THE MILL.STREAM. LONG trails of cistus-flowers Creep on the rocky hill; And beds of strong spear-mint Grow round about the mill; And from a mountain tarn above, As peaceful as a dream, Like to child unruly, Though schooled and counselled truly, Foams down the wild mill-stream! The wild mill-stream it dasheth, In merriment away, And keeps the miller and his son So busy all the day! Into the mad mill-stream The mountain-roses fall; And fern and adder's tongue Grow on the old mill-wall. The tarn is on the upland moor, Where not a leaf doth grow; And through the mountain-gashes, The merry mill-stream dashes Down to the sea below: But, in the quiet hollows, The red trout groweth prime, For the miller and the miller's son To angle when they've time. Then fair befall the stream That turns the mountain-mill; And fair befall the narrow road That windeth up the hill! And good luck to the countryman, And to his old grey mare, That upward toileth steadily, With meal-sacks laden heavily, In storm as well as fair! And good luck to the miller, And to the miller's son; And ever may the mill-wheel turn While mountain-waters run! SUMMMER. THEY may boast of the spring-time when flowers are the fairest, And birds sing by thousands on every green tree; They may call it the loveliest, the greenest, the rarest ; But the summer's the season that 's dearest to me! For the brightness of sunshine; the depth of the shadows; The crystal of waters; the fulness of green, And the rich flowery growth of the old pasture meadows, 8 In the glory of summer can only be seen. Oh, the joy of the green-wood! I love to be in it, And list to the hum of the never-still bees, And to hear the sweet voice of the old mother linnet, Calling unto her young 'mong the leaves of the trees! To see the red squirrel frisk hither and thither, Calls forth to rejoice on the bountiful earth! Then the mountains, how fair! to the blue vault of heaven Towering up in the sunshine, and drinking the light, While adown their deep chasms, all splintered and riven, Fall the far-gleaming cataracts silvery white! And where are the flowers that in beauty are glowing In the garden and fields of the young, merry spring, Like the mountain-side wilds of the yellow broom blowing, And the old forest pride, the red wastes of the ling? Then the garden, no longer 'tis leafless and chilly, But warm with the sunshine and bright with the sheen Of rich flowers, the moss rose and the bright tiger-lily, Barbaric in pomp as an Ethiop Queen. Oh, the beautiful flowers, all colours combining, The larkspur, the pink, and the sweet mignionette, And the blue fleur-de-lis, in the warm sunlight shin ing, As if grains of gold in its petals were set! Yes, the summer,-the radiant summer's the fairest, For green-woods and mountains, for meadows and bowers, For waters, and fruits, and for flowers the rarest, THE FALCON. HARK! hark! the merry warden's horn With braided hair, of gold or jet, With waiting-woman by; And presently they are arrayed, That showered down like rain; And down the stately stairs they go, Where dainty pages stand a-row, To greet them with obeisance low, And follow in the train. And then into the castle-hall, For they will hawk to-day. In such a bright array! The kennelled hounds' long bark is heard; And sitting in their saddles free, And merrily thus in shine and shade, Gay glancing through the forest glade, On rides the noble cavalcade, To moorlands wild and grey; And then the noble sport is high! The jess is loosed, the hood thrown by; And leurre the jolly falconers cry; And wheeling round the falcons fly Impatient for their prey. A moment and the quarry 's ta'en; Nor once the game is missed! For the hawk upon his wrist! And kings were your compeers! But that was in the days gone by; The days of Norman chivalry, When the low crouched unto the high ;The times of other years! Oh gay goshawk, your days were when Came down at night the ruffian men, To slay the sleeping children then Lying in London Tower; Yours were the days of civil feud; Of Woodstock's bloody bower! Times are not now as they were then; Oh, Falcon proud, and goshawk gay, Yet, noble bird, old fame is thine; Still livest thou in the minstrel's line; Still in old pictures art the sign Of high and pure degree; And still, with kindling hearts we read How barons came to Runymede, Falcon on wrist, to do the deed, That made all England free! THE CHILD AND THE FLOWERS. PUT up thy work, dear mother; Dear mother come with me, For I've found within the garden, The beautiful sweet-pea' And rows of stately hollyhocks Down by the garden-wall, All yellow, white, and crimson, So many-hued and tall! And bending on their stalks, mother, Put up thy work, I pray thee, And come out, mother dear! We used to buy these flowers, But they are growing