THE CHAMELEON. Stretched at its ease the beast I viewed, 66 'I've seen it, sir, as well as you, "'Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure ye." You'll find them but of little use." 66 31 So high at last the contest rose, From words they almost came to blows: When luckily came by a third; To him the question they referred; And begged he'd tell them, if he knew, Whether the thing was green or blue. "Sirs," cries the umpire, cease your pother; The creature's neither one nor t'other. I caught the animal last night, And viewed it o'er by candlelight; I marked it well, 'twas black as jetYou stare-but, sirs, I've got it yet, And can produce it."- "Pray, sir, do; I'll lay my life the thing is blue." "And I'll be sworn, that when you've seen The reptile, you'll pronounce it green.' "Well, then, at once to ease the doubt," Replies the man, "I'll turn him out; And when before your eyes I've set him, you don't find him black I'll eat him." He said; and full before their sight Produced the beast, and lo! 'twas white. Both stared; the man looked wondrous wise- If "My children," the Chameleon cries. JAMES MERRICK, 1720-1769. THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN. SWEET to the morning traveller And cheering to the traveller The gales that round him play, And when beneath th' unclouded sun Most pleasant melody. And when the evening light decays, And all is calm around, There is sweet music to his ear In the distant sheep-bell's sound. And sweet the neighbouring church's bell But sweeter is the voice of love That welcomes his return! SOUTHEY, 1774-1843. THE SNAIL. To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall, Together. Within that house secure he hides, Of weather. Give but his horns the slightest touch, Wherein he dwells, he dwells alone, Whole treasure. Thus hermit-like his life he leads, The faster. Who seeks him must be worse than blind, (He and his house are so combined), If finding it he fails to find Its master. COWPER, 1731-1800. * Chattels, property. SUMMER EVENING. How fine has the day been! How bright was the sun! Just such is the Christian; his course he begins, But when he comes nearer to finish his race, DR. WATTS, 1746-1748. THE BIRD'S NEST. IN yonder brake there is a nest, Think with what pain, through many a day, Soft moss and straw she brought : And let our own dear mother's care And think how must her heart deplore, If those she reared, and nursed, and loved, W. L. BOWLES, born 1762, died 1850. THE HOLIDAY. A HOLIDAY! a holiday! and is it really true, I've not a single thing to-day, but what I like, to do? A holiday! a holiday! whole hours to laugh and play! A holiday! a holiday! oh dear, what shall I do? I'll go and ask mamma, perhaps she'll think of something new; I do not like all work, I know, the same thing every day, Nor do I fancy I should like, much better, always play. A holiday! a holiday! oh, how I wish I knew The thing, of every other thing, which most I like to do! I've always hoped from such a day much more than I have found, And yet there's something full of joy and pleasure in the sound. A holiday! a holiday! before the day is past I shall be glad, I'm almost sure, it cannot always last ; For I am never half so pleased, or happy, I must say, As when I've done my lessons well, and so deserved to play. A holiday! a holiday! I think I like to learn, And play and work, and work and play, each in its proper turn; A holiday! a holiday! I'll call it just the same, For after all, it seems to me, the charm is in the name. L. A. JERMYN. |