I have got a new-born sister. 
I was nigh the first that kissed her. 
When the nursing-woman brought her
To papa, his infant daughter,
How papa’s dear eyes did glisten! 
She will shortly be to christen,
And papa has made the offer
I shall have the naming of her.

Now, I wonder what would please her—­
Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa? 
Ann and Mary, they’re too common;
Joan’s too formal for a woman;
Jane’s a prettier name beside,
But we had a Jane that died. 
They would say, if ’twas Rebecca,
That she was a little Quaker;
Edith’s pretty, but that looks
Better in old English books;

Ellen’s left off long ago;
Blanche is out of fashion now. 
None that I have named as yet
Are so good as Margaret. 
Emily is neat and fine;
What do you think of Caroline? 
How I’m puzzled and perplexed
What to choose or think of next! 
I am in a little fever
Lest the name that I should give her
Should disgrace her or defame her:—­
I will leave papa to name her.
                        Mary Lamb.

CALLING THE VIOLET

Dear little Violet,
  Don’t be afraid! 
Lift your blue eyes
  From the rock’s mossy shade! 
All the birds call for you
  Out of the sky: 
May is here, waiting,
  And here, too, am I.

Why do you shiver so,
  Violet sweet? 
Soft is the meadow-grass
  Under my feet. 
Wrapped in your hood of green,
  Violet, why
Peep from your earth-door
  So silent and shy?

Trickle the little brooks
  Close to your bed;
Softest of fleecy clouds
  Float overhead;
“Ready and waiting!”
  The slender reeds sigh: 
“Ready and waiting!”
  We sing—­May and I.

Come, pretty Violet,
  Winter’s away: 
Come, for without you
  May isn’t May. 
Down through the sunshine
  Wings flutter and fly;—­
Quick, little Violet,
  Open your eye!

Hear the rain whisper,
  “Dear Violet, come!”
How can you stay
  In your underground home? 
Up in the pine-boughs
  For you the winds sigh. 
Homesick to see you,
  Are we—­May and I.

Ha! though you care not
  For call or for shout,
Yon troop of sunbeams
  Are winning you out. 
Now all is beautiful
  Under the sky: 
May’s here—­and violets! 
  Winter, good-by!
                        Lucy Larcom.

THE BROWN THRUSH

There’s a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree. 
“He’s singing to me!  He’s singing to me!”
And what does he say, little girl, little boy? 
“Oh, the world’s running over with joy! 
  Don’t you hear?  Don’t you see? 
  Hush!  Look!  In my tree,
I’m as happy as happy can be!”

And the brown thrush keeps singing, “A nest do you see,
And five eggs, hid by me in the juniper tree? 
Don’t meddle! don’t touch! little girl, little boy,
Or the world will lose some of its joy! 
  Now I’m glad! now I’m free! 
  And I always shall be,
If you never bring sorrow to me.”