here! The good man and the little ones, They pace it round about; For it we wish the sun to shine, For it the rain to fall; Oh, mother! little Amy Would have loved these flowers to see ;Dost remember how we tried to get For her a pink sweet-pea? Dost remember how she loved Those rose-leaves pale and sere? I wish she had but lived to see The lovely roses here! Put up thy work, dear mother, And wipe those tears away! And come into the garden Before 'tis set of day! THE FLAX-FLOWER. O the little flax-flower, It groweth on the hill, And, be the breeze awake or sleep, And then a little grassy blade, Ah, 'tis a goodly little thing, He thinketh how those slender stems Are rich for him in web and woof, Oh, the little flax-flower! The mother, then says she, "Go pull the thyme, the heath, the fern But let the flax-flower be! It groweth for the children's sake, It groweth for our own; There are flowers enough upon the hill, But leave the flax alone! The farmer hath his fields of wheat, That we have tilled with care. "Our squire he hath the holt and hill, Great halls and noble rent; We only have the flax-field, Yet therewith are content. We watch it morn, we watch it night, And when the stars are out, Good lack! for who is poor doth make Great count of what is small!” Oh, the goodly flax-flower! It groweth on the hill, And, be the breeze awake or sleep, It never standeth still! It seemeth all astir with life, As if it loved to thrive; As if it had a merry heart Within its stem alive! Then fair befall the flax-field, And may the kindly showers, Give strength unto its shining stem, Give seed unto its flowers! It is so rare a thing now-a-days to see flax grown in any quantity, that my English readers will not feel the full force of the above little poem. The English cottager has not often ground which he can use for this purpose; and, besides, he can purchase calico for the wear of his family at a much cheaper cost than he could grow flax. Nor is the English woman "handy" at such matters. She would think it a great hardship to till, perhaps, the very ground upon which it was grown; to pull it with the help of her children only, and, to her other household cares and occupations, to add those of preparing, spinning, and it might be, to help even to weave it into good homespun cloth. Seventy or eighty years ago, however, this was not uncommon in England; and it is still common, and in some districts even general in Scotland. Burns alludes to the growth of flax in many of his poems; and in the "Cottar's Saturday Night," the mother reckons the age of the cheese from the time of the flax flowering. The household interest which is taken in the flaxfield presented itself strongly to us in many a wild glen, and in many a desolate mountain-side in the Highlands of Scotland, in the summer of 1836. You came, in the midst of those stony and heathy wildernesses, upon a few turf-erections, without windows and without chimneys; the wild grasses of the moor and the heath itself grew often upon the roof, for all had originally been cut from the mountain-side; and, but for the smoke which issued from the door, or the children that played about it, you might have doubted of its being a human dwelling. Miserable, however, as such homes may appear at first sight, they are, as it were, the natural growth of the mountain-moorland, and the eye soon finds in them much that is picturesque and characteristic. About such places as these are frequently, too, patches of cultivated ground; the one of potatoes, and perhaps oats or barley, the other of flax. Thus grow, at the very door of this humble human tenement, the food and clothing of the family. How essential this growth is to them, may be seen from the nature of the ground. It is frequently the most difficult that can be conceived to bring into cultivation; one mass, as it seems, of stones, with the scantiest intermixture of soil. These stones, many of which are of immense size, are with infinite toil and patience gathered from the earth, and piled into walls round the little fields, otherwise the mountain sheep, and perhaps the wild roes, would soon lay the whole waste. Here the mother, as well as the father, la bours, and indeed the flax seems especially to belong to her, for she must spin it before she can convert it into family use. In the same way is the household provided with woollen garments; they are all home-spun and homemade, even to many a goodly tartan. The tarry woo" of Scotland, like the "lint flower," is a national thing; the affections, as well as the fire-side interests of that country are connected with them. THE HOUSE-SPARROW. IN birds, as men, there is a strange variety, lawyers, That chirp and gabble, wheedle and bamboozle ; Who filch your fruit, and pocket up your guineas; I walk