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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 Heart of Oak Series, by permission of Heath & Co., publishers.

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 mossy bare, They have planted thorn trees

For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring

As dig them up in spite?
He shall find their sharpest thorns

In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,

Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting

For fear of little men;

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Pansy–An Allegory.*

N a quiet dell there dwelt a little flower of exquisite

beauty and fragrance. So modest was this little floweret that it sought the most retired spot of the glade for its home, blooming in its richest colors beneath the shadow of some tall leaf. But it was not long to bloom thus. One day an angel on a mission of love to this earth, passed its hiding place, and brushing aside the Plantain leaf with her wing, there discovered the flower.

Ah,” she cried, as she bent over to inhale its fragrance, “thou art lovely, indeed, too lovely to dwell here in solitude alone. I will breathe upon thee and thou shalt have an angel's face. Thou shalt go forth and bloom in every land, and carry with thee sweet thoughts of love and of heaven. Thou shalt grow in beauty; the splendor of thy varied dress shall be a marvel and a joy to all that behold thee."

Sealing her promise with a kiss, the angel departed, leaving the imprint of her fair face upon the floweret.

Thus it is that the Pansy has become a herald of joy throughout the land, and even to all civilized people everywhere. In the garden of the quiet country home she has her place, and is tended with loving care.

In the crowded city mart you see her beaming face, and she smiles so sweetly that not one in that passing throng can resist her.

* From Fairy Land of Flowers, by permission of Educational Publishing Co.

The First Snow-fall.*

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL,

THA

HE snow had begun in the gloaming,

And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway

With a silence deep and white.

Every pine and fir and hemlock

Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm-tree

Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara

Came Chanticleer's muffled crow,
The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down,

And still fluttered down the snow.

I stood and watched by the window

The noiseless work of the sky,
And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,

Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn

Where a little headstone stood;
How the flakes were folding it gently,

As did robins the babes in the wood. * By permission of Houghton, Miffin & Co., publishers.

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