THE DEATH OF ROBIN HOOD

"GIVE me my bow," said Robin Hood, "An arrow give to me;

And where 't is shot mark thou that spot, For there my grave shall be."

Then Little John did make no sign,
And not a word he spake;
But he smiled, altho' with mickle woe
His heart was like to break.

He raised his master in his arms,
And set him on his knee;
And Robin's eyes beheld the skies,
The shaws, the greenwood tree.

The brook was babbling as of old,
The birds sang full and clear,
And the wild-flowers gay like a carpet lay
In the path of the timid deer.

"O Little John," said Robin Hood,

"Meseemeth now to be

Standing with you so stanch and true
Under the greenwood tree.

"And all around I hear the sound
Of Sherwood long ago,

And my merry men come back again,—
You know, sweet friend, you know!

"Now mark this arrow; where it falls, When I am dead dig deep,

And bury me there in the greenwood where I would forever sleep."

MOTHER AND CHILD

He twanged his bow. Upon its course
The clothyard arrow sped,
And when it fell in yonder dell,

Brave Robin Hood was dead.

The sheriff sleeps in a marble vault,
The king in a shroud of gold;
And upon the air with a chanted pray'r
Mingles the mock of mould.

But the deer draw to the shady pool,
The birds sing blithe and free,

And the wild-flow'rs bloom o'er a hidden tomb
Under the greenwood tree.

MOTHER AND CHILD

ONE night a tiny dewdrop fell
Into the bosom of a rose,-
"Dear little one, I love thee well,

Be ever here thy sweet repose!"

Seeing the rose with love bedight,

The envious sky frowned dark, and then

Sent forth a messenger of light

And caught the dewdrop up again.

"Oh, give me back my heavenly child,— My love!" the rose in anguish cried; Alas! the sky triumphant smiled,

And so the flower, heart-broken, died.

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ASHES ON THE SLIDE

WHEN Jim and Bill and I were boys a many years ago,

How gayly did we use to hail the coming of the snow!

Our sleds, fresh painted red and with their runners round and bright,

Seemed to respond right briskly to our clamor of delight

As we dragged them up the slippery road that climbed the rugged hill

Where perched the old frame meetin'-house, so solemn-like and still.

Ah, coasting in those days-those good old days-was fun indeed!
Sleds at that time I'd have you know were paragons of speed!
And if the hill got bare in spots, as hills will do, why then
We'd haul on ice and snow to patch those bald spots up again;
But, oh! with what sad certainty our spirits would subside
When Deacon Frisbee sprinkled ashes where we used to slide!

The deacon he would roll his eyes and gnash his toothless gums,
And clear his skinny throat, and twirl his saintly, bony thumbs,
And tell you: "When I wuz a boy, they taught me to eschew
The godless, ribald vanities which modern youth pursue!
The pathway that leads down to hell is slippery, straight, and
wide;

And Satan lurks for prey where little boys are wont to slide!"

Now, he who ever in his life has been a little boy
Will not reprove me when he hears the language I employ
To stigmatize as wickedness the deacon's zealous spite
In interfering with the play wherein we found delight;
And so I say, with confidence, not unalloyed of pride:
"Gol durn the man who sprinkles ashes where the youngsters slide

But Deacon Frisbee long ago went to his lasting rest,
His money well invested in farm mortgages out West;
Bill, Jim, and I, no longer boys, have learned through years of strife
That the troubles of the little boy pursue the man through life;
That here and there along the course wherein we hoped to glide
Some envious hand has sprinkled ashes just to spoil our slide!

CHRISTMAS EVE

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And that malicious, envious hand is not the deacon's now. Grim, ruthless Fate, that evil sprite none other is than thou! Riches and honors, peace and care come at thy beck and go; The soul, elate with joy to-day, to-morrow writhes in woe; And till a man has turned his face unto the wall and died, He must expect to get his share of ashes on his slide!

CHRISTMAS EVE

Он, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul,
The evening shades are falling,-
Hush thee, my dear, dost thou not hear
The voice of the Master calling?

Deep lies the snow upon the earth,
But all the sky is ringing

With joyous song, and all night long
The stars shall dance, with singing.

Oh, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul,
And close thine eyes in dreaming,
And angels fair shall lead thee where
The singing stars are beaming.

A shepherd calls his little lambs,
And he longeth to caress them;
He bids them rest upon his breast,
That his tender love may

bless them.

So, hush thee, little Dear-my-Soul,
Whilst evening shades are falling,
And above the song of the heavenly throng
Thou shalt hear the Master calling.

TELLING THE BEES

Out of the house where the slumberer lay
Grandfather came one summer day,
And under the pleasant orchard trees
He spake this wise to the murmuring bees:
"The clover-bloom that kissed her feet
And the posie-bed where she used to play
Have honey store, but none so sweet

As ere our little one went away.
O bees, sing soft, and, bees, sing low;
For she is gone who loved you so."

A wonder fell on the listening bees
Under those pleasant orchard trees,
And in their toil that summer day
Ever their murmuring seemed to say:
"Child, O child, the grass is cool,

And the posies are waking to hear the song Of the bird that swings by the shaded pool, Waiting for one that tarrieth long."

"T was so they called to the little one then, As if to call her back again.

O gentle bees, I have come to say
That grandfather fell asleep to-day,

And we know by the smile on grandfather's face

He has found his dear one's biding-place.

So, bees, sing soft, and, bees, sing low,
As over the honey-fields you sweep,-
To the trees abloom and the flowers ablow
Sing of grandfather fast asleep;

And ever beneath these orchard trees
Find cheer and shelter, gentle bees.