Then let me try with all my might,
And may God help me too,
Always to choose the way that’s right,
Whatever act I do.
[Illustration: Letter G.]
God has kept me, dearest mother.
Kindly, safely, through the day:
Let me thank Him for His goodness,
Ere the twilight fades away.
For my home and friends I thank Him,
For my father, mother dear;
For the hills, the trees, the flowers,
And the sky so bright and clear.
If I have been kind and gentle,
If I’ve spoken what was true,
Or if I’ve been cross and selfish,
He has seen and known it, too.
Those I love He will watch over,
Though they may be far away,
For he loves good little children,
And will hear the words they say.
[Illustration: Letter O.]
“O George! how large your bubble is!
Its colors, too, how bright!
Just like the rainbow that we saw
On high, the other night.
“Now throw it off, and let it float
Like fairies in the air!
It’s broken, Georgie; never mind,
But blow another there.”
Their mother, just within the door,
Smiled at their childish play,—
A smile, but yet a thoughtful one,
That seemed these words to say:
“My little Georgie, bubbles burst,
And are but empty air;
I would that you might love the things
That last forever fair.
“And ever may my darling Kate
A trusting spirit bear,
And, when one cherished hope has fled,
Yet find another there.”
I am coming, I am coming,
With my carpet soft and green;
I have spread it o’er the common,
And a prettier ne’er was seen.
Soon I’ll spangle it with clover,
And the dandelions bright;
You shall pick them in your aprons,
Yellow, red, and snowy white.
I am coming, and the tree-tops,
That all winter were so bare,
You shall see, with small leaves covered,
Wave their branches in the air.
I am coming! Little children,
Can you tell me who am I?
If not, you will soon remember,
For I’m just now passing by.
[Illustration: Letter T.]
Tis Summer, I know by the blue of the sky;
By the trees’ deeper green, as beneath them I lie;
And more than all these, by the lovely wild rose
That now in the woodland its pink blossom shows.
Now ring the sharp scythes of the mowers all day,
And they spread to the air the sweet-scented hay;
They pile up the wagon ere daylight is done,
And singing come home with the set of the sun.