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 Sweet cricket, thy music Will quickly be still, When the tempests of winter Roar loud on the hill; But I go when the storm comes, Where all my friends dwell,— No more shall my heart say To gladness farewell!

26, 1831.

N the thick and grassy wood, Where the sunny streaks are breaking, And the birds their songs are waking, Where the mossy flowers repose, There the pretty strawberry crows.

Pretty strawberry, fresh and sweet, Say who made your cheek so shining, Like the crimson sun declining, And who made your pleasant smell,— Tell me, pretty strawherry, tell?

It was God who made you so; God, your ruddy color brightens, And your charming odor heightens. Leafy pines, and firs so straight, Whisper, "Children, God is great."