Brooks's Readers, Third Year Part 5

'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 not met with elsewhere.

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain; Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again; The birds singing gayly, that came at my call; Give me them, and that peace of mind, dearer than all.

Home, home, sweet, sweet home, There's no place like home, Oh, there's no place like home.

--JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.

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SEPTEMBER

The peaches are ripe in the orchard, The apricots ready to fall, And the grapes reach up to the sunshine Over the garden wall.

--THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

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The morns are meeker than they were, The nuts are getting brown, The berry's cheek is plumper, The rose is out of town.

--EMILY d.i.c.kINSON.

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OCTOBER

October glows on every tree, October shines in every eye, While up the hill and down the dale Her crimson banners fly.

--DORA READ GOODALE.

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NOVEMBER

Nuts are falling, trees are bare, Leaves are whirling everywhere; Plants are sleeping, birds have flown, Autumn breezes cooler grown, In the chill November.

AN AUTUMN RIDDLE

They are seen on the trees, They are seen on the ground, They are seen in the air, Whirling softly around; They sing rustling songs As our footsteps they hear, And their name is well known, For they come every year.

LEAVES AT PLAY

Scamper, little leaves, about In the autumn sun; I can hear the old wind shout, Laughing as you run; And I haven't any doubt That he likes the fun.

So run on and have your play, Romp with all your might; Dance across the autumn day, While the sun is bright.

Soon you'll hear the old wind say, "Little leaves, good night!"

--FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

WHERE GO THE BOATS

Dark brown is the river, Golden is the sand; It flows along forever, With trees on either hand.

Green leaves a-floating, Castles of the foam, Boats of mine a-boating-- When will all come home?

On goes the river, And out past the mill, Away down the valley, Away down the hill.

Away down the river, A hundred miles or more, Other little children Shall bring my boats ash.o.r.e.

--ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

THE CORN SONG

Heap high the farmer's wintry h.o.a.rd!

Heap high the golden corn!

No richer gift has Autumn poured From out her lavish horn.

Through vales of gra.s.s and meads of flowers, Our plows their furrows made, While on the hills the sun and showers Of changeful April played.

We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain, Beneath the sun of May, And frightened from our sprouting grain The robber crows away.

All through the long, bright days of June Its leaves grew green and fair, And waved in hot midsummer's noon Its soft and yellow hair.

And now, with Autumn's moonlit eves, Its harvest time has come, We pluck away the frosted leaves And bear the treasure home.