10. While this lasted he was sacred from injury; the' very school-boy would not fling a stone at him, and the merest rustic would pause to listen to his strain. mark the difference.

But

11. As the year advances, as the clover-blossoms disappear, and the spring fades away into summer, he gradually. gives up his elegant tastes and habits, doffs his poetical suit of black, assumes a russet, dusty garb, and sinks to the gross enjoyments of common vulgar birds.

12. His notes no longer vibrate on the ear; he is stuffing himself with the seeds of the tall weeds on which he lately swung and chanted so melodiously. He has become a gormand. With him now there is nothing like the "joys of the table."

13. In a little while he grows tired of plain, homely fare, and is off on a gastronomical tour in quest of foreign luxuries. We next hear of him with myriads of his kind, banqueting among the reeds of the Delaware, and grown corpulent with good feeding.

14. He has changed his name in travelling. Bob-olincoln no more, he is the reed-bird now, the much-sought titbit of Pennsylvania epicures, the rival in unlucky fame of the ortolan! Wherever he goes, pop! pop! pop! every rusty firelock in the country is blazing away. He sees his companions falling by thousands and tens of thousands around him.

15. Does he take warning and reform? - Alas, not he! Incorrigible epicure! again he wings his flight. The riceswamps of the South invite him. He gorges himself among them almost to bursting; he can scarcely fly for corpulency. He has once more changed his name, and is now the famous rice-bird of the Carolinas.

16. Last stage of his career,- behold him spitted with dozens of his corpulent companions, and served up, a vaunted dish, on the table of some Southern epicure.

17. Such is the story of the bobolink, once spiritual, musical, admired, the joy of the meadows, and the favorite.

MARCO BOZZARRIS.

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bird of spring; finally, a gross little sensualist who expiates his sensuality in the kitchen.

18. His story contains a moral worthy the attention of all little birds and little boys; warning them to keep to those refined and intellectual pursuits which raised him to so high a degree of popularity during the early part of his career, but to eschew all tendency to that gross and dissipated indulgence which brought this mistaken little bird to an untimely end. W. Irving.

A

XCV. - MARCO BOZZARIS.

I.

T midnight, in his guarded tent,

The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,
Should tremble at his power :

In dreams through camp and court he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams his song of triumph heard;
Then wore his monarch's signet ring,
Then pressed that monarch's throne,
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,

As Eden's garden bird.

II.

At midnight, in the forest shades,

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,
True as the steel of their tried blades,
Heroes in heart and hand.

There had the Persian thousands stood,

a king;

There had the glad earth drunk their blood,
On old Platæa's day;

And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquered there,

With arm to strike, and soul to dare,

As quick, as far, as they.

That bright dream was his last;

He woke, to hear his sentries shriek,

"To arms!
He woke, to die midst flame and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke,

they come! The Greek! the Greek!"

And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain cloud; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band

"Strike- till the last armed foe expires!
Strike for your altars and your fires!
Strike for the green graves of your sires!
God, and your native land!"

IV.

They fought, like brave men, long and well;
They piled the ground with Moslem slain :
They conquered; but Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every vein.

His few surviving comrades saw

His smile, when rang their proud hurrah,

And the red field was won;

Then saw in death his eyelids close
Calmly, as to a night's repose,

Like flowers at set of sun.

V.

Bozzaris! with the storied brave

Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Rest thee: there is no prouder grave,
Even in her own proud clime.

We tell thy doom without a sigh;
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's, -
One of the few, the immortal names,

That were not born to die!

Halleck.

THE EMPEROR'S NEW CLOTHES.

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XCVI.

THE EMPEROR'S NEW CLOTHES.

ANY years ago there lived an Emperor who was so

MAN
M excessively fond of grand new clothes that he spent

all his money upon them, that he might be very fine. He had a coat for every hour of the day; and just as they say of a king, "He is in council," so they always said of him, "The Emperor is in the wardrobe."

2. In the great city in which he lived it was always very merry. Every day came many strangers: one day two rogues came; they gave themselves out as weavers, and declared they could weave the finest stuff any one could imagine. Not only were their colors and patterns, they said, uncommonly beautiful, but the clothes made of the stuff possessed the wonderful quality that they became invisible to any one who was unfit for the office he held, or was incorrigibly stupid.

3. "Those would be capital clothes!" thought the Emperor. "If I wore those, I should be able to find out what men in my empire are not fit for the places they have; I could tell the clever from the dunces. Yes, the stuff must be woven for me directly." And he gave the two rogues a great deal of cash in hand, that they might begin their work at once.

4. As for them, they put up two looms, and pretended to be working; but they had nothing at all on their looms. They at once demanded the finest silk and the costliest gold; this they put into their own pockets, and worked at the empty looms till late at night.

5. "I should like to know how far they have got on with the stuff," thought the Emperor. But he felt quite comfortable when he thought that those who were not fit for their offices could not see it. He believed, indeed, that he had nothing to fear for himself, but yet he preferred first to send some one else to see how matters stood. All the people in the city knew what peculiar power the stuff possessed, and all were anxious to see how bad or how stupid their neighbors were.

20

6. "I will send my honest old Minister to the weavers," thought the Emperor. "He can judge best how the stuff looks, for he has sense, and no one understands his office better than he."

7. Now the good old Minister went out into the hall where the two rogues sat working at the empty looms.

8. "Mercy on us!" thought the old Minister, and he opened his eyes wide. "I cannot see anything at all!" But he did not say this.

9. Both the rogues begged him to be so good as to come nearer, and asked if he did not approve of the colors and the pattern. Then they pointed to the empty loom, and the poor old Minister went on opening his eyes; but he could see nothing, for there was nothing to see.

10. "Mercy" thought he, "can I indeed be so stupid? I never thought that, and not a soul must know it. Am I not fit for my office? No, it will never do for me to tell that I could not see the stuff."

11. “Don't you say anything to it?" asked one, as he went on weaving.

12. “O, it is charming,- quite enchanting!" answered the old Minister, as he peered through his spectacles. What a fine pattern, and what colors! Yes, I shall tell the Emperor that I am very much pleased with it."

13. "Well, we are glad of that," said both the weavers; and then they named the colors, and explained the strange pattern. The old Minister listened attentively, that he might be able to repeat it when the Emperor came. And he did so.

14. Now the rogues asked for more money and silk and gold, which they declared they wanted for weaving. They put all into their own pockets, and not a thread was put upon the loom; they continued to work at the empty frames as before.

15. The Emperor soon sent again, despatching another honest officer of the court, to see how the weaving was going on, and if the stuff would soon be ready. He fared