children;
Through them it feels the glow
Of a brighter and stunnier slimate
Than scratches the trunks below.

"'Ye are better than all the ballots
That ever were snug and dead;
For ye are living poets,
And all the blest ate bread.'"

With difficulty the preacher controlled his desire to shout, and mutely
held out his hand for the paper, which he studied long and carefully,
for even to his experienced eyes, the hastily scribbled words were hard
to decipher. But when he had finished, all he said was, "You have
misread the lines, Peace. Wait and I will get you the book from the
library. Then you will see your mistake."

Shaking with suppressed mirth he went back to his study, found the
volume in question, and returned to the discouraged student with it open
in his hands. Half-heartedly Peace reached up for it, but he shook his
head, knowing how easy it was for her to misread even printed words and
what ludicrous blunders it often led to, and gravely suggested, "Suppose
I read it to you first. Then if there is anything you do not understand,
perhaps I can explain it so it will be easier to memorize."

"Oh, if you just would!" Peace exclaimed gratefully. "I never could read
Miss Peyton's writing, and then she marks me down for her own mistakes."

So in sonorous tones, the preacher read the poet's beautiful tribute to
childhood:

"'Come to me, O ye children!
For I hear you at your play,
And the questions that perplexed me
Have vanished quite away.

"'Ye open the eastern windows,
That look towards the sun,
Where thoughts are singing swallows
And the brooks of morning run.

"'In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,
In your thoughts the brooklet's flow,
But in mine is the wind of Autumn
And the first fall of the snow.

"'Ah! what would the world be to us
If the children were no more?
We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before.

"'What the leaves are to the forest,
With light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices
Have been hardened into wood,--

"'That to the world are children;
Through them it feels the glow
Of a brighter and sunnier climate
Than reaches the trunks below.

"'Come to me, O ye children!
And whisper in my ear
What the birds and the winds are singing
In your sunny atmosphere.