Читать книгу The Nursery, April 1873, Vol. XIII - Various - Страница 3

My house is old, the rooms are low,

The windows high and small;

And a great fireplace, deep and wide,

Is built into the wall.

There, on a hanging chimney-hook,

My little kettle swings;

And, in the dreary winter-time,

How cheerily it sings!

My kettle will not sing to-day—

What could it sing about?

For it is empty, it is cold:

The fire is all gone out.

Go, bring to me, to fill it up,

Fresh water from the spring;

And I will build a rousing fire,

And that will make it sing!

Bring white bark from the silver birch,

And pitch-knots from the pine;

And here are shavings, long and white,

That look as ribbons fine.

The little match burns faint and blue,

But serves the fire to light;

And all around my kettle, soon,

The flames are rising bright.

Crack, crack! begins the hemlock-branch,

Snap, snap! the chestnut stick;

And up the wide old chimney now

The sparks are flying thick.

Like fire-flies on a summer night,

They go on shining wings;

And, hark! above the roaring blaze

My little kettle sings!

The robin carols in the spring;

In summer hums the bee:

But, in the dreary winter, give

The kettle's song to me.