peers;

And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears?

"If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woolen chain

This birch is standing by; its cov rt thou canst gain; For rain and mountain storms-the like thou need'st not fear :

The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here.

"Rest, little young one, rest; thou hast forgot the day When my father found thee first in places far away; Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none,

And thy mother from thy side forevermore was gone.

"He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home;

O, blessed day for thee. Then whither wouldst thou

roam?

A faithful nurse thou hast: the dam that did thee yean, Upon the mountain tops, no kinder could have been. "Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in this can

Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran; And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew,

I bring thee draughts of milk-warm milk it is, and

new.

"Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are

now;

Then I'll yoke thee to my cart, like a pony in the plow. My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.

"Alas, the mountain tops that look so green and fair! I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there;

The little brooks, that seem all pastime and all play,

When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.

"Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky;
Night and day thou art safe; our cottage is hard by.
Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain?
Sleep, and at break of day I will come to thee again."
As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,
This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat;
And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad, line by line,
That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was
mine.

For she looked with such a look, and she spoke with such a tone,

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THE SCULPTOR BOY.

HISEL in hand, stood a sculptor boy,

With his marble block before him; And his face lit up with a smile of joy As an angel dream passed o'er him. He carved that dream on the yielding stone, With many a sharp incision ;

In Heaven's own light the sculptor shone— He had caught that angel vision.

Sculptors of life are we, as we stand

With our lives uncarved before us, Waiting the hour, when, at God's command, 'Our life-dream passes o'er us.

Let us carve it, then, on the yielding stone,
With many a sharp incision;

Its heaven'y beauty shall be our own—
Our lives, that angel vision.

W. C. DOANE.

MY BIRD'S NEST.

MUST tell you a little story (True, every word),

How once, out of the South-land early
Came a bird,

To a home in the midst of green grass
And high trees,

And the little birds never were frightened
Out of these.

And this one went flying, a week,

In and out

Of first one tree, and then another,
All about-

As men hunt after homes for their children,
In a city-

Which too often they cannot find

More's the pity;

But our bird could; for once on a time, Like a bird,

On a blossoming branch we discovered Bits of mud,

Which we knew for a brave beginning,
Then a straw-

And so, little by little, was builded,
Without a flaw,

A home fit for a queen of birds

But no queen

Was she, with her yellow-brown wings;

You have seen

Left her stand

In the broad daylight,

Ran clear up here

In a terrible fright.

"Tell the doctor

To please come quick,
There's a man," she said,
"That's awful sick.
A poor old man

Got hurt by a cart;
Nobody'd come

And I hadn't the heart
To stand like the rest

And only stare.

So I had to come,

And I wouldn't care

If the boys stole everything I had ;
I'd rather be poor
Than be so bad."

I'll tell you what
My mamma said

That very night

When she put me to bed.

A beautiful angel

With shiny wings,

One of the kind

That always sings,

Will come some time
And find little Nan,

Who forgot herself
And for sick folks ran;

He'll take her hand
And say to her, "Come

And go with me."

And he'll show her his home,
Where no one is selfish

And loves his ease,

But every one tries
All the rest to please.

I tell you what

I'd like to go,
And a good many boys

And girls that I know;
And we're going to try
Very hard to do
All that is right,

And to tell what's true;
Now, don't you think

That if we do
An angel will come
And take us too?

G. W. THOMAS.

LITTLE NAN."

A SEQUEL.

ITTLE Nan Gordon,

With the red hair, Ran back to her stand, You know where,

The very next morning,
When Nan got there-
Down by the post-office,

You know where-
Big, red apples,

Two for a cent,
Gum-drops and candies,

Rose peppermint

Lots of things she hadn't before,

Of such as she did have

Twice as much more;

A nice new table,

A nice money-drawer,
For the money stolen
Twice as much more;

New baskets and candy-jars,
Clean and bright,

All ready for Nan
In the broad daylight.

