Part 25

"I believe they do," said Mary softly; and the stars were hidden by their curtains almost before she had said the words.

WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD.

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, one night Sailed off in a wooden shoe-- Sailed on a river of crystal light Into a sea of dew. "Where are you going, and what do you wish?" The old man asked of the three. "We have come to fish for the herring-fish That live in this beautiful sea. Nets of silver and gold have we," Said Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

The old Moon laughed and sang a song As they rocked in the wooden shoe, And the wind that sped them all night long Ruffled the waves of dew. The little stars were the herring-fish That lived in the beautiful sea, "Now cast your net wherever you wish, Never afeared are we." So cried the stars to the fishermen three, Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw For the stars in the twinkling foam; Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe, Bringing those fishermen home. 'Twas all so pretty a tale, it seemed As if it could not be. And some folks thought 'twas a dream they dreamed Of sailing that beautiful sea. But I shall name you the fishermen three, Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, And Nod is a little head, And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies Is a wee one's trundle-bed. So shut your eyes while mother sings Of wonderful sights that be; And you shall see the beautiful things As you rock in the misty sea, Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three, Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

--Eugene Field.

SEVEN LITTLE INDIAN STARS.

BY MRS. S. M. B. PIATT.

Seven little Indian boys were they, Dancing with the moonbeams on a mound, In the wind they all were whirled away, And the fireflies searched the dews around.

Seven little Indian stars are they, Seven, and only one, my child, is dim. That's the Singer, their sad stories say; That's the Singer--let us pity him.

Oh, the little Singer! (You can see He's not shining as the others are.) Once, when all the stars made wishes, he Wished he didn't have to be a star.

--St. Nicholas, March, 1890.

WHY THE STARS TWINKLE.

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

When Eve had led her lord away, And Cain had killed his brother, The stars and flowers,--the poets say,-- Agreed with one another

To cheat the cunning tempter's art And show the world its duty, By keeping on its wicked heart Their eyes of love and beauty.

A million sleepless lids, they say, Will be at least a warning; And so the flowers will watch by day, The stars from eve to morning.

On hills and prairies, fields and lawn, Their dewy eyes upturning, The flowers still watch from reddening dawn Till western skies are burning.

Alas! each hour of daylight tells A tale of shame so crushing, That some turn white as sea-bleached shells, And some are always blushing.

And when the patient stars look down, On all their light discovers, The traitor's smile, the murderer's frown, The lips of lying lovers,

They try to shut their saddening eyes And in the vain endeavor We see them twinkling in the skies, And so--they wink,--forever.

--Taken from The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table.

"GOD BLESS THE STAR!"

"Darling, I am feeling so tired this evening, won't you sit beside my bed and hold my hand in yours while you tell me about the stars?"

His sister Mary suggested lighting the lamp and reading a story, but he held her hand with gentle force, saying:

"Do not light the lamp. Leave the curtain up so that I can see the stars from my window, and tell me in your own words that story you told me of a star the other day--Dickens' story of a star. Don't you remember, sister?"

Still holding his little hand in hers, and giving it a loving pressure, she rested her head on the pillow beside his, and began, in low soft tones: