It"s a warm wind， the west wind， full of birds" cries，I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes， For it comes from the west lands， the old brown hills， And April"s in the west wind， and daffodils.
It"s a fine land， the west land， for hearts as tired as mine； Apple orchards blossom there， and the air"s like wine.
There is cool green grass there， where men may lie at rest，And the thrushes are in song there， fluting from the nest.
"Will ye not come home， brother？ Ye have been long away，It"s April， and blossom-time， and white is the may； And bright is the sun， brother， and warm is the rain- Will ye not come home， brother， home to us again？
"The young corn is green， brother， where the rabbits run，It"s the sky， and white clouds， and warm rain and sun， It"s song to a man"s soul， brother， fire to a man"s brain， To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again. "Larks are singing in the west， brother， above the greenwheat，
So will ye not come home， brother， and rest your tired feet？
I"ve a balm for bruised hearts， brother， sleep for achingeyes，"
Says the warm wind， the west wind， full of birds" cries. It"s a white road westwards is the road I must treadTo the green grass， the cool grass， and rest for heart and head，To the violets and the warm hearts and the thrushes"
song，
In the fine land， the west land， the land where I belong.
- John Masefield
Author.-John Masefield (born 1876)， English poet and prose writer. In his younger days he was a sailor and an adventurer. At present he is Poet-Laureate. His publications include-Salt Water Ballads， A Mainsail Haul (prose)， A Tarpaulin Muster (prose)， William Shakespeare (prose)， Gallipoli (prose)， The Everlasting Mercy， The Widow in the Bye-street， Dauber， The Daffodil Fields (verse)， and several plays-Nan， Pompey the Great， A King"s Daughter， etc.
General Notes.-What counties are in the West of England？ Why are they warmer than the counties in the East？ Is April blossom-time in Australia？ Write a verse in praise of the place where you were born.
Suggestions for Verse-speaking.-Notice that there are two speakers-(a) the poet， (b) the west wind. Divide the class to take these two parts. If desired， the song of the west wind may be divided between three groups.
SILVER
Slowly， silently， now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon；This way and that she peers， and sees Silver fruit upon silver trees；One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch； Couched in his kennel， like a log， With paws of silver sleeps the dog；From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep；A harvest mouse goes scampering by， With silver claws and silver eye；And moveless fish in the water gleam
By silver reeds in a silver stream.
- Walter de la Mare
Author.-Walter de la Mare， English poet and novelist， was born at Charlton， Kent， in 1873. He is a writer of magical verse that is full of music， pictures， and fantasy. His books of verse include Songs of Childhood， The Listeners， and Peacock Pie； among his prose writingsare Memoirs of a Midget and a children"s monkey story， The Three Mulla Mulgars. His collected poems were published in 1920， and he has since selected two small volumes of his poems， Old Rhymes and New， for use in schools.
General Notes.-What a contrast to the long swinging lines of " The West Wind." As you say the poem， notice the quietness and stillness of it. Write a sunset poem called "Gold."HOW THE CRICkETS BROuGHT GOOD FORTuNE
My friend Jack went into a baker"s shop one day to buy a little cake which he had fancied in passing. He intended it for a child whose appetite was gone， and who could be coaxed to eat only by amusing him. He thought that such a pretty loaf might tempt even the sick. While he waited for his change， a little boy， six or eight years old， in poor but perfectly clean clothes， entered the baker"s shop.
"If you please， ma"am，" said he to the baker"s wife，"mother sent me for a loaf of bread."
The woman climbed upon the counter (this happened in a country town)， took from the shelf of four-pound loaves the best one she could find， and put it into the arms of the little boy.
My friend Jack then for the first time observed the thin and thoughtful face of the little fellow. It contrasted strongly with the big round loaf， of which he was taking the best of care.
"Have you any money？" said the baker"s wife. The little boy"s eyes grew sad.
