He cut it short did the great god Pan, (How tall it stood in the river)

Then drew the pith like the heart of a man,

Steadily from the outside ring,

Then notched the poor dry empty thing
In holes as he sate by the river.

"This is the way," laughed the great god Pan, (Laughed as he sate by the river)

"The only way since gods began

To make sweet music, they could succeed,"
Then dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,
He blew in power by the river.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan,
Piercing sweet by the river.
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan.

The sun on the hill forgot to die,

And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly
Came back to dream on the river.

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan

To laugh, as he sits by the river,

Making a poet out of a man.

The true gods sigh for the cost and the painFor the reed that grows never more again

As a reed with the reeds of the river.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

T

TREE-TOAD

REE-TOAD is a small gray person

With a silver voice.

Tree-toad is a leaf-gray shadow

That sings.

Tree-toad is never seen

Unless a star squeezes through the leaves,
Or a moth looks sharply at a gray branch.
How would it be, I wonder.

To sing patiently all night,

Never thinking that people are asleep?

Raindrops and mist, starriness over the trees, The moon, the dew, the other little singers, Cricket . . . toad leaf rustling

They would listen;

It would be music like weather

That gets into all the corners
Of out-of-doors.

Every night I see little shadows
I never saw before.

Every night I hear little voices
I never heard before.

When night comes trailing her starry cloak,
I start out for slumberland,

With tree-toads calling along the roadside.
Goodnight, I say to one, goodby, I say to another;
I hope to find you on the way

We have travelled before!

I hope to hear you singing on the road of dreams!

HILDA CONKLING

WON'T

THE MOCKING FAIRY

ON'T you look out of your window, Mrs.
Gill?"

Quoth the Fairy, nidding, nodding in the garden;
"Can't you look out of your window, Mrs. Gill?”’
Quoth the Fairy, laughing softly in the garden;
But the air was still, the cherry boughs were still,
And the ivy-tod 'neath the empty sill,

And never from her window looked out Mrs. Gill On the Fairy shrilling mocking in the garden.

"What have they done with you, you poor Mrs. Gill?"

Quoth the Fairy, brightly glancing in the garden;
"Where have they hidden you, you poor old Mrs.
Gill?"

Quoth the Fairy dancing lightly in the garden;
But night's faint veil now wrapped the hill,
Stark 'neath the stars stood the dead-still Mill,
And out of her cold cottage never answered Mrs.

Gill

The Fairy mimbling mambling in the garden.

WALTER DE LA MARE

G

TO THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE

CRICKET

REEN little vaulter in the sunny grass,

Catching your heart up at the feel of June; Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon, When even the bees lag at the summoning brass; And you, warm little housekeeper, who class With those who think the candles come too soon, Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune Nick the glad silent moments as they pass; O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong

One to the fields, the other to the hearth,

Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are

strong

At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth
To sing in thoughtful ears their natural song-
In-doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.

LEIGH HUNT