And the angel stood by,
With a stick in his hand,
Keeping bad boys
Away from the stand.

Then he kissed little Nan,
With the red hair,

And gave her the things

That he'd fixed for her there. So twice glad was Nan

That she went to get help For the sick old man.

Moral.

'Tisn't always true what folks frequently say,
That children must wait till the judgment day
Before their good actions will draw any pay;
But this is the point-Nan did what she could,
What made her real glad was she was real good;
To have angel's help you needn't wait till you die,
Do good when you can, the angel stands by.
A. W. Dodge.

THE FAIRIES.

P the airy mountain,

Down the rushy glen,

We dare n't go a hunting

For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk,

Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap,

And white owl's feather!

Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home-
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam ;

Some in the reeds

Of the black mountain-lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs All night awake.

High on the hill-top

The old King sits;

He is now so old and gray
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,

On his stately journeys

From Slieveleague to Rosses: Or going up with music

On cold starry nights, To sup with the queen

Of the gay northern lights. They stole little Bridget

For seven years long; When she came down again

Her friends were all gone. They took her lightly back,

Between the night and morrow; They thought that she was fast asleep, But she was dead with sorrow. They have kept her ever since Deep within the lakes, On a bed of flag-leaves, Watching till she wakes.

By the craggy hillside, Through the mosses bare, They have planted thorn-trees For pleasure here and there. Is any man so daring

To dig one up in spite,

He shall find the thornies set In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We dare n't go a hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk,

Trooping all together;

Green jacket, red cap,

And white owl's feather!

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

climbed up to the giant's house. Jack-how noble, with his sword of sharpness and his shoes of swift

ness.

Good for Christmas-time is the ruddy color of the cloak in which the tree making a forest of itself for her to trip through with her basket, Little Red Riding-Hood comes to me one Christmas eve, to give me information of the cruelty and treachery of that dissembling wolf who ate her grandmother, without making any impression on his appetite, and then ate after making that ferocious joke about his teeth. She was my first love. I felt that if I could have married Little Red Riding Hood I should have known perfect bliss. But it was not to be, and there was nothing for it but to look out the wolf in the Noah's Ark there, and put him late in the procession, on the table, as a monster who was to be degraded.

Oh, the wonderful Noah's Ark! It was not found seaworthy when put in a washing-tub, and the ani

HAVE been looking on, this evening, at a merry company of children assembled round that pretty German toy, a Christmas tree.

Being now at home again, and alone, the only person in the house awake, my thoughts are drawn back, by a fascination which I do not care to resist, to my own childhood. Straight in the middle of the room, cramped in the freedom of its growth by no encircling walls or soon reached ceiling, a shadowy tree arises; and, looking up into the dreamy brightness of its top-for I observe in this tree the singular property that it appears to grow downward towards the earth, -I look into my youngest Christmas recollections.

All toys at first I find. But upon the branches of the tree lower down, how thick the books begin to hang! Thin books, in themselves, at first, but many of them, with deliciously smooth covers of bright red or green. What fat black letters to begin with!

་་

"A was an archer, and shot at a frog." Of course he was. He was an apple-pie also, and there he is! He was a good many things in his time, was A, and so were most of his friends, except X, who had so little versatility that I never knew him to get beyond Xerxes or Xantippe: like Y, who was always confined to a yacht or a yew-tree: and Z, condemned forever to be a zebra or a zany.

But now the very tree itself changes, and becomes a bean-stalk-the marvelous bean-stalk by which Jack

have their legs well shaken down before they could be got in even there; and then ten to one but they began to tumble out at the door, which was but imperfectly fastened with a wire latch; but what was that against it?

Consider the noble fly, a size or two smaller than the elephant; the lady-bird, the butterfly-all triumphs of art! Consider the goose, whose feet were so small, and whose balance was so indifferent that he usually tumbled forward and knocked down all the animal creation! Consider Noah and his family, like idiotic tobacco stoppers; and how the leopard stuck to warm little fingers; and how the tails of the larger animals used gradually to resolve themselves into frayed bits of string.

