Watch the busy spider,
He’s helpful as can be,
Eating insects all day long
Now they won’t bite me.
by Author Unknown
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The Spider
Watch the busy spider, He’s helpful as can be, Eating insects all day long Now they won’t bite me. by Author Unknown
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The Woodpecker
Where do you suppose The Woodpecker goes When he carries those Little crumbs away? Across the lake, and Across the land, Clutching in his hand A parcel of hay For his little ones, The Woodpecker runs. For just a few crumbs, He spends all the day Flying to and fro, But ne’er will I know Just where he will go Each time he flits away. by Jean Mallette Unhappy South Pole Penguin
Unhappy South Pole penguin You are in a nasty mood As you try to chew your dinner which refuses to be chewed. But a simple undertaking Will improve your attitude - You must first defrost your dinner For your dinner’s frozen food! by Author Unknown Mrs. Potter, the Otter
Down by the river, there lived an otter, Who was known as Mrs. Potter. Every day she looked for eels, And cooked them for her husband’s meals. One day he said, “I’m tired of this, Can’t you find another dish?” So off she went and did not stop, Until she found a sweetie shop. In she went, and gave her money, To the man who thought it funny. “Goodness me! Are you an otter?” “Yes,” she said, “I’m Mrs. Potter.” Home she ran with bags of sweets, To give her husband lots of treats. He ate them all, and did not stop, Till he was filled from toe to top. by Author Unknown The Three Little Kittens
The three little kittens, they lost their mittens, And they began to cry, “Oh, mother dear, we sadly fear, That we have lost our mittens.” “What! Lost your mittens, you naughty kittens! Then you shall have no pie.” “Meow, meow, meow.” “Then you shall have no pie.” The three little kittens, they found their mittens, And they began to cry, “Oh, mother dear, see here, see here, For we have found our mittens.” “Put on your mittens, you silly kittens, And you shall have some pie.” “Purr, purr, purr, Oh, let us have some pie.” The three little kittens put on their mittens, And soon ate up the pie, “Oh, mother dear, we greatly fear, That we have soiled our mittens.” “What, soiled your mittens, you naughty kittens!” Then they began to sigh, “Meow, meow, meow,” Then they began to sigh. The three little kittens, they washed their mittens, And hung them out to dry, “Oh, mother dear, do you not hear, That we have washed our mittens?” “What, washed your mittens, then you’re good kittens, But I smell a rat close by.” “Meow, meow, meow, We smell a rat close by.” by Eliza Lee Follen: “Little Songs for Little Boys and Girls” (1833) Eliza Lee Follen (maiden name Cabot) was born on 15 August 1787 in Boston, Massachusetts, United States of America. She became a writer and a Sunday school teacher. Eliza Lee Follen passed on at 72 years of age on 26 January 1860 in Cambridge, Massachusetts, United States of America. Pretty Cow
Thank you, pretty cow, that made Pleasant milk to soak my bread, Every day and every night, Warm, and fresh, and sweet, and white. Do not chew the hemlock rank, Growing on the weedy bank; But the yellow cowslips eat, That will make it very sweet. Where the purple violet grows, Where the bubbling water flows, Where the grass is fresh and fine, Pretty cow, go there and dine. by Jane Taylor Jane Taylor was born on 23 September 1783 in London, England, as one among an extensive literary family. She was an essayist, a playwright, a short story writer, a novelist and a poet. Jane Taylor worked as an editor and writer for “Youth’s Magazine.” She is known as the author of the song, “The Star,” also known as “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,” (1806) and the poem, “The Violet,” among other works. Jane Taylor passed on at 40 years of age on 13 April 1824. A Butterfly Lights Beside Us
A butterfly lights* beside us, like a sunbeam . . . and for a brief moment it’s glory and beauty belong to our world . . . But then it flies on again and, although we wish it could have stayed, we are so thankful to have seen it at all. by Author Unknown *lights: comes to a rest or lands. Cats Sleep Anywhere
