_Robert Louis Stevenson_

Robert Louis Stevenson was born at Edinburgh in 1850. He was at first
trained to be a lighthouse engineer, following the profession of his
family. However, he studied law instead; was admitted to the bar in
1875; and abandoned law for literature a few years later.

Though primarily a novelist, Stevenson has left one immortal book of
poetry which is equally at home in the nursery and the library: _A
Child's Garden of Verses_ (first published in 1885) is second only to
Mother Goose's own collection in its lyrical simplicity and universal
appeal. _Underwoods_ (1887) and _Ballads_ (1890) comprise his entire
poetic output. As a genial essayist, he is not unworthy to be ranked
with Charles Lamb. As a romancer, his fame rests securely on
_Kidnapped_, the unfinished masterpiece, _Weir of Hermiston_, and that
eternal classic of youth, _Treasure Island_.

Stevenson died after a long and dogged fight with his illness, in the
Samoan Islands in 1894.

SUMMER SUN

Great is the sun, and wide he goes
Through empty heaven without repose;
And in the blue and glowing days
More thick than rain he showers his rays.

Though closer still the blinds we pull
To keep the shady parlour cool,
Yet he will find a chink or two
To slip his golden fingers through.

The dusty attic, spider-clad,
He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;
And through the broken edge of tiles
Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.

Meantime his golden face around
He bares to all the garden ground,
And sheds a warm and glittering look
Among the ivy's inmost nook.

Above the hills, along the blue,
Round the bright air with footing true,
To please the child, to paint the rose,
The gardener of the World, he goes.

WINTER-TIME

Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,
A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;
Blinks but an hour or two; and then,
A blood-red orange, sets again.

Before the stars have left the skies,
At morning in the dark I rise;
And shivering in my nakedness,
By the cold candle, bathe and dress.

Close by the jolly fire I sit
To warm my frozen bones a bit;
Or with a reindeer-sled, explore
The colder countries round the door.

When to go out, my nurse doth wrap
Me in my comforter and cap;
The cold wind burns my face, and blows
Its frosty pepper up my nose.

Black are my steps on s