"Come to me, O, ye children! And whisper in my ear What the birds and winds are singing In your sunny atmosphere. Ye are better than all the ballads That were ever sung or said; For ye are living poems And all the rest are dead."—Longfellow.
"And Nature, the old nurse, took The child upon her knee, Saying: 'Here is a story-book Thy Father has written for thee."—Longfellow.
One cold morning Maurice awoke from his dreams and sat up in bed and listened. He thought he heard a knock at his window; but though the moon was shining brightly, Jack Frost had been so busily at work that Maurice could not see through the thickly painted panes. So he crept sleepily out of bed, and opened the window, and whispered: "Who is there?"
"I am," replied a tinkling voice. "I am the little New Year, ho! ho! And I've promised to bring a blessing to everyone. But I am such a little fellow I need somebody to help me distribute them. Won't you please come out and help?"
"Oh, it's so cold!" said Maurice; "I'd rather go back to my warm bed;" "and he shivered as Jack Frost, who was passing, tickled him under the