The three little kittens

They lost their mittens,

And they began to cry

“Oh mother dear

we sadly fear our mittens we have lost”

“What! Lost your mittens? you naughty kittens!

Then you shall have no pie”

“Meow, meow, meow, meow, we shall have no pie”

The three little kittens

They found their mittens,

lying on the ground

“Oh mother dear,

see here see here our mittens we have found”

“What? Found your mittens? you good little kittens!

Now you shall have some pie”

“Meow, meow, meow, meow, we shall have some pie”

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:

If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!

By Rudyard Kpling

The Robin is the One
That interrupt the Morn
With hurried — few—express Reports
When March is scarcely on —

The Robin is the One
That overflow the Noon
With her cherubic quantity—
An April but begun—

The Robin is the One
That speechless from her Nest
Submit that Home—and Certainty
And Sanctity, are best

by Emily Dickenson

As I came to the edge of the woods,
Thrush music — hark!
Now if it was dusk outside,
Inside it was dark.

Too dark in the woods for a bird
By sleight of wing
To better its perch for the night,
Though it still could sing.

The last of the light of the sun
That had died in the west
Still lived for one song more
In a thrush’s breast.

Far in the pillared dark
Thrush music went —
Almost like a call to come in
To the dark and lament.

But no, I was out for stars;
I would not come in.
I meant not even if asked;
And I hadn’t been.

by Robert Frost

Autumn is the time of year

when changes start to happen here.

The days grow short. It’s cold outside.

The birds fly south. The squirrels hide.

The leaves fall off of all the trees.

The garden pond begins to freeze.

Another summer’s left behind.

It’s winter soon, but I don’t mind.

For autumn is the time when I

begin to dream of pumpkin pie.

— Kenn Nesbitt