N

-DOWN TO SLEEP"

【OVEMBER woods are bare and still;
November days are clear and bright
Each noon burns up the morning's chill;
The morning's snow is gone by night.
Each day my steps grow slow, grow light,
As through the woods I reverent creep,
Watching all things lie down to sleep,”

I never knew before what beds,
Fragrant to smell, and soft to touch,
The forest sifts and shapes and spreads;
I never knew before how much

Of human sound there is in such

Low tones as through the forest sweep,
When all wild things lie "down to sleep."

Each day I find new coverlids

Tucked in, and more sweet eyes shut tight;
Sometimes the viewless mother bids
Her ferns kneel down full in my sight;
I hear their chorus of “good-night ;
And half I smile, and half I weep,
Listening while they lie "down to sleep."

November woods are bare and still;
November days are bright and good;
Life's noon burns up life's morning chill;
Life's night rests feet which long have stood;
Some warm soft bed, in field or wood,
The mother will not fail to keep,
Where we can "lay us down to sleep."

- Helen Hunt Jackson.

A NOVEMBER GOOD-NIGHT.

Go

OOD-NIGHT, little shivering grasses!
'Tis idle to struggle and fight

With tempest and cruel frost fingers;
Lie down, little grasses, to-night!

The roses have gone from the garden,
And hidden their faces so fair;

The lilies have never uplifted

Since Frost found them bending in prayer.

The aster and dahlia fought bravely,
Till Ice, with his glittering crest,
A diamond dagger laid over

The bloom of each velvety breast.

The leaves of the forest lie faded;
Dry stubble is left after grain ;
Yet you, little grasses, still struggle,
Still hope for the soft summer rain.

Nay, nay, even now there is weaving
Above you the fleece of the snow;
The star-pattern tracks the white shuttle
Through the loom of the storm to and fro,

Until over the moor and the mountain
'Twill lie like a thrice-blessèd stole,
And the beggarly rays of November
Be made, in the day-dawning, whole.

Fear not for de s

Tis sure is the patte.
The Winther met

The Sooring of sleep t

In time for the str the forest.
For the ears fumma ex fre
When rootlets commence the spring-glowing.
And mapie-tress all up their wine

Good-night, little shivering grasses!

Lie down 'neath the orverlet white,

And rest till the cuckoo is singing :
Good-night, little grasses, good-night !

Ethel Lynn Beer so

AUTUMN.

HORTER and shorter now the twilight clips through the sunset gate they crowd,

And summer from her golden collar slips,

And strays through stubble fields, and moans aloud,

Save when by fits the warmer air deceives,
And, stealing hopeful to some sheltered bower,

She lies on pillows of the yellow leaves,

And tries the old tunes over for an hour.

-Alice Cary.

While the shadows lengthen,
And the earth, grown sear,
Wraps her frosty mantle
Round the closing year.

- Henry Stevenson Washburn.

I

SEE you, on the zigzag rails,

You cheery little fellow!

While purple leaves are whirling down,

And scarlet, brown, and yellow.

I hear you when the air is full

Of snow-down of the thistle;

All in your speckled jacket trim,

"Bob White! Bob White!" you whistle.

Tall amber sheaves, in rustling rows,
Are nodding there to greet you;

I know that you are out for play
How I should like to meet you!