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Literature for Little Folks: Selections From Standard Authors, and Easy ...
No preview available - 2017
Alfred Tennyson barefoot boy beautiful bees beloved ones sleep Blessed bobolink bright chee children's hour churchyard clouds comes creatures dear little Eliza Cook eyes father Felicia Hemans Five objects flowers following belong Four little nestlings Four little throats girl happy hear heart heaven Hiawatha honey horse icicles Isaac Watts Jean Ingelow Jesus doth keep kind lambs laugh Lesson little birds little dandelion little Gustava look Lord's Prayer Mary Mary Howitt Mary Mapes Dodge merry morning mother names nest never night old oaken bucket oriole picture piece play porringer Prayer pussy red deer Review.—What Robert of Lincoln robin sentences about objects shines singing his chick-a-de-dee snow song spank Spink squirrel story sunshine sweet teacher teetotal tell thee things thou tree TWENTY-THIRD PSALM twinkle wings Write five Write ten sentences wrote
Page 100 - Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled. Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God. Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God. Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Page 102 - BLESSINGS on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! With thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes ; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace ; From my heart I give thee joy, — I was once a barefoot boy ! Prince thou art, — the grown-up man Only is republican.
Page 48 - So, up to the housetop the coursers they flew, With the sleigh full of toys — and St. Nicholas, too. And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound : He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot...
Page 95 - Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?" "How many? seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me. "And where are they, I pray you tell?
Page 99 - THE FOUNTAIN. INTO the sunshine, Full of the light, Leaping and flashing From morn till night ! Into the moonlight, Whiter than snow, Waving so flower-like When the winds blow ! Into the starlight Rushing in spray, Happy at midnight, Happy by day ! Ever in motion, Blithesome and cheery, Still climbing heavenward, Never aweary ; — Glad of all weathers, Still seeming best, Upward or downward, Motion thy rest ; — Full of a nature Nothing can tame, Changed every moment. Ever the same ; — Ceaseless...
Page 92 - Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home ; A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. Home ! home ! sweet, sweet home ! There's no place like home...
Page 119 - HOUR. BETWEEN the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour.
Page 34 - I wish that his hands had been placed on my head, That his arm had been thrown around me, And that I might have seen his kind look, when he said, " Let the little ones come unto me.
Page 125 - Woodman, spare that tree ! Touch not a single bough ! In youth it sheltered me, And I'll protect it now. 'Twas my forefather's hand That placed it near his cot; There, woodman, let it stand, Thy axe shall harm it not. That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea — And wouldst thou hew it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke! Cut not its earth-bound ties...
Page 90 - And still fluttered down the snow. I stood and watched by the window The noiseless work of the sky, And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, Like brown leaves whirling by. I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn Where a little headstone stood ; How the flakes were folding it gently, As did robins the babes in the wood. Up spoke our own little Mabel, Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?