And picking up stones,
 The two went on the run,
Saying, one to the other,
 “Oh, won’t we have fun?”

Thus primed and all ready,
 They’d got nearly back,
When a donkey came
 Dragging a cart on the track.

Now the cart was as much
 As the donkey could draw,
And he came with his head
 Hanging down; so he saw,

All harmless and helpless,
 The poor little toad,
A-taking his morning nap
 Right in the road.

He shivered at first,
 Then he drew back his leg,
And set up his ears,
 Never moving a peg.

Then he gave the poor toad,
 With his warm nose a dump,
And he woke and got off
 With a hop and jump.

And then with an eye
 Turned on Peter and John,
And hanging his homely head
 Down, he went on.

“We can’t kill him now, John,”
 Says Peter, “that’s flat,
In the face of an eye and
 An action like that!”

“For my part, I haven’t
 The heart to,” says John;
“But the load is too heavy
 That donkey has on: 

“Let’s help him”; so both lads
 Set off with a will
And came up with the cart
 At the foot of the hill.

And when each a shoulder
 Had put to the wheel,
They helped the poor donkey
 A wonderful deal.

When they got to the top
 Back again they both run,
Agreeing they never
 Had had better fun.

NOVEMBER

The leaves are fading and falling,
  The winds are rough and wild,
The birds have ceased their calling,
  But let me tell you, my child,

Though day by day, as it closes,
  Doth darker and colder grow,
The roots of the bright red roses
  Will keep alive in the snow.

And when the winter is over,
  The boughs will get new leaves,
The quail come back to the clover,
  And the swallow back to the eaves.

The robin will wear on his bosom
  A vest that is bright and new,
And the loveliest wayside blossom
  Will shine with the sun and dew.

The leaves to-day are whirling,
  The brooks are all dry and dumb,
But let me tell you, my darling,
  The spring will be sure to come.

There must be rough, cold weather,
  And winds and rains so wild;
Not all good things together
  Come to us here, my child.

So, when some dear joy loses
  Its beauteous summer glow,
Think how the roots of the roses
  Are kept alive in the snow.

LITTLE GOTTLIEB

Across the German Ocean,
  In a country far from our own,
Once, a poor little boy, named Gottlieb,
  Lived with his mother alone.

They dwelt in the part of a village
  Where the houses were poor and small,
But the home of little Gottlieb,
  Was the poorest one of all