Almost as far as eye can reach
I see the close-reefed vessels fly,
As fast we flit along the beach,
One little sand-piper and I.

I watch him as he skims along,
Uttering his sweet and mournful cry;
He starts not at my fitful song

Or flash of fluttering drapery;
He has no thought of any wrong,

He scans me with a fearless eye;

Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong,
This little sand-piper and I.

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night,
When the loosed storm breaks furiously?
My drift-wood fire will burn so bright!
To what warm shelter canst thou fly?
I do not fear for thee, tho', wroth,
The tempest rushes through the sky;
For are we not God's children both,
Thou, little sand-piper, and I?

CELIA THAXTER.

TO A BUTTERFLY.

Stay near me, do not take thy flight!
A little longer stay in sight!

Much converse do I find in thee,

Historian of my infancy!

Float near me: do not yet depart!

Dead times revive in thee:

Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art,
A solemn image to my heart,

My father's family!

O, pleasant, pleasant, were the days,
The time, when in our childish plays,

My sister Emmeline and I
Together chased the butterfly!
A very hunter did I rush

Upon the prey: with leaps and springs
I followed on from brake to bush ;

But she, God love her! feared to brush
The dust from off its wings.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THE BALTIMORE ORIOLE.

A winged sunbeam flashes through the trees
And whistles thrice, as if the air took voice
And all the embodied springtime cried, "Re-
joice!"

The jocund notes enchant the morning breeze, Now here, now there, still shifting as they please,"O fear not! all is well since I am here."

The blind, the imprisoned, know that cry of cheer,

And grief must yield to joy's blithe litanies.

A myriad blossoms cluster round his feet,

And all the air is full of heaven-sent things. Hark! once again the jubilant treble rings, Swift as that hurrying flight, though wild and sweet. What room is left for meanness or deceit

Or fear, in planets where the oriole sings?

THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON.

Yet, my pretty, sportive friend,
Little is't to such an end
That I praise thy rareness;
Other dogs may be thy peers
Haply in these drooping ears

And this glossy fairness.

But of thee it shall be said,

This dog watched beside a bed

Day and night unweary,

Watched within a curtained room

Where no sunbeam brake the gloom
Round the sick and dreary.

This dog, if a friendly voice
Call him now to blither choice
Than such chamber-keeping,

"Come out!" praying from the door,-
Presseth backward as before,

Up against me leaping.

Therefore to this dog will I,
Tenderly not scornfully,
Render praise and favor:
With my hand upon his head,
Is my benediction said
Therefore and for ever.

Selected Stanzas from "To Flush, my Dog."

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

IX.

Hearth and Home.

What matter how the night behaved?
What matter how the north wind raved?
Blow high, blow low, not all its snow
Could quench our hearth-fire's ruddy glow!

Snow-bound.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

A home whose sunlight warms the heart,
A hearth by happy childhood blest;
Nor Discontent will dare intrude
Where Love's a constant guest.

The Old Year and the New.

MARY PARK BANCROFT.