rds we spoke?
Where are our sighs, wind whom those sighs caressed?
Oh! what a fate is ours, too swift, too sad,
If such an hour goes by with all the rest!

_E. Nesbit._

[Illustration]

What o'clock is it, children dear?
Ask of the dandelions here!
Blow, blow, blow, and away they go--
But they do not tell us the time you know!

Say, what month is it, children dear?
We think it is August because we hear
The swing of the sickle, restless and slow,
And that's a sign of the month, you know.

[Illustration]

Where are you going, children dear?
Where the lane winds deep and the stream runs clear--
There are plenty of beautiful ways to go--
But only one way that two only know.

Where are _we_ going, children dear?
To a beautiful country that's very near,
Hand in hand is the way to go
Up into fairyland you know.

_E. Nesbit._

[Illustration]

HOP PICKING.

Ah me, how pleasant to go down
From the forlorn and faded town
To Kentish wood and fold and lane,
And breathe God's blessed air again;
Where glorious yellow corn-fields blaze
And nuts hang over woodland ways.

To pick the sweet keen-scented hops,
(See from each pole a dream-wreath drops)
To toil all day in pure clear air,
Laughter and sunshine everywhere--
With reddening woods and sweet wet soil
And well-earned rest and honest toil.

[Illustration]

Where do we fly, under deep dark sky?
Over the moors we go,
Over the pool where quiet and cool
Bulrush and sedges grow--
And what was the loveliest thing we met?
Ah--we forget!

We remember though all the firelit glow
Of a great hearth's gleam and glare,
And we looked for a space at each happy face
And the love that was written there.
And that, of all we have looked on yet--
We least forget!

[Illustration: Hallowe'en.]

Oh what a day! all yellow and gray,
And so dark, so dreary, so foggy and thick,
That if I should meet
In the street
My sweet--
I might pass her by!
Risk that? Not I!
Take me home out of danger then! Quick, feet, quick.

[Illustration]

Not Summer's crown of scent the red rose weaves
Nor hawthorn blossom over bloom-strewn grass,
Nor violet's whisper when the children pass,
Nor lilac perfume in the soft May eves,
Nor new-mown hay, crisp scent o