Once again the scurry of feet — those myriads
crossing the black granite; and again
laughter cruelly in pursuit; and then
the twang like a harpstring or the spring of a trap,
and the swerve on the polished surface: the soft little pads
sidling and skidding and avoiding; but soon caught up
in the hand of laughter and put back —

There is no release from the rack
of darkness for the unformed shape,
the unexisting thought
stretched half-and-half
in the shadow of beginning and that denser black
under the imminence of huge pylons —

Once again our glad thanksgivings
Rise before our Father's throne,
As we try to count the blessings
Of the years so swiftly flown;
As we trace the wondrous workings
Of His wisdom, pow'r and love,
And unite our " Holy! Holy! "
With the seraphim above.

As we gather 'round our firesides
On this new Thanksgiving Day
Time would fail to count the blessings
That have followed all the way;
Grace sufficient, help and healing,
Prayer, oft answered at our call,
And the best of all our blessings,
Christ Himself, our All in All!

Once a Mouse, a Frog, and a Little Red Hen,
Together kept a house;
The Frog was the laziest of frogs,
And lazier still was the Mouse.

The work all fell on the Little Red Hen,
Who had to get the wood,
And build the fires, and scrub, and cook,
And sometimes hunt the food.

One day, as she went scratching round,
She found a bag of rye;
Said she, " Now who will make some bread? "
Said the lazy Mouse, " Not I. "

" Nor I, " croaked the Frog as he drowsed in the shade,
Red Hen made no reply,

Once a big molicepan
Saw a bittle lum,
Sitting on the sturbcone
Chewing gubble bum.

" Hi! " said the molicepan.
" Better simmie gome. "
" Tot on your nintype! "
Said the bittle lum.

1. On Zion and on Lebanon, On Carmel's blooming height,
2. From thence its mild and cheering ray Streamed forth from land to land;
On Sharon's fertile plains, once shone The glory, pure and bright.
And empires now behold its day; And still its beams expand.
On Sharon's fertile plains, once shone The glory, pure and bright.
And empires now behold its day; And still its beams expand.

3. Its brightest splendors, darting west,
Our happy shores illume;
Our farther regions, once unblest,
Now like a garden bloom.

On your grave
are yellow chrysanthemums,
on your grave
are sakaki branches

On their leaves
the dew lies thick —
are they heavy, perhaps,
these tokens?

Some day will you wake
from your sleep?
Some day will you come back,
my mother?

The sprightly children
the strong men —
all end as
dust and mire

Ah, do not

On your bare rocks, O barren moors,
On your bare rocks I love to lie, —
They stand like crags upon the shores,
Or clouds upon a placid sky.

Across those spaces desolate,
The fox pursues his lonely way,
Those solitudes can fairly sate
The passage of my loneliest day.

Like desert Islands far at sea
Where not a ship can ever land,
Those dim uncertainties to me,
For something veritable stand.

A serious place distinct from all
Which busy Life delights to feel,
I stand in this deserted hall,

On yonder hill there stands a creature;
Who she is I do not know.
I'll go court her for her beauty,
She must answer yes or no.
O no, John! No, John! No, John! No!

On her bosom are bunches of posies,
On her breast where flowers grow;
If I should chance to touch that posy,
She must answer yes or no.
O no, John! No, John! No, John! No!

Madam I am come for to court you,
If your favor I can gain;
If you will but entertain me,
Perhaps then I might come again.
O no, John! No, John! No, John! No!

On yonder hill there is a red deer,
The more you shoot it, the more you may,
You cannot drive that deer away.
The rising sun

On Wodin's day, sixth of December, thirty-nine,
I, Friedrich Vercingetorix, attached
to the VIIth Eavesdroppers-behind-the-line,
did cover my beat, when suddenly the crowd I watched
surrounded, in a cobbled lane one can't pass through,
a bearded man, disguised in rags, a Jew.

In the said crowd there were a number of Poles.
Mainly, however, there were Germans there;
blood-brothers of our Reich, true Aryan souls,
breathing at last—in Warsaw—Nordic air.

These were the words the Jew was shouting:
I took them down verbatim: