And the breeze,—a tempest,—rent Leaves and branches from its crowns Till, at last, it flung it down, Stripped, and bare, and torn asunder. H. Pyle

Merrily

Stars at night,

"Little breeze,

Stopped to play.

Sudden quiver,

Met the light

Mad-cap breeze

With delight.

So it flung the limbs about,

And it tossed the leaves in rout,

Then the poor tree groaned and bent,

And the breeze,—a tempest,—rent

Leaves and branches from its crowns

Till, at last, it flung it down,

H. Pyle

 

THE ACCIDENT OF BIRTH.

Saint Nicholas used to send, so I am told, 

Saint Nicholas used to send, so I am told,

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