Brother of the greatest poets, true to nature, true to art;

Lover of Immortal Love, uplifter of the human heart,

Who shall cheer us with high music, who shall sing, if thou depart?

Silence here
Silence here

for love is silent, gazing on the lessening sail; for grief is voiceless when the mighty minstrels

fail; . Silence here but, far beyond us, many voices crying, Hail !

AN ANGLER'S WISH1

5

I

WHEN tulips bloom in Union Square,
And timid breaths of vernal air

Go wandering down the dusty town,
Like children lost in Vanity Fair;

When every long, unlovely row
Of westward houses stands aglow,

And leads the eyes towards sunset skies
Beyond the hills where green trees grow, -

Then weary seems the street parade,
And weary books, and weary trade:

I'm only wishing to go a-fishing;
For this the month of May was made.

10

15

I

II

guess the pussy willows now

Are creeping out on every bough

Along the brook; and robins look

For early worms behind the plow.

20

1 From The Builders and Other Poems. Copyright, 1897, by Charles Scribner's

Sons.

The thistle birds have changed their dun
For yellow coats, to match the sun;

And in the same array of flame
The dandelion show's begun.

The flocks of young anemones

Are dancing round the budding trees:
Who can help wishing to go a-fishing
In days as full of joy as these?

5

III

I think the meadow lark's clear sound
Leaks upward slowly from the ground,

While on the wing the bluebirds ring
Their wedding bells to woods around.

The flirting chewink calls his dear
Behind the bush; and very near,

Where water flows, where green grass grows,
Song sparrows gently sing, "Good cheer."

And, best of all, through twilight's calm
The hermit thrush repeats his psalm.

How much I'm wishing to go a-fishing
In days so sweet with music's balm !

IV

'Tis not a proud desire of mine; I ask for nothing superfine;

No heavy weight, no salmon great, To break the record or my line:

Only an idle little stream,

Whose amber waters softly gleam,

Where I may wade, through woodland shade,

And cast the fly, and loaf, and dream :

Only a trout or two, to dart

From foaming pools, and try my art:

No more I'm wishing — old-fashioned fishing,
And just a day on Nature's heart.

THE SONG SPARROW1

THERE is a bird I know so well,

It seems as if he must have sung
Beside my crib when I was young;
Before I knew the way to spell

The name of even the smallest bird,
His gentle-joyful song I heard.

Now see if you can tell, my dear,

What bird it is that, every year,

Sings "Sweet-sweet-sweet-very merry cheer."

He comes in March when winds are strong,

And snow returns to hide the earth;

But still he warms his heart with mirth,
And waits for May. He lingers long
While flowers fade; and every day
Repeats his small, contented lay;

As if to say, we need not fear

The season's change, if love is here

With "Sweet · sweet — sweet — very merry cheer."

He does not wear a Joseph's coat

5

10

15

20

Of many colors, smart and gay;

His suit is Quaker brown and gray,

25

And yet of all the well-dressed throng

With darker patches at his throat.

Not one can sing so brave a song.

1 From The Builders and Other Poems. Copyright, 1897, by Charles Scribner's

Sons.

It makes the pride of looks appear
A vain and foolish thing, to hear
His "Sweet-sweet-sweet-

very merry cheer."

EUGENE FIELD

1850-1895

AMERICA has produced no more popular writer of verse for children than Eugene Field. He was born in St. Louis, Missouri, of New England ancestry, and died at Chicago, in the prime of his powers. His education was received at Williams College and at the University of Missouri. His vocation was journalism. He did work for newspapers at St. Louis, Kansas City, and Denver, and during the last years of his life he was connected with the Chicago Daily News. He found time to write several volumes of charming stories and verse. His untimely death has been sincerely deplored. He was sunny in temper and possessed a nimble imagination and a facile pen.

"Where are you going, and what do you wish?

The old moon asked the three.

"We have come to fish for the herring-fish

That live in this beautiful sea;

Nets of silver and gold have we,"

Said Wynken
Blynken,

And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song,

As they rocked in the wooden shoe;

5

ΙΟ

15

1 From With Trumpet and Drum. Copyright, 1892, by Mary French Field.

Published by Charles Scribner's Sons.

And the wind that sped them all night long

Ruffled the waves of dew;

The little stars were the herring-fish

That lived in the beautiful sea.

"Now cast your nets wherever you wish, Never afeard are we!"

So cried the stars to the fishermen three,

Wynken,
Blynken,

And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw

To the stars in the twinkling foam,

Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,

Bringing the fishermen home:

'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed

As if it could not be ;

And some folks thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed

Of sailing that beautiful sea;

But I shall name you the fishermen three:

Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,

And Nod is a little head,

And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies

Is a wee one's trundle-bed;

So shut your eyes while Mother sings

Of wonderful sights that be,

And you shall see the beautiful things

As you rock on the misty sea

Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three, –

Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.