 | Childhood songs |  |
50
SPRING WHISTLES.
Down by the gate of the orchard
This Saturday afternoon,
Harry and Arthur and Willie
Are getting their whistles in tune.
Different notes they are playing;
Different echoes they hear:
Always the best of the music
Is in the musician's ear.
This Saturday afternoon,
Harry and Arthur and Willie
Are getting their whistles in tune.
Different notes they are playing;
Different echoes they hear:
Always the best of the music
Is in the musician's ear.
Harry says, “Hark! when I whistle,
March winds are wild on the hills;
Waterfalls break from the snow-drifts;
Their thunder the forest fills.
Thousands of bluebirds and sparrows
Sing on the branches bare;
Oceans of musical murmurs
Ripple and stir in the air.”
March winds are wild on the hills;
Waterfalls break from the snow-drifts;
Their thunder the forest fills.
Thousands of bluebirds and sparrows
Sing on the branches bare;
77
Ripple and stir in the air.”
Arthur is whispering, “Listen!
Dropping of April showers,—
Dripping of rainy rosebuds,—
Flight of the rustling hours;—
And a speckled lark in the meadow,
That utters one long sad note,
As if all the sorrow of gladness
Were hid in his little throat.”
Dropping of April showers,—
Dripping of rainy rosebuds,—
Flight of the rustling hours;—
And a speckled lark in the meadow,
That utters one long sad note,
As if all the sorrow of gladness
Were hid in his little throat.”
“Whistle, O whistle!” cries Willie.
“Never such echoes could be
Coaxed from a twig of the willow
As wait in my whistle for me.
When I shape at last the mouth-piece
And let the rich music out,
You will think that Pan or Apollo
Is wandering hereabout:
“Never such echoes could be
Coaxed from a twig of the willow
As wait in my whistle for me.
When I shape at last the mouth-piece
And let the rich music out,
You will think that Pan or Apollo
Is wandering hereabout:
78
“You will dream of orchards in blossom,
Of lambs in the grass at play;
And of birds that warble all summer
The wonderful songs of May.”
No doubt of it, Will! in the whistle
That nobody yet has played,
Is sleeping a melody sweeter
Than ever on earth was made.
Of lambs in the grass at play;
And of birds that warble all summer
The wonderful songs of May.”
No doubt of it, Will! in the whistle
That nobody yet has played,
Is sleeping a melody sweeter
Than ever on earth was made.
| Childhood songs | |