Cats sleep anywhere Any table, any chair Top of piano, window ledge In the middle, on the edge Open drawer, empty shoe Anybody’s lap will do Fitted in a cardboard box In the cupboard with your frocks They don’t care Cats sleep anywhere! by Eleanor Farjeon Eleanor ‘Nellie’ Farjeon was born on 13 February 1881 in Strand, London, England. She spent much of her childhood in her family’s attic, where she was surrounded by books. She became a poet and a writer of stories and plays for children. Eleanor ‘Nellie’ Farjeon passed on at 84 years of age on 5 June 1965 in Hampstead, London, England. To the Fire-Fly
The morning, when the earth and sky Are glowing with the light of spring, We see thee not, thou humble fly! Nor think upon thy gleaming wing. But when the skies have lost their hue, And sunny lights no longer play, Then we see and bless thee too For sparkling o’er the dreary way. Thus let me hope, when lost to me The lights that now my life illume, Some milder joys may come, like thee, To cheer, if not to warm, the gloom. by Thomas Moore: “The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore: Complete in One Volume” (1853) Thomas Moore was born on 28 May 1779 in Dublin, Ireland. He was married to Elizabeth ‘Bessy’ Dyke in 1811. He became a novelist, a biographer, a poet, a songwriter, a singer, and an entertainer. Thomas Moore passed on at 72 years of age on 25 February 1852 in Bromham, Wiltshire, England. Image shown: Firefly, also known as a lightning bug, a bioluminescent beetle. Birds in Summer
How pleasant the life of a bird must be, Flitting about in each leafy tree; In the leafy trees so broad and tall, Like a green and beautiful palace-hall, With its airy chambers, light and boon, That open to sun and stars and moon, That open unto the bright, blue sky, And the frolicsome winds as they wander by. They have left their nest in the forest bough; Those homes of delight they need not now; And the young and the old. they wander out, And traverse the green world round about; And hark! at the top of this leafy hall. How one to the other they lovingly call: “Come up, come up,” they seem to say, “Where the topmost twigs in the breezes sway.” “Come up, come up, for the world is fair, Where the merry leaves dance in the summer air.” And the birds below give back the civ: We come, we come, to the branches high! How pleasant the life of a bird must be, Flitting about in a leafy tree; And away through the air what joy to go. And look on the bright green earth below. How pleasant the life of a bird must be, Skimming about on the breezy sea. Cresting the billows like silvery foam, And then wheeling away to its cliff-built home! What joy it must be, to sail, upborne By a strong, free wing, through the rosy morn, To meet the young sun face to face. And pierce like a shaft the boundless space. How pleasant the life of a bird must be, Wherever it listeth there to flee; To go, when a joyful fancy calls. Bashing adown ‘mid the waterfalls, Then wheeling about with its unite at play, Above and below, and among the spray, Hither and thither, with screams as wild As the laughing mirth of a rosy child! What a joy it must be, like a living breeze, To flutter about ’mong the flowering trees; Lightly to soar, and to see beneath The wastes of the blossoming purple heath, And the yellow furze, like fields of gold, That gladdens some fairy region old! On mountain tops, on the billowy sea, On the leafy stems of the forest tree, How pleasant the life of a bird must be. by Mary Howitt Mary Howitt was born as Mary Botham on 12 March 1799 in Coleford, Gloucestershire, England. She was a member of the Quaker denomination of Christianity. She was married to William Howitt on 16 April 1821. Mary Howitt became a writer and a poet, and translated works by Hans Christian Andersen and Frederika Bremer into English. She is known as the author of the poem, “The Spider and the Fly” (1829). Mary Howitt passed on at 88 years of age on 30 January 1888 in Rome, Italy. Ladybug
The ladybug’s a beetle. It’s shaped like a pea. Its color is a bright red With lots of spots to see. Although the name is “ladybug,” Some ladybugs are “men” So why don’t we say “gentleman bug” Every now and then? by Author Unknown The Oracular Owl
The oracular owl Is a very wise fowl. He sits on a limb by night and by day, And an eager assembly waits on him To listen to what the wise bird may say. I heard him discourse in the following way: “The sun soon will set in the west.” “’Twill be fair if the sky is not cloudy.” “If a hundred are good only one can be best.” “No gentleman’s ever a rowdy.” “Ah! ah!” cry the birds. “What a marvelous fowl! Oh, who could excel this oracular owl?” by Author Unknown The Dogs Song
