THE GIFT *

BY RABINDRANATH TAGORE

I want to give you something my child, for we are drifting in the stream of the world. Our lives will be carried apart, and our love forgotten. But I am not so foolish as to hope that I could buy your heart with gifts. Young is your life, your path long, and you drink the love we bring you at one draught and turn and run away from us. You have your play and your playmates. What harm is there if you have no time or thought for us?

We, indeed, have leisure enough in old age to count the days that are past, to cherish in our hearts what our hands have lost forever.

The river runs swift with a song, breaking through all barriers. But the mountain stays and remembers, and follows her with his love.

* Copyrighted 1913 by The Macmillan Company.

BABY'S WAY*

BY RABINDRANATH TAGORE

If baby only wanted to, he could fly up to heaven this

moment.

It is not for nothing that he does not leave us.

He loves to rest his head on mother's bosom, and cannot ever bear to lose sight of her.

Baby knows all manner of wise words, though few on earth can understand their meaning.

It is not for nothing that he never wants to speak.

The one thing he wants is to learn mother's words from mother's lips. That is why he looks so innocent. Baby had a heap of gold and pearls, yet he came like a beggar on to this earth. It is not for nothing that he came in such a disguise.

This dear little naked mendicant pretends to be utterly helpless, so that he may beg for mother's wealth of love.

Baby was so free from every tie in the land of the tiny crescent moon. It was not for nothing he gave up his freedom.

He knows that there is room for endless joy in mother's little corner of a heart, and it is sweeter far thạn liberty to be caught and pressed in her dear arms.

Baby never knew how to cry. He dwelt in the land of perfect bliss.

It is not for nothing he has chosen to shed tears. Though with the smile of his dear face he draws mother's yearning heart to him, yet his little cries over tiny troubles weave the double bond of pity and love. * Copyrighted 1913 by The Macmillan Company.

THE RECALL*

BY RABINDRANATH TAGORE

The night was dark when she went away, and they slept.

The night is dark now, and I call for her, "Come back, my darling; the world is asleep; and no one would know, if you came for a moment while stars are gazing at stars."

She went away when the trees were in bud and the spring was young.

Now the flowers are in high bloom and I call," Come back, my darling. The children gather and scatter flowers in reckless sport. And if you come and take one little blossom no one will miss it."

Those that used to play are playing still, so spendthrift is life.

I listen to their chatter and call, "Come back, my darling, for mother's heart is full to the brim with love, and if you come to snatch only one little kiss from her no one will grudge it."

* Copyrighted 1913 by The Macmillan Company.

SOME TIME*

BY EUGENE FIELD

Last night, my darling, as you slept,

I thought I heard you sigh,

And to your little crib I crept,

And watched a space thereby;

Then, bending down, I kissed your brow

For, oh! I love you so —

You are too young to know it now,

But some time you shall know.

Some time, when, in a darkened place

Where others come to weep,

Your eyes shall see a weary face

Calm in eternal sleep;

The speechless lips, the wrinkled brow,

The patient smile may show —

You are too young to know it now,
But some time you shall know.

Look backward, then, into the years,
And see me here to-night-
See, O my darling! how my tears
Are falling as I write;

And feel once more upon your brow
The kiss of long ago-

You are too young to know it now,

But some time you shall know.

*By courtesy of Charles Scribner's Sons.

MY BIRD

BY EMILY C. JUDSON

(Lines written at Burmah in joy for a first-born)

Ere last year's morn had left the sky,

A birdling sought my Indian nest;
And folded, oh, so lovingly,

Her tiny wings upon my breast.

From morn till evening's purple tinge,
In winsome helplessness she lies;
Two rose leaves with a silken fringe,
Shut softly on her starry eyes.

There's not in Ind a lovelier bird;

Broad earth owns not a happier nest;
O God, thou hast a fountain stirred,
Whose waters never more shall rest.

This beautiful, mysterious thing,
This seeming visitant from heaven,
This bird with the immortal wing,

To me, to me, thy hand has given.

The pulse first caught its tiny stroke,

The blood its crimson hue, from mine; This life which I have dared invoke, Henceforth, is parallel with thine.

A silent awe is in my room,

I tremble with delicious fear;
The future, with its light and gloom,
Time and eternity are here.

Doubts, hopes, in eager tumult rise,
Hear, O my God, one earnest prayer:

Room for my bird in Paradise,

And give her angel-plumage there.

FROM "NIOBE”*

BY FREDERICK TENNYSON

I too, remember, in the after years,
The long-hair'd Niobe, when she was old,
Sitting alone, without the city gates,

Upon the ground; alone she sat, and mourn'd.
Her watches, mindful of her royal state,
Her widowhood, and sorrows, follow'd her
Far off, when she went forth, to be alone