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My throne is vanished, helpless I lie

At the foot of its broken stair,
And the sorrows of all humanity
Through my heart make a thoroughfare.

GEORGE MacDonald.

LULLABY.

SWEET and low, sweet and low,
D Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,

Wind of the western sea !
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon, and blow,

Blow him again to me;
While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps.)

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

Father will come to thee soon;
Rest, rest, on mother's breast,

Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west,

Under the silver moon;
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one. sleep.

TEXNYSON,

COMING AND GOING. ONCE came to our fields a pair of birds that had

never built a nest nor seen a winter. Oh, how beautiful was everything! The fields were full of flowers, and the grass was growing tall, and the bees were hun. ming everywhere. Then one of the birds fell to singing, and the other bird said: “Who told you to sing ?” and he answered: “The flowers told me, and the bees told me, and the winds and leaves told me, and the blue sky told me, and you told me to sing.” Then his mate answered: “When did I tell you to sing ?” And he said : “ Every time you brought in tender grass for the nest, and every time your soft wings fluttered off again for hair and feathers to line the nest.” Then his mate said: “What are you singing about ?" And he answered: “I am singing about everything and nothing. It is because I am so happy that I sing.”

By-and-by five little speckled eggs were in the nest, and his mate said: “Is there anything in all the world as pretty as my eggs ?” Then they both looked down on some people that were passing by, and pitied them because they were not birds, and had no nests with eggs in them! Then the father-bird sung a melancholy song because he pitied folks that had no nests, but had to live in houses.

In a week or two, one day, when the father-bird came home, the mother-bird said: “Oh! what do you think has happened ?”—“What?”—“One of my eggs has been peeping and moving !". Pretty soon another egg moved under her feathers, and then another, and another, till five little birds were born!

Now, the father-bird sung longer and louder than ever. The mother-bird, too, wanted to sing, but she had no time, and so she turned her song into work. So hungry were these little birds that it kept both parents busy feeding them. Away each one flew. The moment the little birds heard their wings fluttering again among the leaves, five yellow mouths flew open so wide that nothing could be seen but five yellow mouths !

“Can anybody be happier ?” said the father-bird to the mother-bird. “We will live in this tree always, for there is no sorrow here. It is a tree that always bears joy."

The very next day one of the birds dropped out of the nest, and a cat ate it up in a minute, and only four remained ; and the parent birds were very sad, and there was no song all that day nor the next. Soon the little birds were big enough to fly, and great was their parents' joy to see them leave the nest and sit crumpled up upon the branches. There was then a great time! One would have thought the two old birds were two French dancingmasters, -talking and chattering and scolding the little birds, to make them go alone. The first bird that tried flew from one branch to another, and the parents praised him, and the other little birds wondered how he did it! And he was so vain of it that he tried again, and flew and flew, and couldn't stop flying, till he fell plump down by the house-door; and then a little boy caught him and carried him into the house, -and only three birds were left. Then the old birds thought that the sun was not bright as it used to be, and they did not șing as often.

In a little time the other birds had learned to use their wings, and they flew away and away, and found their own food and made their own beds, and their parents never saw them any more!

Then the old birds sat silent, and looked at each other a long while.

At last the wife-bird said: “Why don't you sing ?". And he answered: “I can't sing—I can only think and think!" " What are you thinking of ?” “I am thinking how everything changes,—the leaves

are falling down from off this tree, and soon there will be no roof over our heads; the flowers are all gone, or going; last night there was a frost; almost all the birds are flown away, and I am very uneasy. Something calls me, and I feel restless as if I would fly far away." : “Let us fly away together!”

Then they rose silently, and, lifting themselves far up in the air, they looked to the north,-far away they saw the snow coming. They looked to the south,—there they saw green leaves! All day they flew, and all night they flew and flew, till they found a land where there was no winter-where there was summer all the time; where flowers always blossom, and birds always sing.

But the birds that stayed behind found the days shorter, the nights longer, and the weather colder. Many of them died of cold; others crept into crevices and holes, and lay torpid. Then it was plain that it was better to go than to stay!-HENRY WARD BEECHER.

BUGLE SONG.

M HE splendor falls on castle walls,

1 And snowy suinmits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes,

And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow; set the wild echoes Aying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Oh, hark! Oh, hear! how thin and clear,

And thinner, clearer, farther going;
Ob sweet and far, from cliff and scar,

The horns of Elf-land faintly blowing!
Blow; let us hear the purple glens replying;
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Oh love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on field, on hill, on river;
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow; set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

TENNYSON.

THE RAINY DAY.

M HE day is cold, and dark, and dreary;

1 It rains, and the wind is never weary; The vine still clings to the moldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

And the day is dark and dreary. My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; My thoughts still cling to the moldering past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,

And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

LONGFELLOW.

THE CHARCOAL MAN.

MHOUGH rudely blows the wintry blast,

1 And sifting snows fall white and fast, Mark Haley drives along the street, Perched high upon his wagon seats

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