"No， ma"am，" said he， hugging the loaf closer to his thin blouse； "but mother told me to say that she would come and speak to you about it to-morrow.""Run along，" said the good woman； "carry your bread home， child.""Thank you， ma"am，" said the poor little fellow.
My friend Jack came forward for his change. He had put his purchase into his pocket， and was about to go when he found the child with the big loaf standing stock-still behind him.
"What are you doing there？" said the baker"s wife to the child， who she too thought had left the shop. "Don"t you like the bread？""Oh yes， ma"am，" said the child.
"Well then， carry it to your mother， my little friend. If you wait any longer， she will think you are playing by the way， and you will get a scolding."The child did not seem to hear. Something else held his attention. The baker"s wife went up to him， and gave him a friendly tap on the shoulder.
"What are you thinking about？"said she.
"Ma"am，" said the little boy， "what is it that sings？""There is no singing，" said she.
"Yes！" cried the little fellow. "Hear it！ Queek， queek， queek， queek！"My friend and the woman both listened， but they could hear nothing， unless it was the song of the crickets， frequent guests in bakers" houses.
"It is a little bird，" said the dear little fellow； "or perhaps the bread sings when it bakes， as apples do.""No， indeed， little goosey！" said the baker"s wife； "those are crickets. They sing in the bake-house because we are heating the oven and they like to see the fire.""Crickets！" said the child； "are they really crickets？" "Yes， to be sure，" said she.
The child"s face lighted up.
"Ma"am，" said he， blushing at the boldness of his request， "I should like it very much if you would give me a cricket.""A cricket！" said the baker"s wife， smiling. "What in the world would you do with a cricket， my little friend？ I would gladly give you all in the house to get rid of them， they run about so.""Oh， ma"am， give me one， only one， if you please！" said the child， clasping his little hands under the big loaf. "They say that crickets bring good luck into houses； and perhaps if we had one at home mother， who has so much trouble， wouldn"t cry any more.""Why does your mother cry？" said my friend， who could no longer help joining in the conversation.
"On account of her bills， sir，" said the little fellow. " Father is ill， and mother works very hard， but she cannot pay them all."My friend took the child， and with him the big loaf， into his arms； and I really believe he kissed them both. Meanwhile， the baker"s wife had gone to the bake-house. She asked her husband to catch four crickets， and put them into a box with holes in the cover， so that they might have air to breathe. She gave the box to the child， who went away perfectly happy.
When he had gone， the baker"s wife and my friend exclaimed together， " Poor little fellow ！" Then the former took down her account-book and， finding the page where the mother"s purchases were entered， made a great dash all down the page， and wrote at the bottom， " Paid."Meanwhile my friend， to lose no time， had put up in paper all the money in his pockets， where fortunately he had quite a sum that day， and begged the good wife to send it at once to the mother of the little boy， with her bill receipted， and a note in which he told her she had a son who would one day be her joy and pride.
They gave it to a baker"s boy with long legs， and told him to make haste. The child， with his big loaf， his four crickets， and his short legs， could not run very fast， so that when he reached home he found his mother， for the first timein many weeks， with her eyes raised from her work， and a smile of peace and happiness upon her lips.
The boy believed that it was the arrival of his four little black things that had worked this change， and I do not think he was mistaken. Without the crickets and his good little heart， would this happy change have taken place in his mother"s fortunes？
From the French of P. J. Stahl
Author.-P. J. Stahl was the pen-name of Pierre Jules Hetzel， a French writer， who was born in 1814 and who died at Monte Carlo in 1886. He held office in the French Ministry from 1848-1851. When the Second Republic was overthrown， he fled to Belgium， but afterwards came back and settled in Paris as a bookseller and publisher. His writings are mostly humorous， his best-known books being Le Diable à Paris， and Voyage où il vous plaira.
General Notes.-There is so much conversation in this story that youcould easily make a play of it. In order to keep the play to one scene， let the boy come back to the shop and tell what he found when he reached home.
