beds before, And the old familiar places and the faces at the door. 

 

    Oh, the skies of blissful blue, Oh, the woodland's verdant hue,—   Oh, the lazy days of boyhood, when the world was fair and new! Still to me your tale is told In the summer's sunbeam's gold, And my truant fancy straying, goes a-Maying as of old.  

 

     BIRDS'-NESTING TIME 

  The spring sun flashes a rapier thrust Through the dingy school-house pane, A shining scimitar, free from rust, That cuts the cloud of the drifting dust, And scatters a golden rain; And the boy at the battered desk within Is dreaming a dream sublime, For study's a wrong, and school a sin, When the joys of woods and fields begin, And it's just birds'-nesting time. He dreams of a nook by the world unguessed, Where the thrush's song is sung, And the dainty yellowbird's fairy nest, Lined with the fluff from the cattail's crest,     'Mid the juniper boughs is hung; And further on, by the elder hedge, Where the turtles come out to sleep, The marsh-hen builds, by the brooklet's edge, Her warm, wet home in the swampy sedge,     'Mid the shadows so dark and deep. He knows of the spot by the old stone wall, Where the sunlight dapples the glade, And the sweet wild-cherry blooms softly fall, And hid in the meadow-grass rank and tall, The "Bob-white's" eggs are laid. He knows, where the sea-breeze sobs and sings, And the sand-hills meet the brine, The clamorous crows, with their whirring wings, Tell of their treasure that sways and swings In the top of the tasselled pine.  

  And so he dreamed, with a happy face, Till the noontide recess came, And when't was over, ah, sad disgrace, The teacher, seeing an empty place, Marked "truant" against his name; While he, forgetful of book or rule, Sought only a tree to climb:   For where is the boy who remembers school When the cowslip blows by the marshy And it's just birds'-nesting time?  

 

     THE OLD SWORD ON THE WALL 

    Where the warm spring sunlight, streaming Through the window, sets its gleaming, With a softened silver sparkle in the dim and dusky hall, With its tassel torn and tattered, And its blade, deep-bruised and 

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