in cities, 'mong the human herds, And then I think of birds: You find the feathered or unfeathered race While other birds have sung in woods or cages, The conquerors fierce; those thievish chaps, the Though neither noble, rich, nor clad in scarlet, I walk in woods among the birds, and then "T is quite impossible in one or other To walk and see not-man and bird are brother. - The owl in hollow oak, the man in den, A very fool,-a blockhead plain to see! So sang the noble bard, who, like the swallow, The silly creatures that by scores Nurse cuckoo-imps, that out of doors Have turned their children, and they never know it! Up in the leaden gutter burning hot, Every low scape-grace of the Sparrow-clan, All met to wrangle, raffle, rant, and scold. leg was broke, To see the slaughter;-not a bird is slain- follow. "T is true; and therefore still we find That comes, as Wordsworth says, "when winds are Pecks at your window; sits upon your spade, That pert, conceited good-for-nothing Sparrow, Night or day Will be away, Though hooted, shot at, nor once coaxed or beckoned! Of monstrous London - in the loneliest valley - On church or chapel - farm or shop, The Sparrow's still "the bird on the house-top." I think 'twas Solomon who said so, Would have the highest place without the asking. Of all the creatures, that were ever set Save some congeners in our own sweet race, Just of this class, amongst all feathered things, There are the nightingales, all soul and song, Before your carriage as you drive to town To his base meal the Sparrow settles down; He knows the safety-distance to an inch, Up to that point he will not move or flinch ;You think your horse will crush him-no such thingThat coachman's whip might clip his fluttering wing, Or take his head off in a twink - -but he Knows better still and liveth blithe and free, At home he plagues the martins with his noiseThey build, he takes possession and enjoys; Or if he want it not, he takes it still, Just because teasing others is his will. From hour to hour, from tedious day to day He sits to drive the rightful one away. At home, abroad, wherever seen or heard, IT may be thought that I have here dealt hard measure to the Sparrow, but the character I have given of him will be recognised by those who know him, as true. Cowper calls them, a thievish race, that scared as often as you please, As oft return, a pert, voracious kind; and that every farmer knows them to be. What multitudes do you see dropping down upon, or rising from the wheat as it is ripening in the fields. Formerly a price was set upon their heads and eggs, by country parishes. In many places a penny was given for a Sparrow's head, and the same for three or four eggs; but this is now done away with, and the farmer must destroy them himself, or pay dearly for it in his corn. Nothing can exceed the self-complacence of this bird. You see him build his nest amongst the richest tracery of a church roof or window; within the very coronet or escutcheon set up over the gate of hall or palace. We saw this, summer, the hay and litter of his nest hanging out from the richly-cut initial-letters of William and Mary over one of the principal windows of Hampton Court. Nay he would build in a span-new V. R. set up only yesterday, or in the queen's very crown itself though it were worth a kingdom, if it were only conveniently placed for his purpose. He thinks nothing too good for him. But the most provoking part of his character is, the pleasure which he takes in teasing, molesting and hectoring over birds of the most quiet and inoffensive nature. He builds about your houses, and thinks no other bird has any business to do the same. The martin, which loves to build under the eaves of our dwellings, after crossing the seas from some far country, has especially to bear his insolence and aggressions. There is a pretty story in the "Evenings at Home," of two of these interesting birds, who had their nest usurped by a Sparrow, getting together their fellows, and building him up in the nest, where he was left a prisoner amid his plunder. But the gentleness of the martin is so great, that such an intance of poetical justice is more curious, than likely to occur a second time. But every summer the sparrow lords it over the martin, and frequently drives it away by its impertinence. We watched his behaviour this year with a good deal of attention. Two pairs of martins came and built their nests beneath the eaves of the stable, near each other. Scarcely were the nests half finished, when several sparrows were seen watching on the tiles close to them, chirping loudly, and conceitedly, and every now and then flying at the martins. The nests, however, were completed; but no sooner was this this done, than the sparrows took possession of them, - |