Crying, "Sun-child, come to me;
Let me warm my heart with thee!"
But the sea calls out no more;
It is winter on the shore,—
Winter, cold and dark and wild.
Krinken was a little child,—
It was summer when he smiled;
Down he went into the sea,
And the winter bides with me,
Just a little child was he.
Eugene Field.
Stevenson's Birthday.
"How I should like a birthday!" said the child,
"I have so few, and they so far apart."
She spoke to Stevenson—the Master smiled—
"Mine is to-day; I would with all my heart
That it were yours; too many years have I!
Too swift they come, and all too swiftly fly."
So by a formal deed he there conveyed
All right and title in his natal day,
To have and hold, to sell or give away,—
Then signed, and gave it to the little maid.
Joyful, yet fearing to believe too much,
She took the deed, but scarcely dared unfold.
Ah, liberal Genius! at whose potent touch
All common things shine with transmuted gold!
A day of Stevenson's will prove to be
Not part of Time, but Immortality.
Katherine Miller.
