And then to dwell in sovereign barns,
And dream the days away,—­
The grass so little has to do,
I wish I were the hay.
                         Emily Dickinson.

WHITE SEAL

Oh! hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us,
  And black are the waters that sparkled so green. 
The moon, o’er the combers, looks downward to find us
  At rest in the hollows that rustle between.

Where billow meets billow, there soft be thy pillow;
  Ah, weary, wee flipperling, curl at thy ease! 
The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee,
  Asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging seas.
                         Rudyard Kipling.

THE CAMEL’S HUMP

The Camel’s hump is an ugly lump
  Which well you may see at the Zoo;
But uglier yet is the hump we get
  From having too little to do.

Kiddies and grown-ups too-oo-oo,
If we haven’t enough to do-oo-oo,
  We get the hump—­
  Cameelious hump—­
The hump that is black and blue!

We climb out of bed with a frouzly head
  And a snarly-yarly voice. 
We shiver and scowl and we grunt and we growl
  At our bath and our boots and our toys!

And there ought to be a corner for me
(And I know there is one for you)
  When we get the hump—­
  Cameelious hump—­
The hump that is black and blue!

The cure for this ill is not to sit still,
  Or frowst with a book by the fire;
But to take a large hoe and a shovel also,
  And dig till you gently perspire.

And then you will find that the sun and the wind
And the Djinn of the Garden too,
  Have lifted the hump—­
  The horrible hump—­
The hump that is black and blue!

I get it as well as you-oo-oo,
If I haven’t enough to do-oo-oo,
  We all get hump—­
  Cameelious hump—­
Kiddies and grown-ups too!
                         Rudyard Kipling.

THE TREE

The Tree’s early leaf buds were bursting their brown;
“Shall I take them away?” said the Frost, sweeping down. 
  “No, leave them alone
  Till the blossoms have grown,”
Prayed the Tree, while he trembled from rootlet to crown.

The Tree bore his blossoms, and all the birds sung: 
“Shall I take them away?” said the Wind, as he swung. 
  “No, leave them alone
  Till the berries have grown,”
Said the Tree, while his leaflets quivering hung.

The Tree bore his fruit in the mid-summer glow: 
Said the girl, “May I gather thy berries now?”
  “Yes, all thou canst see: 
  Take them; all are for thee,”
Said the Tree, while he bent down his laden boughs low.
                        Bjornstjerne Bjornson.

CHOOSING A NAME