It is unfortunately true that the terms education and culture are not synonymous. Too often we find that the children in our public schools, while possessed of the one, are signally lacking in the other. This is a state of things that cannot be remedied by teaching mere facts. The Greeks, many years ago, found the true method of imparting the latter grace and we shall probably not be able to discover a better one to-day. Their youths learned Homer and the other great poets as a part of their daily tasks, and by thus constantly dwelling upon and storing in their minds the noblest and most beautifully expressed thought in their literature, their own mental life became at once refined and strong.

The basis of all culture lies in a pure and elevated moral nature, and so noted an authority as President Eliot, of Harvard University, has said that the short memory gems which he learned as a boy in school, have done him more good in the hour of temptation than all the sermons he ever heard preached. A fine thought or beautiful image, once stored in the mind, even if at first it is received indifferently and with little understanding, is bound to recur again and again, and its companionship will have a sure, if unconscious, influence. The mind that has been filled in youth with many such thoughts and images will surely bear fruit in fine and gracious actions.

To the teachers who are persuaded of this truth, the present collection of poems has much to recommend it. The selections have been chosen both for their moral influence and for their permanent value as literature. They have been carefully graded to suit the needs of every class from the primary to the high school. Either the whole poem or a sufficiently long quotation has been inserted to give the child a complete mental picture.

The teacher will thus escape the difficulty of choosing among a too great abundance of riches, or the still greater one of finding for herself, with few resources, what serves her purpose. This volume has a further advantage over other books of selections. It is so moderate in price that it will be possible to place it in the hands of the children themselves.

The compilers desire to thank Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Charles Scribner’s Sons, Bowen, Merrill & Co., Whittaker & Ray Co., and Doubleday & McClure Co., for their kindness in permitting the use of copyrighted material.

S. D. WATERMAN.

FIRST GRADE

THE BABY

Where did you come from, baby dear? Out of the everywhere into the here. Where did you get your eyes so blue? Out of the sky as I came through. What makes the light in them sparkle and spin? Some of the starry spikes left in. Where did you get that little tear? I found it waiting when I got here. What makes your forehead so smooth and high? A soft hand stroked it as I went by. What makes your cheek like a warm, white rose? I saw something better than any one know. Whence that three-corner’d smile of bliss? Three angels gave me at once a kiss. Where did you get this pearly ear? God spoke, and it came out to hear. Where did you get those arms and hands? Love made itself into hooks and bands. Feet, whence did you come, you darling things? From the same box as the cherubs’ wings. How did they all come just to be you? God thought of me and so I grew. But how did you come to us, you dear? God thought of you, and so I am here.

—George Macdonald.

THE LITTLE PLANT

In the heart of a seed, buried deep, so deep, A dear little plant lay fast asleep. “Wake,” said the sunshine, “and creep to the light.” “Wake,” said the voice of the rain-drops bright. The little plant heard and rose to see What the wonderful outside world might be.

—Anon.

SLEEP, BABY, SLEEP!

Sleep, baby, sleep! Thy father watches his sheep; Thy mother is shaking the dreamland tree, And down comes a little dream on thee. Sleep, baby, sleep! Sleep, baby, sleep! The large stars are the sheep; The little stars are the lambs, I guess; And the gentle moon is the shepherdess. Sleep, baby, sleep! Sleep, baby, sleep! Our Saviour loves His sheep; He is the Lamb of God on high, Who for our sakes came down to die. Sleep, baby, sleep!

—E. Prentiss (from the German).

ONE, TWO, THREE

One, two, three, a bonny boat I see, A silver boat and all afloat upon a rosy sea. One, two, three, the riddle tell to me. The moon afloat is the bonny boat, the sunset is the sea.

—Margaret Johnson.

THREE LITTLE BUGS IN A BASKET

Three little bugs in a basket, And hardly room for two; And one was yellow, and one was black, And one like me or you; The space was small, no doubt, for all, So what should the three bugs do? Three little bugs in a basket, And hardly crumbs for two; And all were selfish in their hearts, The same as I or you. So the strong one said, “We will eat the bread, And that’s what we will do!” Three little bugs in a basket, And the beds but two could hold; And so they fell to quarreling— The white, the black, and the gold— And two of the bugs got under the rugs, And one was out in the cold. He that was left in the basket, Without a crumb to chew, Or a thread to wrap himself withal, When the wind across him blew, Pulled one of the rugs from one of the bugs, And so the quarrel grew. So there was war in the basket; Ah! pity ’tis, ’tis true! But he that was frozen and starved, at last A strength from his weakness drew, And pulled the rugs from both the bugs, And killed and ate them, too! Now when bugs live in a basket, Though more than it well can hold, It seems to me they had better agree— The black, the white, and the gold— And share what comes of beds and crumbs, And leave no bug in the cold.

—Alice Cary.

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Graded Memory Selections

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