Christmas Carols and Midsummer Songs

DORRIS' SPINNING

(An Old Time Ballad.)By Margaret J. PrestonSHE sat in the upper chamber– 'Twas a summer of Long Ago —And looked through the gable windowAt the river that ran below,And over the quiet pastures,And up at the wide blue sky,And envied the jay his freedomAs he lazily flitted by.Yet patiently at her spinning,In a halo of happy light,Se wrought, though a shimmer rippledThe heads of the wheat in sight —Though the garden was spilling overIts cups on the fragrant air,And the hollyhocks at the doorwayHad never looked half so fair.She saw, as her wheel kept whirling,The leisure of Nature too —The beautiful holiday weatherLeft nothing for her to do:The cattle were idly grazing,And even the frisky sheep,Away in the distant meadows,Lay under the shade asleep.So sitting, she heard sweet laughter,And a bevy of maidens fair,With babble of merry voices,Came climbing the chamber stair;"O Dorns! how can you bear it,To drone at your spinning here?Why, girl! it's the heart of summer,The goldenest time of year."Put out of your hand the distaff,This wearisome whirl relax —There are things that are gayer, Dorris,Than sitting and spinning flax:Come with us away to the forest;When it rains is the time to plySuch tiresome tasks – and to-day isThe fifteenth day of July!"With a face that was softly saddened,Sweet Dorris looked up and said,As she ravelled a bit of tangle,And twisted again her thread,"Nay, nay, I must do my spinning;It wouldn't be kind or rightThat the loom should be kept a-waiting;My hanks must be done to-night.So the frolicsome maidens left her,With something of mild surpriseThat Dorris should choose a duty,With pleasure before her eyes;Not dreaming that when her motherHer "dozens" should count up-stairs,And kiss her and say, "My darling!"Her day would be glad as theirs.So she minded her wheel, and blithelyShe sang as she twirled it round,And cunningly from her fingersThe delicate fibre wound;And on through the sunny hours,That neither were sad nor long,She toiled in her sweet obedience,And lightened her toil with song."Aye, surely, the day is lovely!It tugs at my very heartTo look at its drifting beauty,Nor share in its joy my part rI may not go forth to meet it,But the summer is kind, you see,And I think, as I sit at my spinning —I think it will come to me!"(She sings.)"Come hither, happy birds,With warbling woo me,Till songs that have no wordsMelt through and through me!Come, bees, that drop and riseWithin the clover,Where yellow butterfliesGo glancing over!Oh, roses, red and white,And lilies, shiningLike gilded goblets brightWith silver lining —Each to my window sendGifts worth the winning,To cheer me as I bendAbove my spinning!"Oh, ripples on the sand,That break in beauty,Oh, pines, that stiffly standLike guards on duty,Green meadows, where, this morn,The scythes were mowing,Soft slopes, where, o'er the cornThe wind is blowing,"White clouds above the hillThat sail together,Rich summer scents that fillThis summer weather —All bring the sweets you've foundSince morn's beginning,And come and crowd them roundMy day of spinning!"

THE BROOK BEHIND THE WAUMBEK HOUSE

( Jefferson and White Mountains.)By Mrs. Martha Perry LoweRUN along thy pastures, happy, happy brook,Run along the pebbles, with a curvet and acrook,Sing it all the morning, and sing it afternoon,Sing it all the starry night – that pleasant littletune!Are you growing modest, do you think that I shalltire?Do you fear that I shall go and look for somethinghigher?Well I know the noisy world has music grand enough,But I do not care for all its preludes, wild andrough.Well I know other music, solemn and sublime,Voices of the ocean sounding all the depths oftime:That is not the music I am looking for to-day,It is you I want to hear, so frolicsome and gay.Do not ever try to practise any modern art,Do not even stop to think or care about your part,Sing just as you always do, when there are none tohear,That will surely be the sweetest way to please my ear.Ah, my little brook! how foolish was my thought:All the praises of the worldling can disturb you naught.Nothing can mislead you, or set you ill at ease,Make you think about yourself, or of the wayto please.Not a little fish could have made such a speech,Not a shining fly that skims along your beach,Not a little bird would have said such a thing —Pardon me my foolishness, and sing again, sing!

BOBBY LEE

ONE, two, three!One was Bobby LeeSitting by the brook,With his fishing-hook,With his spelling-bookThrust far aside,Whilst loud he cried:"For once, no school,For once, no rule,Bell, ring away!This whole, whole dayI'll stop and play!"One, two, three!One was Mrs. BeeStopping just to stareAt the vision there —Bobby by the brookWith his fishing-hook;At the spelling-bookThrust far aside;

THREE

By Rosa Graham.Whilst loud she cried:"The livelong dayA boy to play!I'd like to seeOne little beeLike Bobby Lee!"One, two, three!One was Lady Rose,In her pretty clothes,Staring down to seeLittle Bobby Lee,With his fishing-hook,With his spelling-bookThrust far aside,Whilst loud she cried:"The livelong day,A boy to play!I'd like to know,If I did so,How I would grow!"

SUMMER'S GOING

By Mrs. L. C. WhitonLEAVES are shrinking on the trees,Where the nests are hidden;There's a hush among the bees,As to roam forbidden;There's the silk of corn that showsFaded tangles blowing:So that everybody knows,Darling, summer's going.There are insects' wings that gleam;Locusts shrilly calling;There are silences that seemInto sadness falling;There is not another roseBut the sweet-brier blowing:So that everybody knows,Darling, summer's going.There's the mist that haunts the nightInto morning sailing,Leaving filmy webs of lightOn the grasses trailing;There's the fierce red sun that glows,Through the vapor showing:So that everybody knows,Darling, summer's going.Breathe but softest little sigh.Child, for vanished roses,For each season, going by,Something sweet discloses;And if in your heart has grownTruth to fairer blowing,Summer then will be your own,Spite of summer's going.