LITMIR.BIZ

      The spider wears a plain brown dress,

      And she is a steady spinner;

      To see her, quiet as a mouse,

      Going about her silver house,

      You would never, never, never guess

      The way she gets her dinner.

      She looks as if no thought of ill

      In all her life had stirred her;

      But while she moves with careful tread,

      And while she spins her silken thread,

      She is planning, planning, planning still

      The way to do some murder.

      My child, who reads this simple lay,

      With eyes down-dropt and tender,

      Remember the old proverb says

      That pretty is which pretty does,

      And that worth does not go nor stay

      For poverty nor splendor.

      ’Tis not the house, and not the dress,

      That makes the saint or sinner.

      To see the spider sit and spin,

      Shut with her walls of silver in,

      You would never, never, never guess

      The way she gets her dinner.

      Over the cradle the mother hung,

      Softly crooning a slumber song:

      And these were the simple words she sung

      All the evening long.

      “Cheek or chin, or knuckle or knee

      Where shall the baby’s dimple be?

      Where shall the angel’s finger rest

      When he comes down to the baby’s nest?

      Where shall the angel’s touch remain

      When he awakens my babe again?”

      Still as she bent and sang so low,

      A murmur into her music broke:

      And she paused to hear, for she could but know

      The baby’s angel spoke.

      “Cheek or chin, or knuckle or knee,

      Where shall the baby’s dimple be?

      Where shall my finger fall and rest

      When I come down to the baby’s nest?

      Where shall my finger touch remain

      When I awaken your babe again?”

      Silent the mother sat and dwelt

      Long in the sweet delay of choice,

      And then by her baby’s side she knelt,

      And sang with a pleasant voice:

      “Not on the limb, O angel dear!

      For the charm with its youth will disappear;

      Not on the cheek shall the dimple be,

      For the harboring smile will fade and flee;

      But touch thou the chin with an impress deep,

      And my baby the angel’s seal shall keep.”

      Down in a field one day in June, the flowers all bloomed together,

      Save one who tried to hide herself, and drooped that pleasant weather.

      A robin who had flown too high, and felt a little lazy,

      Was resting near this buttercup who wished she was a daisy.

      For daisies grow so slim and tall! She always had a passion

      For wearing frills about her neck in just the daisies’ fashion.

      And buttercups must always be the same old tiresome color;

      While daisies dress in gold and white, although their gold is duller.

      “Dear Robin,” said the sad young flower, “Perhaps you’d not mind trying

      To find a nice white frill for me, some day when you are flying.”

      “You silly thing!” the Robin said, “I think you must be crazy;

      I’d rather be my honest self, than any made-up daisy.

      “You’re nicer in your own bright gown; the little children love you.

      Be the best buttercup you can, and think no flower above you.

      Though swallows leave me out of sight, we’d better keep our places:

      Perhaps the world would all go wrong with one too many daisies.

      Look bravely up into the sky and be content with knowing

      That God wished for a buttercup, just here where you are growing.”

      There are many flags in many lands,

      There are flags of every hue,

      But there is no flag in any land

      Like our own Red, White and Blue.

      I know where the prettiest colors are,

      I’m sure, if I only knew

      How to get them here, I could make a flag

      Of glorious Red, White and Blue.

      I would cut a piece from the evening sky

      Where the stars were shining through,

      And use it just as it was on high

      For my stars and field of Blue.

      Then I want a part of a fleecy cloud

      And some red from a rainbow bright,

      And I’d put them together, side by side

      For my stripes of Red and White.

      Then “Hurrah for the Flag!” our country’s flag,

      Its stripes and white stars too;

      There is no flag in any land

      Like our own “Red, White and Blue.”

      The year’s at the spring,

      And day’s at the morn;

      Morning’s at seven;

      The hill-side’s dew-pearled;

      The lark’s on the wing;

      The

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