Required Poems for Reading and Memorizing Part 18

_Rudyard Kipling._

THE CAMEL'S HUMP

The Camel's hump is an ugly lump Which well you may see at the Zoo; But uglier yet is the hump we get From having too little to do.

Kiddies and grown-ups too-oo-oo, If we haven't enough to do-oo-oo, We get the hump-- Cameelious hump-- The hump that is black and blue!

We climb out of bed with a frouzly head And a snarly-yarly voice.

We shiver and scowl and we grunt and we growl At our bath and our boots and our toys!

And there ought to be a corner for me (And I know there is one for you) When we get the hump-- Cameelious hump-- The hump that is black and blue!

The cure for this ill is not to sit still, Or frowst with a book by the fire; But to take a large hoe and a shovel also, And dig till you gently perspire.

And then you will find that the sun and the wind And the Djinn of the Garden too, Have lifted the hump-- The horrible hump-- The hump that is black and blue!

I get it as well as you-oo-oo, If I haven't enough to do-oo-oo, We all get hump-- Cameelious hump-- Kiddies and grown-ups too!

_Rudyard Kipling._

THE TREE

The Tree's early leaf buds were bursting their brown; "Shall I take them away?" said the Frost, sweeping down.

"No, leave them alone Till the blossoms have grown,"

Prayed the Tree, while he trembled from rootlet to crown.

The Tree bore his blossoms, and all the birds sung: "Shall I take them away?" said the Wind, as he swung.

"No, leave them alone Till the berries have grown,"

Said the Tree, while his leaflets quivering hung.

The Tree bore his fruit in the mid-summer glow: Said the girl, "May I gather thy berries now?"

"Yes, all thou canst see: Take them; all are for thee,"

Said the Tree, while he bent down his laden boughs low.

_Bjornstjerne Bjornson._

CHOOSING A NAME

I have got a new-born sister.

I was nigh the first that kissed her.

When the nursing-woman brought her To papa, his infant daughter, How papa's dear eyes did glisten!

She will shortly be to christen, And papa has made the offer I shall have the naming of her.

Now, I wonder what would please her-- Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa?

Ann and Mary, they're too common; Joan's too formal for a woman; Jane's a prettier name beside, But we had a Jane that died.

They would say, if 'twas Rebecca, That she was a little Quaker; Edith's pretty, but that looks Better in old English books;

Ellen's left off long ago; Blanche is out of fashion now.

None that I have named as yet Are so good as Margaret.

Emily is neat and fine; What do you think of Caroline?

How I'm puzzled and perplexed What to choose or think of next!

I am in a little fever Lest the name that I should give her Should disgrace her or defame her:-- I will leave papa to name her.

_Mary Lamb._

CALLING THE VIOLET

Dear little Violet, Don't be afraid!

Lift your blue eyes From the rock's mossy shade!

All the birds call for you Out of the sky: May is here, waiting, And here, too, am I.

Why do you shiver so, Violet sweet?

Soft is the meadow-gra.s.s Under my feet.

Wrapped in your hood of green, Violet, why Peep from your earth-door So silent and shy?

Trickle the little brooks Close to your bed; Softest of fleecy clouds Float overhead; "Ready and waiting!"

The slender reeds sigh: "Ready and waiting!"

We sing--May and I.

Come, pretty Violet, Winter's away: Come, for without you May isn't May.

Down through the sunshine Wings flutter and fly;-- Quick, little Violet, Open your eye!

Hear the rain whisper, "Dear Violet, come!"

How can you stay In your underground home?

Up in the pine-boughs For you the winds sigh.

Homesick to see you, Are we--May and I.

Ha! though you care not For call or for shout, Yon troop of sunbeams Are winning you out.

Now all is beautiful Under the sky: May's here--and violets!

Winter, good-by!

_Lucy Larcom._

THE BROWN THRUSH

There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree.

"He's singing to me! He's singing to me!"

And what does he say, little girl, little boy?

"Oh, the world's running over with joy!

Don't you hear? Don't you see?

Hush! Look! In my tree, I'm as happy as happy can be!"

And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see, And five eggs, hid by me in the juniper tree?

Don't meddle! don't touch! little girl, little boy, Or the world will lose some of its joy!

Now I'm glad! now I'm free!

And I always shall be, If you never bring sorrow to me."

So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree, To you and to me, to you and to me; And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy, "Oh, the world's running over with joy!