I see the dogs. The dogs see me. I like the dogs. The dogs like me. Big furry dogs. One, two, three. I like the dogs and the dogs like me. by Author Unknown Fish
How I wish I were a fish! My day would begin Flapping my fins. I’d make a commotion Out in the ocean. It would be cool To swim in a school. In the sea, I’d move so free, With just one thought, Don’t get caught. by Author Unknown Busy Bee
Oh, say, busy bee, Where now are you going? Where now are you going, To work or to play? I’m bound for the garden Where roses are blooming For I must be making Sweet honey today. by Author Unknown Snail
He cannot fly. He cannot hop. He cannot run at all. But you should see The way he goes Slowly up the wall. He cannot skip Or race about. He has one way to go; And as I watched him I must say He’s good at going slow. by Author Unknown Robin
I wonder how A robin hears. Although I’ve never Seen his ears; I’ve seen him stop, And cock his head, And pull a worm Right out of bed. by Aileen Fisher Aileen Lucia Fisher was born on 9 September 1906 in Iron River, Michigan, United States of America. She was a writer of poetry, children’s books, biographies, plays, and magazine articles. Aileen Lucia Fisher passed on at 96 years of age on 2 December 2002 in Boulder, Colorado, United States of America. Seth had been promised a special surprise for Christmas, and that is just what he got. He stared in awe at the full-grown hound that stood in the center of his living room. The little boy inched up to the dog, walked slowly around it, and looked up into its big, brown eyes. Then he turned to his father and asked, “Is he for me, or am I for him?”
The Squirrel’s Road
It zigzags through the pastures brown, And climbs old Pine Hill to its crown, With many a broken stake and rail, And gaps where beds of ivy trail. In hollows of its mossy top The pine-cone and the acorn drop; While, here and there, aloft is seen A timid, waving plume of green, Where some shy seed has taken hold With slender roots in moss and mold. The squirrel, on his frequent trips With corn and mast between his lips, Glides in and out from rail to rail, With ears erect and flashing tail. Sometimes he stops, his spoil laid by, To frisk and chatter merrily, Or wash his little elfin face, With many a flirt and queer grimace. Anon he scolds a passing crow, Jerking his pert tail to and fro, Or scurries like a frightened thief At shadow of a falling leaf. All day along his fence-top road He bears his harvest, load by load; The acorn with its little hat; The butternut, egg-shaped and fat; The farmer's corn, from shock and wain; Cheek-pouches-full of mealy grain; Three-cornered beechnuts, thin of shell; The chestnut, burred and armored well; And walnuts, with their tight green coats Close buttoned round their slender throats. A busy little workman he, Who loves his task, yet labors free, Stops when he wills, to frisk and bark, And never drudges after dark! I love to hear his chirring cry, When rosy sunrise stains the sky, And see him flashing in his toil, While frost like snow encrusts the soil. With tail above his back, he sails Along the angles of the rails, Content to gain two rods in three, And have sure highway from his tree. Dear is the old-time squirrel way, With mosses green and lichens gray, - The straggling fence, that girds the hill, And wanders through the pine woods still. I loved it in my boyhood time, I loved it in my manhood's prime, Would in the corn-field I could lie, And watch the squirrels zigzag by! by James Buckham James Buckham, also known by the pseudonym Paul Pastnor, was born on 25 November 1858 in Burlington, Vermont, United States of America. He was a newspaper journalist, a periodical editor, an essayist, a poet, a speculative fiction writer, and a naturalist. He became known for his books of poetry: “The Heart of Life” (1897) and “A Wayside Altar” (1905), and for his books of essays: “Where Town and Country Meet” (1903), “Afield with the Seasons” (1907), and “The Heritage of Life” (1907). James Buckham passed on at 49 years of age on 8 January 1908 in Melrose, Massachusetts, United States of America. |
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