. Be a good boy ; good-bye, and other back home poems. and rippling then,Begins its journey down the glen. At first no sound except the breeze,Which gently sways the taller trees;Then robin sings her evening a near-by swinging A cuckoo just above me praysFor rainy weather in three mourning dove, far down below,Coos sadly as in grief or thrush in hillside bush secure,Sends out its music clear and while I sit among the green,With ferns and bushes for a screen,Just out of reach upon a tree,A squirrel coughs and barks at frisks about, and scolds and ch
. Be a good boy ; good-bye, and other back home poems. and rippling then,Begins its journey down the glen. At first no sound except the breeze,Which gently sways the taller trees;Then robin sings her evening a near-by swinging A cuckoo just above me praysFor rainy weather in three mourning dove, far down below,Coos sadly as in grief or thrush in hillside bush secure,Sends out its music clear and while I sit among the green,With ferns and bushes for a screen,Just out of reach upon a tree,A squirrel coughs and barks at frisks about, and scolds and a score or more of matters;Sits upright, gives a farewell limb to limb then scampers rustle in the leaves and stalks,—Across the path a tortoise walks;With measured tread he moves heedless is of scene and song. With gentle voice a sad pewee, Awakes me from my reverie. The glen grows dark and night is nigh, The dews upon the grasses lie. I count my quiet hour well spent. And homeward go with heart content. 68. ^mile^ The inner side of every cloud Is bright and shining;I therefore turn my clouds about,And always wear them inside out To show the lining. Ellen Fowler Felkin CaCSCSK2K2K: TO THE MAN WHO CAN MAKE USLAUGH God bless the man who can make us laughWho can make us forget for a time, In the sparkling mirth of a paragraph,Or a bit of ridiculous rhyme, The burden of care that is carried each day,The thoughts that awaken a sigh. The sorrows that threaten to darken our way-God bless the dear man, say I. 71 TWO WAYS There may be ways unnumbered, but to me there are but two,Of going on lifes journey toward the end we have in view,—One way is cold and dreary—the sun drops out of sight,And more than half the journey is accomplished in the stars are in the heavens, no blossoms fair are path is rough and rugged and the folks we meet are here I give the reason that the joys of life we miss: ,, ..< I- -If ^o„.
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