And yet you must go,
For this is the Fall of the year.

Now the days grow cold,
As the year grows old,
And the meadows are brown and sere;
Brave robin redbreast
Has gone from his nest,
For this is the Fall of the year.

I do softly pray
At the close of day,
That the little children, so dear,
May as purely grow
As the fleecy snow
That follows the Fall of the year.



The Babies' Blankets

"Such a cold day," sighed Mother Nature, "and no blankets to keep
my babies warm! Little Jack Frost came over the hill last night,
and what mischief the boy is planning to do now, it is hard to
tell. He is such a happy little fellow, but is always up to some
prank. If Father Winter does not send me some blankets soon, I
fear Jack will pinch my babies' toes, and pull their ears, and
make them shiver till they am ready to freeze. I have put them to
bed and told them to keep quiet, and perhaps Jack will not see
them."