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And the white stream into the bright pail flows, When to her task the milkmaid goes,

Soothingly calling,

“So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so !" The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, And sits and milks in the twilight cool,

Saying "So! so, boss! so! so !”
To supper at last the farmer goes.
The apples are pared, the paper read,
The stories are told, then all to bed.
Without, the crickets' ceaseless song
Makes shrill the silence all night long;

The heavy dews are falling.
The housewife's hand has turned the lock;
Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock;
The household sinks to deep repose,
But still in sleep the farm-boy goes

Singing, calling

“ Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'l co!" And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams, Drums in the pail with the flashing streams, Murmuring, “So, boss! so !"

J. T. TROWBRIDGE.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN.
VITAL spark of heavenly flame,

Quit, О quit this mortal frame !
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
Oh! the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!

Hark! they whisper: angels say,
“Sister spirit, come away.”
What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath ?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?

The world recedes; it disappears!
Heaven opens on my eyes ! my ears

With sounds seraphic ring!
Lend, lend your wings ! I mount! I fly!
O grave! where is thy victory?
O death! where is thy sting?

ALEXANDER POPE.

THE PRODIGAL SON.

AND he said, A certain man had two sons: and the A younger of them said to his father, Father, give me the portion of goods that falleth to me. And he divided unto them his living. And not many days after, the younger son gathered all together, and took his journey into a far country, and there wasted his substance with riotous living. And when he had spent all, there arose a mighty famine in that land; and he began to be in want.

And he went and joined himself to a citizen of that country; and he sent him into his fields to feed swine. And he would fain have filled his belly with the husks that the swine did eat; and no man gave unto him. And when he came to himself, he said, How many hired servants of my father's have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger! I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son : make me as one of thy hired servants.

And he arose, and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck and kissed him. And the son said unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son. But the father said to his servants, Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet: and bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat and be merry: for this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found. And they began to be merry.

Now his elder son was in the field : and as he came and drew nigh to the house, he heard music and dancing. And he called one of the servants, and asked what these things meant. And he said unto him, Thy brother is come; and thy father hath killed the fatted calf because he hath received him safe and sound. And he was angry, and would not go in: therefore came his father out, and entreated him.

And he answering, said to his father, Lo, these many years do I serve thee, neither transgressed I at any time thy commandment; and yet thou never gavest me a kid, that I might make merry with my friends; but as soon as this thy son was come which hath devoured thy living with harlots, thou hast killed for him the fatted calf. And he said unto him, Son, thou art ever with me; and all that I have is thine. It was meet that we should make merry, and be glad: for this thy brother was dead, and is alive again; and was lost and is found.—BIBLE.

THE SMACK IN SCHOOL.

DISTRICT school, not far away, A 'Mid Berkshire hills, one winter's day, Was humming with its wonted noise Of threescore mingled girls and boys; Some few upon their task intent, But more on furtive mischief bent, The while the master's downward look Was fastened on a copy-book ; When suddenly, behind his back, Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack! As 'twere a battery of bliss Let off in one tremendous kiss ! “What's that?” the startled master cries; “ That thir,” a little imp replies, “ Wath William Willith, if you pleathe, I thaw him kith Thuthanna Peathe!" With frown to make a statue thrill, The master thundered, “ Hither, Will!" Like wretch o'ertaken in his track, With stolen chattels on his back, Will hung his head in fear and shame, And to the awful presence came,A great, green, bashful simpleton, The butt of all good-natured fun. With smile suppressed and birch upraised The threatener faltered, “ I'm amazed That you, my biggest pupil, should Be guilty of an act so rude! Before the whole set school to bootWhat evil genius put you to't?” 'Twas she herself, sir," sobbed the lad, “ I did not mean to be so bad;

But when Susannah shook her curls,
And whispered I was 'fraid of girls,
And dursn't kiss a baby's doll,
I couldn't stand it, sir, at all,
But up and kissed her on the spot! ,
I know-boo-hoo-I ought to not,
But, somehow, from her looks—boo-hoo-
I thought she kind o'wished me to !”—PALMER.

PATRICK DOLIN'S LOVE-LETTER.

TT'S Patrick Dolin meself and no other, 1 That's after informin' you without any bother, That your own darling self put me heart in a blaze, And made me your sweetheart the rest of my days, So now I sits down to write ye this letter, To tell how I loves ye, as none can love better. Mony's the day sure since first I got smitten With your own purty face that's as bright as a kitten's, And yer illigant figger, that's just the right size. Faith, I'm all over in love wid ye, clear up to the eyes, And if these feelin's you'll only reciprocate, I gives ye my hand and heart, every thing but me hate, Och, now while I write, me heart's in a flutter, For I can't help feelin' every word that I utter; You'll think me deceivin', or tellin' a lie, If I tell who's in love wid me, just ready to die, There's Bridget McCregan, full of coketish tricks, Keeps flatterin' me pride to get me heart in a fix, And Bridget, ye know, has great expectations, From the father that's dead, and lots of relations; Then there's Biddy O'Farrel, the cunningest elf, Sings “Patrick me darling," and that manes meself; I might marry them both if I felt so inclined, But there's no use talking of the likes of their kind.

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