. St. Nicholas [serial] . h der Kaiser!You German men are sofunny, with your stiff bowsand queer caps. Howpretty the beer-gardens are—such nice music andpretty decorations! Howpicturesque you are, littleGerman girls, with yourlong yellow braids and blueeyes, and how fond you areof your Rhine! No fonderthan I am of the Hudson,though. True, you haveold castles with old stories,and fine vineyards too,while we have naturesbeauty only, and a fewstories, chiefly those of RipVan Winkle and the Le-gend of Sleepy could not understandus, either, if we did not sayBonn exactly the way youdo. Ja
. St. Nicholas [serial] . h der Kaiser!You German men are sofunny, with your stiff bowsand queer caps. Howpretty the beer-gardens are—such nice music andpretty decorations! Howpicturesque you are, littleGerman girls, with yourlong yellow braids and blueeyes, and how fond you areof your Rhine! No fonderthan I am of the Hudson,though. True, you haveold castles with old stories,and fine vineyards too,while we have naturesbeauty only, and a fewstories, chiefly those of RipVan Winkle and the Le-gend of Sleepy could not understandus, either, if we did not sayBonn exactly the way youdo. Jabber, jabber, jabber!go the people at the cafesalong the streets of Paris,drinking and jabbering atthe same time. I fancy I hear Westmin-ster Abbey chiming five, and think it is time to go toservice. As I turn around I see the towers of the Houses ofParliament—and now I really do hear the clock strikingfive. I wake up from my dream, pick one little sprigof apple-blossoms, and go down the hill to supper. THE A VACATION DAY. BY MA (SILVER And hear it softly stirring in the trees ; I love to hear the voices of the night That vanish at the coming of the light, Like echoes, lingring on the wood-lakes shore, Sinking to rest to wake no more. AN EVENING IN. OCTOBER. BY JESSICA NELSON NORTH(AGE IO). The smoky hazeOf autumn days Is filling all the air ;The oaks are red,The grass is dead, The willow-trees arebare. The sun sinks low,The west winds blow, The day is almost done;Upon the hill,When all is still, I watch the setting sun. The sun hath set,The grass is wet, The colors slowly die;And lo! afarThe evening star Is shining in the sky. A DREAM OF ANORCHARD. BY MARY H. POPE(AGE 13).It was a drowsy after-noon in July. I was lyingin the hammock under thelinden-tree in the backyard, listening to the hum of thebees around the clover, and feeling the cool breeze fromthe lake. At last they combined to make me feel I heard a baa, baa! I sat up and lookedaround.
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1870, bookidstnicholasserial292dodg
