Now the robin's song was filling

The child's soul full of bliss; The very air was trilling

When his mamma told him this.

And he wished in childish craving,
For the robin's wings to fly;
To sing on tree-tops waving,
So very near the sky.

XLI.

FATHER IS COMING.

THE

HE clock is on the stroke of six,
The father's work is done;

Sweep up the hearth and mend the fire,

And put the kettle on;

The wild night wind is blowing cold, 'Tis dreary crossing o'er the wold.

He's crossing o'er the wold apace,
He's stronger than the storm;
He does not feel the cold, not he,

His heart it is so warm;

For father's heart is stout and true

As ever human bosom knew.

He makes all toil, all hardship light;

Would all men were the same!

So ready to be pleased, so kind,
So very slow to blame!

Folks need not be unkind, austere,
For love hath readier will than fear.

Nay, do not close the shutters, child,

For far along the lane

The little window looks, and he
Can see it shining plain.

I've heard him say, he loves to mark

The cheerful firelight through the dark.

And we'll do all that father likes;

His wishes are so few

Would they were more! that every hour
Some wish of his I knew!

I'm sure it makes a happy day,
When I can please him any way.

I know he's coming, by this sign,
That baby's almost wild;

See how he laughs, and crows and stares!
Heaven bless the merry child!

He's father's self in face and limb,

And father's heart is strong in him.

Hark! hark! I hear his footsteps now;

He's through the garden gate; Run, little Bess, and ope the door,

And do not let him wait.

Shout, baby, shout! and clap thy hands,

For father on the threshold stands.

Mary Howitt

THER

XLII.

THE ROBIN.

HERE came to my window, one morning in spring,

A sweet little robin; she came there to sing; 'The tune that she sang, it was prettier far Than ever was heard on the flute or guitar.

Her wings she was spreading to soar far away;
Then resting a moment, seemed sweetly to say-
"Oh happy, how happy this world seems to be!
Awake, little girl, and be happy with me.”

But just as she finished her beautiful song,
A thoughtless young man with his gun came along;
He killed and he carried my robin away;
She'll never more sing at the break of the day!

XLIII.

MABEL ON MIDSUMMER DAY.

A

NOT A TRUE STORY.

RISE! my maiden Mabel,"

Her mother said: "Arise!
For the golden sun of midsummer
Is shining in the skies.

"Arise! my little Mabel,

For thou must speed away,
To wait upon thy grandmother
This live-long summer day.

"And thou must carry with thee This wheaten cake so fine; This new-made pat of butter,

And this little flask of wine.

"And tell the dear old body,

This day I cannot come;

For the good-man went out yester-morn, And he has not come home.

"And more than all this, poor Amy Upon my knee doth lie;

I fear me, with this fever-pain

The little child will die.

"And thou canst help thy grandmother,
The table thou canst spread;
Canst feed the little dog and bird,
And thou canst make her bed.

"Canst go down to the lonesome glen,
To milk the mother-ewe;

This is the work, my Mabel,
That thou wilt have to do.

"And thou canst fetch the water
From the lady-well hard by ;

And thou canst gather from the woo
The fagots brown and dry.

"But listen now, my Mabel,

This is midsummer-day, When all the fairy people

From elf-land come away.

"And when thou art in the lonesome glen, Keep by the running burn;

And do not pluck the strawberry flower,
Nor break the lady-fern.

"But think not of the fairy folk,

Lest mischief should befall; Think only of poor Amy,

And how thou lov'st us all.

"Yet keep good heart, my Mabel,
If thou the fairies see,
And give them kindly answer,
If they should speak to thee.

"And when unto the fir-wood

Thou go'st for fagots brown, Do not, like idle children,

Go wandering up and down.

"But fill thy little apron,

My child, with earnest speed;
And that thou break no living bough
Within the wood, take heed.

"For they are spiteful brownies
Who in the wood abide;
So be thou careful of this thing,
Lest evil should betide.

"But think not, little Mabel,

Whilst thou art in the wood, Of dwarfish, wilful brownies, But of the Father good.