dark with want and woe:

      Till sad hearts looked upward,

      I would shine and shine;

      Then they’d think of heaven,

      Their sweet home and mine.”

      Art thou not a sunbeam,

      Child whose life is glad

      With an inner radiance

      Sunshine never had?

      Oh, as God has blessed thee,

      Scatter rays divine!

      For there is no sunbeam

      But must die, or shine.

      A bumble bee, yellow as gold

      Sat perched on a red-clover top,

      When a grasshopper, wiry and old,

      Came along with a skip and a hop.

      “Good morrow” cried he, “Mr. Bumble Bee,

      You seem to have come to stop.”

      “We people that work,” said the bee with a jerk,

      “Find a benefit sometimes in stopping,

      Only insects like you, who have nothing to do

      Can keep perpetually hopping.”

      The grasshopper paused on his way

      And thoughtfully hunched up his knees:

      “Why trouble this sunshiny day,”

      Quoth he, “with reflections like these?

      I follow the trade for which I was made

      We all can’t be wise bumble-bees;

      There’s a time to be sad and a time to be glad,

      A time for both working and stopping,

      For men to make money, for you to make honey,

      And for me to keep constantly hopping.”

      I

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