The swallow leaves the fields of air,
The busy bee the flower;
And farmers hasten home to share
The quiet of the hour.
Tho' small in size, the cricket tries
His voice so shrill and strong,
And many a frog, from pond and bog,
Sends forth its croaking song.
Now we will call the children dear
To rest their wearied limbs,
And, as the time for bed draws near,
We'll hear their evening hymns.
And then, Aunt Avis must not fail
To bring her stock of verse,
For in sweet rhyme a pleasant tale
She can for us rehearse.
And often, at the close of day,
We'll think of this kind friend,
And ask for some instructive lay,
Which she has sweetly penned.
How pleasant it seems
To hear mamma say,
You've been very good,
My darling, to-day.
