And one poor boy exclaimed at last,
"Oh what will his dear mother say?”
Another said, "His birthday, too;
Oh, what will his poor mother do?"

And who will to his mother dear
The tidings of his death convey
And home those empty garments bear?
(His Sunday clothes worn on that day.)
Who'll enter that low cottage door,
And say, "He will return no more!"
No more, no more,-oh, never more!
Thou'lt hear his merry footstep tread
Upon that white and sanded floor;

Pillowed is now his curly head
Deep down upon that sandy soil,
O'er which the eddies roar and boil.

Sobbing, we bore his clothes away,

For each a mournful portion took,
His hat, his boots, the branch of May,
Which he from the old hawthorn broke;
And with eyes bent upon the ground,
We walked along in grief profound.

We reached the whitewashed village school,
And to the master told our tale,
How, 'mid the eddies' dark whirlpool,
Below the bend of Ashcroft vale,
Deep drowned our little playmate lay.
He sighed, and turned his head away.
He walked along in awe and dread,
And unto her the tidings told.

She sat beside his empty bed

All night, until the morning cold.

'They said 'twas pitiful to see

That woman in her misery.

The mother, broken-hearted, died
Upon the day her boy was found,
And they were buried, side by side,
The Sunday after he was drowned.
Then, children all, mind what I say,
Nor once your parents disobey.

I scarcely need tell my little readers that this is a true tale; that I was present when the poor boy was drowned in the river Trent, that I carried some portion of his clothes to the schoolmaster, and followed his remains to the grave. Thomas Miller.

THE BIRD AND THE ROSE.
PRETTY little fluttering thing,
Thou art for ever on the wing;
Thrusting thy bill in honey-cup,
And drinking all the sweetness up.

No matter where thou goest for food,
Each blossom has some hidden good;
An active foot and busy bill
Can always find it, if they will.

Pretty bird, I'll be like thee

I cannot fly from tree to tree;
And could I drink the violet dew,
"Twould never make me look like you.

But I can be a busy thing,

Although I have no splendid wing;
In every bush I too can find,
Refreshing food for heart and mind.

For mother tells me nothing grows,
From the magnolia to the rose,
Which may not teach some useful truth
To the inquiring mind of youth.

GOING TO THE WELL.

"I'LL not come and be dress'd! I'll not go and be taught!
In fact, I'll do nothing at all that I ought."
"Hush, hush! my young lady; before you refuse

For your own good to act as your elders may choose,
Only list to a few simple words as they fell
From the lips of yon little girl going to the well." ·

"I own I would rather," she said, “go and play,
Where the bright sun shines out on the hills far away;
Where the cattle, with breath like the cowslips around,
Their bed and their dinners together have found,
But my bare feet and tatters, too plainly they tell,
How poor are my parents-I'll go to the well.

""Tis little I can do, as yet, to reward

Those who early and late for my sake work so hard;
Though the pitcher were heavier, the way twice as long
From our cottage, to think upon them makes me strong,
And fond of my duties; my cares, if they dwell
In my mind, they but steady it. Come, to the well!

"I'll not loiter to hear the birds sing from the trees,
Nor chase the gay moths, but toil on like the bees;
And pray for the years when my actions may prove
To my father, my mother, how truly I love;

And what good resolves in my heart used to swell,
When in childhood I went with my jug to the well!”

"Now if she is so patient, what ought you to be,
Who dress and fare better, from menial tasks free?
What gratitude owe you your parents in heaven!
Go, promise amendment, be kiss'd, and forgiven;
And think, when you next are inclined to rebel,
On the
poor little cottager 'going to the well.'

Isabel Hill.

SWALLOWS.

OVER city, and village, and spire,

Over streets that look like streaks of fire,
With all their blazing lines of gas;
Over vast pathless swamps we pass,
Over the mountain, over the sea,
Through rain and sunshine, away go we.
No matter whether 'tis dark or light,
We fly by day, we fly by night;
The sea may roar, the wind may blow,
We can fly high, or we can fly low.
Sometimes when earth doth clouded lie,
We're soaring above in a sunny sky;
Sometimes through earth when wild winds roar,
We high above in calm air soar;

High above, in a sky as blue

As ever Summer overhead threw.

And when aloft the black clouds frown

We find it clearer lower down.

And so go on our way together,

Dodging the wind and watching the weather.
There's nothing to run against in the sky,
No stoppage nor toll-gate where we fly.

You may boast about liberty,
Would you enjoy it, fly with me;
Look at the space spread every way,
Broad and open as the day.

Millions of miles around the earth,
Where Morn and Evening have birth,
We in our upward flight descry,
And thitherward we often fly;
Space beyond space we trembling see,
Still stretching out eternally.

Thomas Miller

THE CHILD'S WISH IN JUNE
MOTHER, mother, the winds are at play,
Prithee let me be idle to-day.

Look, dear mother, the flowers all lie
Languidly under the bright blue sky.

See how slowly the streamlet glides;
Look how the violet roguishly hides;
Even the butterfly rests on the rose,
And scarcely sips the sweets as he goes.

Poor Tray is asleep in the noonday sun,
And the flies go about him one by one;
And Pussy sits near, with a sleepy grace,
Without ever thinking of washing her face.

There flies a bird to a neighbouring tree,

But very lazily flieth he;

And he sits and twitters a gentle note
That scarcely ruffles his little throat.

You bid me be busy; but, mother, hear

How the humdrum grasshopper soundeth near;
And the soft west wind is so light in its play,
It scarcely moves a leaf on the spray.

I wish, oh, I wish I were yonder cloud,
That sails about with its misty shroud!
Books and work I no more should see,

But I'd come and float, dear mother, o'er thee.

MARY'S LAMB.

MARY had a little lamb,

Its fleece was white as snow;
And everywhere that Mary went
The lamb was sure to go.

Mrs. Gilman.