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HROUGH all the pleasant meadow


The grass grew shoulder-high,

Till the shining scythes went far and wide And cut it down to dry.

These green and sweetly smelling crops

They led in wagons home;

And they piled them here in mountain tops For mountaineers to roam.

Here is Mount Clear, Mount Rusty-Nail,
Mount Eagle and Mount High; —
The mice that in these mountains dwell,
No happier are than I!

O what a joy to clamber there,

O what a place for play,

With the sweet, the dim, the dusty air,
The happy hills of hay!


HE coach is at the door at last; The eager children, mounting fast And kissing hands, in chorus sing: Good-bye, good-bye, to everything!

To house and garden, field and lawn, The meadow-gates we swang upon, To pump and stable, tree and swing, Good-bye, good-bye, to everything!

And fare you well for evermore,
O ladder at the hayloft door,
O hayloft where the cobwebs cling,
Good-bye, good-bye, to everything!

Crack goes the whip, and off we go; The trees and houses smaller grow; Last, round the woody turn we swing; Good-bye, good-bye, to everything!



WHEN the bright lamp is carried in,

The sunless hours again begin;

O'er all without, in field and lane,
The haunted night returns again.

Now we behold the embers flee
About the firelit hearth; and see
Our pictures painted as we pass,
Like pictures, on the window-glass.

Must we to bed indeed? Well, then,
Let us arise and go like men,
And face with an undaunted tread
The long black passage up to bed.

Farewell, O brother, sister, sire!
O pleasant party round the fire!
The songs you sing, the tales you tell.
Till far to-morrow, fare ye well!


ALL round the house is the jet-black



It stares through the window-pane;

It crawls in the corners, hiding from the light,

And it moves with the moving flame.

Now my little heart goes a-beating like a drum,

With the breath of Bogie in my hair, And all round the candle the crooked shadows come,

And go marching along up the stair.

The shadow of the balusters, the shadow of the lamp,

The shadow of the child that goes to bed— All the wicked shadows coming, tramp,

tramp, tramp,

With the black night overhead.



AST, to the chamber where I lie

My fearful footsteps patter nigh, And come from out the cold and gloom Into my warm and cheerful room.

There, safe arrived, we turn about To keep the coming shadows out, And close the happy door at last On all the perils that we past.

Then, when mamma goes by to bed, She shall come in with tip-toe tread, And see me lying warm and fast And in the Land of Nod at last.

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