EACH MOTHER'S LOVE'S THE BEST. ·

237

Which of the three, for the life of me,

I love them all so well.

So I'll take up the kittens, the kittens I love,

And we 'll lie down together beneath the warm stove."
So the kittens lie under the stove so warm,
While my little darling lies here on my arm.

I went to the yard, and I saw the old hen
Go clucking about with her chickens ten;

And she clucked, and she scratched, and she bristled away,

And what do you think I heard the hen say?

I heard her say, "The sun never did shine

On anything like to these chickens of mine; [please,
You may hunt the full moon, and the stars, if you
But you never will find ten such chickens as these.
The cat loves her kittens, the ewe loves her lamb,
But they do not know what a proud mother I am;
For lambs nor for kittens I wont part with these,
Though the sheep and the cat should go down on
their keees.

My dear downy darlings, my sweet little things,
Come, nestle now cosily under my wings."

So the hen said,

And the chickens sped

As fast as they could to their warm feather-bed;
And there let them lie, on their feathers so warm,
While my little chick lies here on my arm.

THE MATCH GIRL.

BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

Little Gretchen, little Gretchen
Wanders up and down the street,
The snow is on her yellow hair,
The frost is at her feet.

The rows of long dark houses
Without look cold and damp,
By the struggling of the moonbeam,
By the flicker of the lamp.

The clouds ride fast as horses,
The wind is from the north,
But no one cares for Gretchen,
And no one looketh forth.

Within those dark damp houses,
Are merry faces bright,

And happy hearts are watching out
The Old Year's latest night.

The board is spread with plenty, Where the smiling kindred meet, But the frost is on the pavement, And the beggar 's in the street.

THE MATCH GIRL.

239

With the little box of matches,
She could not sell all day,

And the thin, thin tattered mantle
The wind blows every way.

She clingeth to the railing,
She shivers in the gloom,-
There are parents sitting snugly
By firelight in the room;

And groups of busy children
Withdrawing just the tips
Of rosy fingers pressed in vain
Against their bursting lips-

With grave and earnest faces,
Are whispering each other,
Of presents for the New Year, made
For father or for mother.

But no one talks to Gretchen,
And no one hears her speak,
No breath of little whispers,
Comes warmly to her cheek.

No little arms are round her;
Ah me! that there should be
With so much happiness on earth,
So much of misery.