Encircled by the social thoughts of Christmas time, still let the benignant figure of my childhood stand unchanged! In every cheerful image and suggestion that the season brings, may the bright star that rested above the poor roof be the star of all the Christian world!

A moment's pause, O vanishing tree, of which the lower boughs are dark to me yet, and let me look once more. I know there are blank spaces on thy branches, where eyes that I have loved have shone and smiled, from which they are departed. But, far above, I see the Raiser of the dead girl and the widow's son-and God is good!

CHARLES Dickens.

DESCRIPTION OF JANE DE MONTFORT.

AGE.-Madam, there

is a lady in your hall Who begs to be admitted

to your presence. Lady. Is it not one of our invited friends? Page. No; far unlike to them. It is a stranger. Lady. How looks her countenance?

Page. So queenly, so commanding, and so noble,

I shrunk at first in awe; but when she smiled, Methought I could have compassed sea and land To do her bidding.

Lady. Is she young or old?

Page. Neither, if right I guess; but she is fair,
For Time hath laid his hand so gently on her,
As he, too, had been awed.

Lady. The foolish strippling!

She has bewitched thee. Is she large in stature?
Page. So stately and so graceful is her form,
I thought at first her stature was gigantic;
But on a near approach, I found, in truth,
She scarcely doth surpass the middle size.
Lady. What is her garb?

Page. I cannot well describe the fashion of it:
She is not decked in any gallant trim,
But seems to me clad in her usual weeds
Of high habitual state; for as she moves,
Wide flows her robe in many a waving fold,
As I have seen unfurled banners play
With the soft breeze.

Lady. Thine eyes deceive thee, boy;
It is an apparition thou hast seen.
Freberg. [Starting from his seat, where he has
been sitting during the conversation be-
tween the Lady and the Page.]
It is an apparition he has seen,
JOANNA BAILlie.
SPEECH OF PRINCE EDWARD IN HIS
DUNGEON.

Or it is Jane de Montfort.

OTH the bright sun from the high arch of heaven, In all his beauteous robes of fleckered clouds, And ruddy vapors, and deep-glowing flames, And softly varied shades, look gloriously?

Do the green woods dance to the wind? the lakes
Cast up their sparkling waters to the light?
Do the sweet hamlets in their bushy dells
Send winding up to heaven their curling smoke
On the soft morning air?

Do the flocks bleat, and the wild creatures bound
In antic happiness! and mazy birds
Wing the mid air in lightly skimming bands?
Ay, all this is-men do behold all this-
The poorest man. Even in this lonely vault,
My dark and narrow world, oft do I hear
The crowing of the cock so near my walls,
And sadly think how small a space divides me
From all this fair creation.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

THE GROWTH OF MURDEROUS HATE.

D

E MONTFORT. No more, my sister; urge
me not again :

My secret troubles cannot be revealed.
From all participation of its thoughts

My heart recoils: I pray thee, be contented.
Jane. What! must I, like a distant humble friend,
Observe thy restless eye and gait disturbed
In timid silence, whilst with yearning heart
I turn aside to weep? O no, De Montfort!
A nobler task thy nobler mind will give;
Thy true intrusted friend I still shall be.

De Mon. Ah, Jane, forbear! I cannot e'en to thee.
Jane. Then fie upon! fie upon it, Montfort;
There was a time when e'en with murder stained,
Had it been possible that such dire deed
Could e'er have been the crime of one so piteous,
Thou wouldst have told it me.

De Mon. So would I now-but ask of this no

more.

All other troubles but the one I feel

I have disclosed to thee. I pray thee, spare me.
It is the secret weakness of my nature.

Jane. Then secret let it be: I urge no further.
The eldest of our valiant father's hopes,
So sadly orphaned: side by side we stood,
Like two young trees, whose boughs in early strength
Screen the weak saplings of the rising grove,
And brave the storm together.