131. THE MILKMAID.

A milkmaid, who poised a full pail on her head, Thus mused on her prospects in life, it is said : "Let's see-I should think that this milk will

procure,

One hundred good eggs, or fourscore, to be sure.

"Well then-stop-a-bit-it must not be forgotten, Some of these may be broken, and some may be

rotten;

But if twenty for accident should be detach'd, It will leave me just sixty sound eggs to be hatch'd.

"Well, sixty sound eggs-no, sound chickens, I

mean;

Of these some may die-we'll suppose seventeen, Seventeen! not so many-say ten at the most, Which will leave fifty chickens to boil or to roast.

"But then, there's their barley, how much will they need?

Why, they take but one grain at a time when they feed,

So that's a mere trifle; now then, let us see,
At a fair market price how much money there'll

be?

"Six shillings a pair-five-four-three-and-six, To prevent all mistakes, that low price I will fix; Now what will that make ?—fifty chickens, I said. Fifty times three-and-sixpence-I'll ask brother Ned.

stop-three-and-sixpence a pair I must

"O! but
sell 'em ;

Well, a pair is a couple-now then let us tell 'em ; A couple in fifty will go-(my poor brain!)

Why just a score times, and five pair will remain.

"Twenty-five pair of fowls-now how tiresome it is That I can't reckon up such money as this! Well there's no use in trying, so let's give a guess— I'll say twenty pounds, and it can't be no less. "Twenty pounds, I am certain, will buy me a cow, Thirty geese and two turkeys-eight pigs and

a sow;

Now if these turn out well, at the end of the year, I shall fill both my pockets with guineas 'tis clear."

Forgetting her burden, when this she had said,

The maid superciliously tossed up her head; When, alas! for her prospects-her milk-pait descended,

And so all her schemes for the future were ended.

This moral, I think, may be safely attach'd, Reckon not on your chickens before they are hatched.

Jefferys Taylor.

132.-SWALLOW AND RED-BREAST.

The swallows, at the close of day,

When autumn shone with fainter ray,

Around the chimney circling flew,
Ere yet they bade a long adieu

To climes, where soon the winter drear
Shall close the unrejoicing year.
Now with swift wing they skim aloof,
Now settle on the crowded roof,
As council and advice to take,
Ere they the chilly north forsake;
Then one, disdainful, turn'd his eye
Upon a red-breast twitt'ring nigh,
And thus began, with taunting scorn,
"Thou household imp, obscure, forlorn,
Through the deep winter's dreary day,
Here, dull and shiv'ring, shalt thou stay,
Whilst we, who make the world our home,
To softer climes impatient roam,

Where summer still on some green isle
Rests, with her sweet and lovely smile.
Thus speeding far, and far away,
We leave behind the short'ning day."

"'Tis true (the red-breast answer'd meek),
No other scenes I ask, or seek;
To every change alike resign'd,

I fear not the cold winter's wind.
When spring returns, the circling year
Shall find me still contented here;
But whilst my warm affections rest
Within the circle of my nest,

I learn to pity those that roam,
And love the more my humble home."

W. L. Bowles.

"Oh! call my brother back to me,
I cannot play alone;

The summer comes with flower and bee-
Where is my brother gone?

"The butterfly is glancing bright
Across the sun-beam's track;
I care not now to chase its flight-

Oh! call my brother back.

"The flowers run wild-the flowers we sowed

Around our garden-tree;

Our vine is drooping with its load

Oh! call him back to me."

"He would not hear my voice, fair child!
He may not come to thee;

The face that once like spring-time smil'd
On earth no more thou'lt see!

"A rose's brief bright life of joy,
Such unto him was given;
Go, thou must play alone, my boy-

Thy brother is in heaven!"

"And has he left the birds and flowers,

And must I call in vain ;

And through the long, long summer hours,
Will he not come again?

"And by the brook, and in the glade,
Are all our wanderings o'er?

Oh! while my brother with me played,
Would I had loved him more!"

Mrs. Hemans.

134.-THE UNREGARDED TOILS OF THE

POOR.

Alas! what secret tears are shed,
What wounded spirits bleed;
What loving hearts are sundered,
And yet man takes no heed!

He goeth in his daily course,
Made fat with oil and wine,
And pitieth not the weary souls
That in his bondage pine;
That turn for him the mazy wheel,
That delve [1] for him the mine!
And pitieth not the children small
In noisy factories dim,

That all day long, lean, pale, and faint,
Do heavy tasks for him!

To him they are but as the stones
Beneath his feet that lie :

It entereth not his thoughts that they
From him claim sympathy:

It entereth not his thoughts that God
Heareth the sufferers' groan,

That in His righteous eye, their life
Is precious as his own.

Mary Howitt.

135.-FORGET ME NOT!

The holidays are ended,

Mincepies are out of date;

The carriage waits-ascended
Has Will his box of state:
[1] Delve-dig.