the branches of the spreading ash. Just by the redroofed town, the tributary Ripple flows, with a lively current, into the Floss.

3. How lovely the little river is, with its dark, changing wavelets. It seems to me like a living companion, while I wander along the bank, and listen to its low-placid voice, as to the voice of one who is dear and loving. I remember those large dipping willows. I remember the stone bridge; and this is Dorlcote Mill. I must stand a minute or two here on the bridge and look at it, though the clouds are threatening, and it is far on in the afternoon. Even in this leafless time of departing February, it is pleasant to look at itperhaps the chill, damp season adds a charm to the trimly-kept, comfortable dwelling-house, as old as the elms and chestnuts that shelter it from the northern blast.

4. The stream is brimful, now, and lies high in this little withy plantation, and half drowns the grassy fringe of the croft in front of the house. As I look at the full stream, the vivid grass, the delicate brightgreen powder softening the outlines of the great trunks and branches that gleam from under the bare purple boughs, I am in love with moistness, and envy the white ducks that are dipping their heads far into the water, here among the withes unmindful of the awkward appearance they make in the drier world above. 5. The rush of the water and the booming of the

mill bring a dreary deafness, which seems to heighten the peacefulness of the scene. They are like a great curtain of sound, shutting one out from the world beyond. Now, there is the thunder of the huge covered wagon, coming home with sacks of grain. That honest wagoner is thinking of his dinner's getting sadly dry in the oven at this late hour, but he will not touch it, till he has fed his horses, the strong, submissive, meekeyed horses.

6. See how they stretch their shoulders up the slope toward the bridge, with all the more energy, because they are so near home. Look at their grand shaggy feet, that seem to grasp the firm earth, at the patient strength of their necks, bowed under the heavy collar, -at the mighty muscles of their struggling haunches! I should like, well, to hear them neigh over their hardearned feed of corn, and see them with their moist necks, freed from the harness, dipping their eager nostrils into the muddy pond. Now, they are on the bridge, and down they go again at a swifter pace, and the arch of the covered wagon disappears at the turning behind the trees.

7. Now I can turn my eyes toward the mill again, and watch the unresting wheel, sending out its diamond jets of water. That little girl is watching it, too. She has been standing on just the same spot, at the edge of the water, ever since I paused on the bridge; and that queer white cur with the brown ear seems to be leaping

and barking in ineffectual remonstrance with the wheel; perhaps he is jealous, because his playfellow in the beaver bonnet is so rapt in the movement.

*

8. It is time the little playfellow went in, I think, and there is a very bright fire to tempt her, the red light shines out under the deepening gray of the sky. It is time, too, for me to leave off resting my arms on the cold stone of this bridge. * Oh! my arms are really benumbed. I have been pressing my elbows on the arms of my chair, and dreaming that I was standing on the bridge in front of Dorlcote Mill, and seeing it as it looked one February afternoon many years ago.

GEORGE ELIOT.

THE HIGH TIDE.

(ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE, 1571.)

I.

The old mayor climbed the belfry tower,
The ringers ran by two, by three;
"Pull, if ye never pulled before!

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Good ringers, pull your best!" quoth he
Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells!
Ply all your changes, all your swells,
Play uppe The Brides of Enderby!

II.

I sat and spun within the doore;

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My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes;

The level sun, like ruddy ore,

Lay sinking in the barren skies;
And dark against day's golden death
She moved where Lindis wandereth, -
My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.

III.

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling
Ere the early dews were falling,
Farre away I heard her song.
"Cusha! Cusha!" all along
Where the reedy Lindis floweth,
Floweth, floweth ;

From the meads where melick groweth,
Faintly came her milking song.

IV.

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling
"For the dews will soone be falling;
Leave your meadow grasses mellow,
Mellow, mellow;

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow,
Come uppe, Whitefoot; come uppe, Lightfoot;
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow,

Hollow, hollow;

Come uppe, Jetty, rise and follow,

From the clovers lift your head;

Come uppe, Whitefoot; come uppe, Lightfoot; Come uppe, Jetty, rise and follow,

Jetty, to the milking shed."

V.

Alle fresh the level pasture lay,

And not a shadowe mote be seene, Save where, full fyve good miles away, The steeple towered from out the greene; And lo! the great bell farre and wide Was heard in all the country-side, That Saturday at eventide.

VI.

I looked without, and lo! my sonne
Came riding downe with might and main;

He raised a shout as he drew on,

Till all the welkin rang again, —

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.)

VII.

"The olde sea-wall (he cried) is downe;
The rising tide comes on apace,

And boats adrift in yonder towne
Go sailing uppe the market-place.'

He shook as one that looks on death: “God save you, mother!" straight he saith; "Where is my wife, Elizabeth?"

VIII.

"Good sonne, where Lindis winds away, With her two bairns I marked her long;

And ere yon bells beganne to play,