they sat them down,
To build a fort of sand;
Their backs were turned to the sea,
Their faces toward the land.

They had just built a famous fort--
The handkerchief flag was spread--
When up there came a stealthy wave,
And turned them heels over head.

After School Hours

School is closed and tasks are done,
Flowers are laughing in the sun;
Like the songsters in the air,
Happy children, banish care!

Riding on a Gate

Sing, sing,
What shall we sing,
A gate is a capital
Sort of thing.

If you have not a horse,
Or haven't a swing,
A gate is a capital
Sort of thing.

Cry, cry,
Finger in eye,
Go home to mother
And tell her why;

You've been riding,
And why not I?
Each in turn, isn't that the rule
For work or play, at home or school.

Walking Song

Come, my children, come away,
For the sun shines bright to-day;
Little children, come with me,
Birds, and brooks, and posies see;
Get your hats and come away,
For it is a pleasant day.

Bring the hoop and bring the ball,
Come with happy faces all,
Let us make a merry ring,
Talk, and laugh, and dance, and sing
Quickly, quickly come away,
For it is a pleasant day.

The Lost Playmate

The old school-house is still to day,
The rooms have no gay throng;
No ringing laugh is on the air,
There is no snatch of song.
The white-haired master sits upon
The seat beneath the tree,
And thinks upon the vanished face,
With all its boyish glee.

But a few short days ago, the lad
Was gayest of the gay,
Quick at the page of knowledge, and
The heartiest in play.
The pride of the home beside the stream,
With his pigeons in their cots,
And finding life a very dream,
In pleasant homely spots.

His school companions loving him,
And old folks speaking praise,
Of the well-loved boy, with frankest eyes,
And cheery, happy ways.
All in the village knew the boy,
From parson down to clerk,
And his whistle in the village street
Was clear as the song of lark.

But like a dream he's passed away,
And from the chamber dim,
In the fair light of summer day,
The peasants carry him.
And playmates gather at the grave,
The old schoolmaster there,
While blossomed boughs wave over-head,
And all around is fair.

True is the grief that brings the tear,
Ther