The Kitten and the Falling Leaves

That way look, my Infant, lo!

What a pretty baby-show!

See the Kitten on the wall,

Sporting with the leaves that fall,
Withered leaves-one-two-and three---

From the lofty elder tree!

Through the calm and frosty air
Of this morning bright and fair,
Eddying round and round they sink
Softly, slowly: one might think,
From the motions that are made,
Every little leaf conveyed
Sylph or Faery hither tending,—
To this lower world descending,
Each invisible and mute,

In his wavering parachute.

-But the Kitten, how she starts,
Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts!
First at one, and then its fellow,
Just as light and just as yellow;
There are many now-now one-
Now they stop and there are none:

What intenseness of desire
In her upward eye of fire!
With a tiger-leap halfway
Now she meets the coming prey,
Lets it go as fast, and then

Has it in her power again:

Now she works with three or four,
Like an Indian conjurer;

Quick as he in feats of art,

Far beyond in joy of heart.

Were her antics played in the eye
Of a thousand standers-by,
Clapping hands with shout and stare,
What would little Tabby care

For the plaudits of the crowd?

Over happy to be proud,

Over wealthy in the treasure

Of her own exceeding pleasure!

-William Wordsworth.

To a Butterfly

I've watched you now a full half hour,
Self-poised upon that yellow flower;

And, little butterfly, indeed

I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless!-not frozen seas

More motionless! and then

What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees,
And calls you forth again!

This plot of orchard ground is ours;
My trees they are, my sister's flowers;
Here rest your wings when they are weary;
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!

Come often to us, fear no wrong;

Sit near us, on the bough!

We'll talk of sunshine and of song;

And summer days when we were young;
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now.

-William Wordsworth.

"Bob White”

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!
Though blithe of voice, so shy you are,
In this delightful weather;

What splendid playmates you and I,
"Bob White," would make together!

There, you are gone! but far away
I hear your whistle falling.
Ah! may be it is hide-and-seek,
And that's why you are calling.
Along those hazy uplands wide

We'd be such merry rangers;

What! silent now, and hidden too!

"Bob White," don't let's be strangers.

Perhaps you teach your brood the game,
In yonder rainbowed thicket,

While winds are playing with the leaves,
And softly creeks the cricket.

"Bob White! Bob White!"-again I hear That blithely whistled chorus;

Why should we not companions be?

One Father watches o'er us!

-George Cooper.

Tampa Robins

The robin laughed in the orange-tree:
"Ho, windy North, a fig for thee:

While breasts are red and wings are bold
And green trees wave us globes of gold,

Time's scythe shall reap but bliss for me-
Sunlight, song, and the orange-tree.

If that I hate wild winter's spite-
The gibbet trees, the world in white,
The sky but gray wind over a grave—
Why should I ache, the season's slave?

I'll sing from the top of the orange-tree
Gramercy, winter's tyranny.

I'll south with the sun, and keep my clime;
My wing is king of the summer-time;
My breast to the sun his torch shall hold;

And I'll call down through the green and gold"Time, take thy scythe, reap bliss for me, Bestir thee under the orange-tree."

-Sidney Lanier.