George Macdonald (1824-1902) was a Scotch poet. He wrote many poems and stories for children. "The Wind and the Moon" is especially pleasing.

1

SAID the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out.

You stare in the air

Like a ghost in a chair,

Always looking what I am about.

I hate to be watched; I will blow you out."

2

The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon.

So, deep on a heap

Of clouds, to sleep

Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon-
Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon."

3

He turned in his bed: she was there again.
On high in the sky,

With her one ghost eye,

The Moon shone white and alive and plain.
Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again."

4

The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim. "With my sledge and my wedge

I have knocked off her edge.

If only I blow right fierce and grim,

The creature will soon be dimmer than dim."

5

He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread. "One puff more's enough

To blow her to snuff!

One good puff more where the last was bred, And glimmer, glimmer glum will go the thread."

6

He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone;

In the air nowhere

Was a moonbeam bare;

Far off and harmless the shy stars shone:
Sure and certain the Moon was gone!

7

The Wind he took to his revels once more;

On down, in town,

Like a merry-mad clown,

He leaped and halloed with whistle and roar, "What's that?" The glimmering thread once more.

8

He flew in a rage—he danced and blew;
But in vain was the pain

Of his bursting brain;

For still the broader the moon-scrap grew,

The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew.

9

Slowly she grew-till she filled the night,

And shone on her throne

In the sky alone,

A matchless, wonderful, silvery light,
Radiant and lovely, the queen of the night.

10

Said the Wind: "What a marvel of power am I!

With my breath, good faith,

I blew her to death—

First blew her away right out of the sky-
Then blew her in; what a strength am I!"

11

But the Moon she knew nothing about the affair,

For, high in the sky,

With her one white eye,

Motionless miles above the air,

She had never heard the great Wind blare.

"GOOD-NIGHT, Sir Rook!" said a little lark, "The daylight fades; it will soon be dark; I've bathed my wings in the sun's last ray, I've sung my hymn to the parting day;

So now I haste to my quiet nook

In yon dewy meadow-good-night, Sir Rook!"

2

"Good-night, poor Lark," said his titled friend,
With a haughty toss and a distant bend;
"I also go to my rest profound,

But not to sleep on the cold, damp ground;
The fittest place for a bird like me

Is the topmost bough of yon tall pine tree.

3

"I opened my eyes at peep of day
And saw you taking your upward way,
Dreaming your fond romantic dreams,
An ugly speck in the sun's bright beams,
Soaring too high to be seen or heard,

And I said to myself: 'What a foolish bird!'

4

"I trod the park with a princely air,
I filled my crop with the richest fare;
I cawed all day 'mid a lordly crew,
And I made more noise in the world than

you!

The sun shone forth on my ebon wing;
I looked and wondered-good-night, poor thing!"

5

"Good-night, once more," said the lark's sweet voice

"I see no cause to repent my choice;

You build your nest in the lofty pine,

But is your slumber more sweet than mine?
You make more noise in the world than I,
But whose is the sweeter minstrelsy ?"