Sporting with the leaves that fall,
Withered leaves--one--two--and three--
From the lofty elder tree!
Through the calm and frosty air
Of this morning bright and fair,
Eddying round and round they sink
Softly, slowly: one might think
From the motions that are made,
Every little leaf conveyed
Sylph or fairy hither tending,
To this lower world descending,
Each invisible and mute,
In his wavering parachute.
But the kitten, how she starts,
Crouches, stretches, paws and darts!
First at one and then its fellow,
Just as light and just as yellow;
There are many now--now one--
Now they stop and there are none:
What intenseness of desire
In her upward eye of fire!
With a tiger-leap, half-way,
Now she meets the coming prey;
Lets it go as fast and then
Has it in her power again.
Now she works with three or four,
Like an Indian conjuror;
Quick as he in feats of art,
Far beyond in joy of heart.

* * * * *

William Wordsworth.

VI

OTHER LITTLE CHILDREN

_If thou couldst know thine own sweetness,
O little one, perfect and sweet,
Thou wouldst be a child forever;
Completer whilst incomplete._

_Francis Turner Palgrave._

OTHER LITTLE CHILDREN

_Where Go the Boats?_[A]

Dark brown is the river,
Golden is the sand.
It flows along forever
With trees on either hand.

Green leaves a-floating,
Castles of the foam,
Boats of mine a-boating--
Where will all come home?

On goes the river
And out past the mill,
Away down the valley,
Away down the hill.

Away down the river,
A hundred miles or more,
Other little children
Shall bring my boats ashore.

Robert Louis Stevenson.

FOOTNOTE:

[A] _From "A Child's Garden of Verses." By permission of Charles
Scribner's Sons._

_Cleanliness_

Come, my little Robert, near--
Fie! what filthy hands are here!
Who, that e'er could understand
The rare structure of a hand,
With its branching fingers fine,
Work itself of hands divine,
Strong, yet