ocks the doctor's rules,
Knowledge never learned in schools,
Of the wild bee's morning chase,
Of the wild flower's time and place,
How the tortoise bears his shell,
How the woodchuck digs his cell,

How the robin feeds her young,
How the oriole's nest is hung,
Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the ground-nut trails its vine,
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine,
Of the black wasp's cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay.

Oh, for boyhood's time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw
Me, their master, waited for!
I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds and honey-bees;
For my sport the squirrel played,
Plied the snouted mole his spade.

Laughed the brook for my delight,
Through the day and through the night,
Whispering at the garden wall,
Talked with me from fall to fall.
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
Mine on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides.

I was monarch: pomp and joy
Waited on the barefoot boy!

--_Whittier._

[24] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by
permission of the publishers.

LINCOLN, THE GREAT COMMONER.[25]

When the Norn-mother saw the Whirl-wind Hour,
Greatening and darkening as it hurried on,
She bent the strenuous heavens and came down
To make a man to meet the mortal need.
She took the tried clay of the common road,
Clay warm yet with the genial heat of earth,
Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy:
Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff,
It was a stuff to wear for centuries,
A man that matched the mountains and compelled
The stars to look our way and honor us.

The color of the ground was in him, the red Earth
The tang and odor of the primal things--
The rectitude and patience of the rocks:
The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn;
The courage of the bird that dares the sea;
The justice of the rain that loves all leaves;
The pity of the snow that hides all scars;
The loving kindness of the wayside well;
The tolerance and equity of light
That gives as freely to the shrinking weed
As to the great oak flaring to the wind--
To the grave's low hill as to the Matterhorn
That shoulders out the sky.

And so he came
From prairi