LITMIR.BIZ

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      One, two, three, a bonny boat I see,

      A silver boat and all afloat upon a rosy sea.

      One, two, three, the riddle tell to me.

      The moon afloat is the bonny boat, the sunset is the sea.

      —Margaret Johnson.

      THREE LITTLE BUGS IN A BASKET.

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      Three little bugs in a basket,

      And hardly room for two;

      And one was yellow, and one was black,

      And one like me or you;

      The space was small, no doubt, for all,

      So what should the three bugs do?

      Three little bugs in a basket,

      And hardly crumbs for two;

      And all were selfish in their hearts,

      The same as I or you.

      So the strong one said, “We will eat the bread,

      And that’s what we will do!”

      Three little bugs in a basket,

      And the beds but two could hold;

      And so they fell to quarreling—

      The white, the black, and the gold—

      And two of the bugs got under the rugs,

      And one was out in the cold.

      He that was left in the basket,

      Without a crumb to chew,

      Or a thread to wrap himself withal,

      When the wind across him blew,

      Pulled one of the rugs from one of the bugs,

      And so the quarrel grew.

      So there was war in the basket;

      Ah! pity ’tis, ’tis true!

      But he that was frozen and starved, at last

      A strength from his weakness drew,

      And pulled the rugs from both the bugs,

      And killed and ate them, too!

      Now when bugs live in a basket,

      Though more than it well can hold,

      It seems to me they had better agree—

      The black, the white, and the gold—

      And share what comes of beds and crumbs,

      And leave no bug in the cold.

      —Alice Cary.

      WHENEVER A LITTLE CHILD IS BORN.

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      Whenever a little child is born,

      All night a soft wind rocks the corn,

      One more butter-cup wakes to the morn,

      Somewhere.

      One more rose-bud shy will unfold,

      One more grass-blade push through the mould,

      One more bird’s song the air will hold,

      Somewhere.

      —Agnes L. Carter.

      SWEET AND LOW.

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      Sweet and low, sweet and low,

      Wind of the western sea,

      Low, low, breathe and blow,

      Wind of the western sea!

      Over the rolling waters go,

      Come from the dying moon, and blow,

      Blow him again to me;

      While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

      Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

      Father will come to thee soon;

      Rest, rest, on mother’s breast,

      Father will come to thee soon;

      Father will come to his babe in the nest,

      Silver sails all out of the west,

      Under the silver moon;

      Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

      —Alfred Tennyson.

      THE FERRY FOR SHADOWTOWN.

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      Sway to and fro in the twilight gray;

      This is the ferry for Shadowtown;

      It always sails at the end of the day,

      Just as the darkness closes down.

      Rest little head, on my shoulder, so;

      A sleepy kiss is the only fare;

      Drifting away from the world, we go,

      Baby and I in the rocking-chair.

      See where the fire-logs glow and spark,

      Glitter the lights of the shadowland,

      The raining drops on the window, hark!

      Are ripples lapping upon its strand.

      There, where the mirror is glancing dim,

      A lake lies shimmering, cool and still.

      Blossoms are waving above its brim,

      Those over there on the window-sill.

      Rock slow, more slow in the dusky light,

      Silently lower the anchor down:

      Dear little passenger, say “Good-night.”

      We’ve reached the harbor of Shadowtown.

      —Anon.

      MY SHADOW.

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      I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,

      And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.

      He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;

      And I see him jump before me when I jump into my bed.

      The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow—

      Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;

      For he sometimes shoots up taller like an India-rubber ball,

      And he sometimes gets so little that there’s none of him at all.

      He hasn’t got a notion

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