* *

SUNSET-LAND

Climb to my knee, little boy, little boy,--
If you look, as the sun sinks low,
Where the cloud-hills rise in the western skies,
Each one with its crest aglow,
O'er the rosy sea, where the purple isles
Have beaches of golden sand,
To the fleecy height of the great cloud, white,
You may catch a gleam of the twinkling light
At the harbor of Sunset-land.

It's a wonderful place, little boy, little boy,
And its city is Sugarplum Town,
Where the slightest breeze through the candy trees
Will tumble the bon-bons down;
Where the fountains sprinkle their lemonade
In syrupy, cooling streams;
And they pave each street with a goody, sweet,
And mark them off in a manner neat,
With borders of chocolate creams.

It's a children's town, little boy, little boy,
With a great big jail, you know,
Where "grown-ups" stay who are heard to say,
"Now don't!" or "You mustn't do so."
And half of the time it is Fourth of July,
And 'tis Christmas all the rest,
With plenty of toys that will make a noise,
For Santa is king of this realm of joys,
And knows what a lad likes best.

Shall I tell you the way, little boy, little boy,
To get to this country, bright?
When you're snug in bed, and your prayers are said,
You must shut up your eyelids tight;
And wait till the sleepy old Sandman comes
And gives you his kindly hand,
And then you'll float in a drowsy boat,
O'er the sea of rose to the cloud, remote,
And the wonderful Sunset-land.

* * * * *

THE SURF ALONG THE SHORE

Ye children of the mountain, sing of your craggy peaks,
Your valleys forest laden, your cliffs where Echo speaks;
And ye, who by the prairies your childhood's joys have seen,
Sing of your waving grasses, your velvet miles of green:
But when my memory wanders down to the dear old home
I hear, amid my dreaming, the seething of the foam,
The wet wind through the pine trees, the sobbing crash and roar,
The mighty surge and thunder of the surf along the shore.

I see upon the sand-dunes the beach-grass sway and swing,
I see the whirling sea-birds sweep by on graceful wing,
I see the silver breakers leap high on shoal and bar,
And hear the bell-buoy tolling his lonely note afar.
The green salt-meadows fling me their salty, sweet perfume,
I hear, through miles of dimness, the watchful fog-horn boom;
Once more, beneath the blackness of night's great roof-tree high,
The wild geese c