Wordsworth's, which does not present him in the amiable light, but pleads with him for killing a butterfly. You see he goes through all the pet names that the Robin is called by in other countries.

THE REDBREAST AND THE BUTTERFLY.

Art thou the bird whom man loves best,
The pious bird with the scarlet breast,

Our little English Robin;

The bird that comes about our doors
When autumn winds are sobbing?
Art thou the Peter of Norway boors,
Their Thomas in Finland,

And Russia far inland?

The bird whom, by some name or other,
All men who know thee call their brother,
The darling of child and men?

Could father Adam open his eyes,

And see this sight beneath the skies,
He'd wish to close them again.

If the Butterfly knew but his friend,
Hither his flight he would bend;
And find his way to me.

Under the branches of the tree,

In and out he darts about;

Can this be the bird, to man so good,

That, after their bewildering,

Did cover with leaves the little children

So painfully in the wood?

What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st pursue

A beautiful creature

That is gentle by nature?

Beneath the summer sky

From flower to flower let him fly;

'Tis all that he wishes to do.

The cheerer thou of our in-door sadness,
He is the friend of our summer gladness:
What hinders, then, that ye should be
Playmates in the summer weather,
And fly about in the air together?
His beautiful wings in crimson are dress'd,
A crimson as bright as thine own!
If thou wouldst be happy in thy nest,
O pious bird, whom man loves best,
Love him, or leave him alone!

WORDSWORTH.

Ed. Catch the Robin loving the Butterfly for anything but to eat! What has Adam to do with it?

Grace. O Edmund, don't you see the creatures were at peace with one another, and did not hunt each other

in the garden of Eden, and Adam would grieve to see

the Bird killing the Butterfly.

Aunt C. Right, Gracie.

The passage to which

Wordsworth refers is in Paradise Lost, where, the morning after the Fall, Eve is saddened by seeing how the Eagle

Stooped from his aery tour,

Two birds of gayest plume before him drove.

Ed. I declare Alice has got a paper.

Have you

been writing verses, Ally?

There is a

Alice. Not writing, only translating.

funny little poem in my German extract book, that I thought I might try to put into English, though I know I have not done it well.

Aunt C. Goethe! You have flown high, Alice.

Alice. Who was he, Aunt Charlotte? I have heard his name many times, but I do not know anything about him. Was he not a great poet?

Aunt C. He was the greatest and most original poet Germany has ever had; but I do not think he was either a great or a good man. He was born in

1749, at Weimar, and spent all his life there in writing, thinking, and talking; but all through the terrible oppression of Germany, and all her brave struggle against it, he never seemed to care for more than going on with his own pursuits undisturbed. But his great powers, and the beautiful poems and plays that he wrote, caused him to be much sought after and admired, and he was a sort of prince of German literature for many years. He lived to a great age, and did not die till 1832. These verses of his must have been written in some playful mood, to amuse a

child, or to versify an old nursery threat.

Alice. I have seen a print of the boy running away, and the great bell hopping after him, which made me wish to translate these verses, but I could not be quite literal without spoiling the English verse.

Aunt C. I see, my dear; but such translations are good practice, and you have rendered this very nicely.

THE WALKING BELL.

There was a child who never would
In church be grave and steady;
Each Sunday morn, a reason good
To seek the field was ready.