sea-sand does best on the shore.
We’re going to take everything up, for it can’t hurt the plants to
stand on the grass for a minute,
And you really can’t possibly rake a bed smooth with so many
things in it.
We shall dig it all over, and get leaf-mould from the wood, and hoe
up the weeds,
And when it’s tidy we shall plant, and put labels, and strike cuttings,
and sow seeds.
We are so fond of flowers, Jack and I often dream at night
Of getting up and finding our garden ablaze with all colours, blue,
red, yellow, and white.
And Midsummer’s coming, and big brother Tom will sit under the tree
With his book, and Mary will beg sweet nosegays of Jack and me.
The worst is, we often start for the seaside about Midsummer Day,
And no one takes care of our gardens whilst we are away.
But if we sow lots of seeds, and take plenty of cuttings before we
When we come back, our flowers will be all in full bloom,
Bright, bright sunshine above, and sweet, sweet flowers below.
Come, oh Midsummer, quickly come! and go quickly, Midsummer, go!
P.S. It is so tiresome!
Jack wants to build a green-house now,
He has found some bits of broken glass, and an old window-frame, and
he says he knows how.
I tell him there’s not glass enough, but he says there’s lots,
And he’s taken all the plants that belong to the bed and put
them in pots.
A FRIEND IN THE GARDEN.
He is not John the gardener,
And yet the whole day long
Employs himself most usefully,
The flower-beds among.
He is not Tom the pussy-cat,
And yet the other day,
With stealthy stride and glistening eye,
He crept upon his prey.
He is not Dash the dear old
And yet, perhaps, if you
Took pains with him and petted him,
You’d come to love him too.
He’s not a Blackbird,
though he chirps,
And though he once was black;
And now he wears a loose grey coat,
All wrinkled on the back.
He’s got a very dirty
And very shining eyes!
He sometimes comes and sits indoors;
He looks—and p’r’aps is—wise.
But in a sunny flower-bed
He has his fixed abode;
He eats the things that eat my plants—
He is a friendly TOAD.
THREE LITTLE NEST BIRDS.
We meant to be very kind,
But if ever we find
Another soft, grey-green, moss-coated, feather-lined nest in a hedge,
We have taken a pledge—
Susan, Jemmy, and I—with remorseful tears, at this very minute,
That if there are eggs or little birds in it—
Robin or wren, thrush, chaffinch or linnet—
We’ll leave them there
To their mother’s care.
There were three of us—Kate, and Susan,