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Page 36
POEMS BY TWO LITTLE AMERICAN GIRLS.
[ELAINE AND DORA READ GOODALE, the two sisters some of whose poems are
here given for the benefit of the readers of ST. NICHOLAS, are children
of thirteen and ten years of age.
Their home, where their infancy and childhood have been passed, is on a
large and isolated farm, lying upon the broad slopes of the beautiful
Berkshire hills of western Massachusetts, and is quaintly called "Sky
Farm."
Here, in a simple country life, divided between books and nature, they
began, almost as soon as they began to talk, to express in verse what
they saw and felt, rhyme and rhythm seeming to come by instinct. Living
largely out-of-doors, vigorous and healthful in body as in mind, they
draw pleasure and instruction from all about them.
One of their chief delights is to wander over the lovely hills and
meadows adjoining Sky Farm. Peeping into mossy dells, where wild
flowers love to hide, hunting the early arbutus, the queen harebell, or
the blue gentian, they learn the secrets of nature, and these they pour
forth in song as simply and as naturally as the birds sing.]
SOME VERSES, WRITTEN BY DORA, ON A HUMMING-BIRD'S NEST,
WHICH SHE FOUND OVER HER STOCKING ON CHRISTMAS MORNING.
When June was bright with roses fair,
And leafy trees about her stood,
When summer sunshine filled the air
And flickered through the quiet wood,
There, in its shade and silent rest,
A tiny pair had built their nest.
And when July, with scorching heat,
Had dried the meadow grass to hay,
And piled in stacks about the field
Or fragrant in the barn it lay,
Within the nest so softly made
Two tiny, snowy eggs were laid.
But when October's ripened fruit
Had bent the very tree-tops down,
And dainty flowers faded, drooped,
And stately forests lost their crown,
Their brood was hatched and reared and flown--
The mossy nest was left alone.
And now the hills are cold and white,
'T is sever'd from its native bough;
We gaze upon it with delight;
Where are its cunning builders now?
Far in the sunny south they roam,
And leave to us their northern home.
THE GRUMBLER.
_His Youth_.
His coat was too thick and his cap was too thin,
He couldn't be quiet, he hated a din;
He hated to write, and he hated to read,
He was certainly very much injured indeed;
He must study and work over books he detested,
His parents were strict, and he never was rested;
He knew he was wretched as wretched could be,
There was no one so wretchedly wretched as he.
_His Maturity_.
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