By night, above the dark abyss,

The stars their vigils kept,

And white-winged mists stooped low to kiss The baby, while it slept.

II. AT SCHOOL

Weeks passed away; the tiny fern

Frond after frond uncurled,
And waited patiently to learn
Its mission in the world.

By fir trees draped in mosses gray
The willing fern was taught,
And once each day a single ray
Its summer greeting brought.

III. ASLEEP

Her cradle songs the north wind sung
And whispered far and wide,
Until a thousand harebells swung
Along the mountain side.

She sung of far-off twilight land,

Moss-muffled forests dim,

And, to her mountain organ grand,—

The aged pine tree's hymn.

IV. A CRADLE SONG OF THE NIGHT WIND

The pines have gathered upon the hill

To watch for the old-new moon;

I hear them murmuring -" Hush, be still! 'Tis coming-coming soon!"

The brown thrush sings to his meek brown wife Who broods below on her nest:

"Of all the world and of all my life

'Tis you I love the best!"

But the baby moon is wide awake,

And its eyes are shining bright,

The pines in their arms this moon must take
And rock him to sleep to-night.

V. THE HAREBELL'S CHIME

Softly swinging to and fro,
Harebells tinkle, sweet and low!
All the world is fast asleep,
Birds and folks and woolly sheep;
Far above us the mountain;
Far below, an unseen fountain

From its rocky cradle deep,

Like a child, laughs in its sleep;

All our faces shyly hidden,

As the fir trees oft have bidden,

Softly bending, sweet notes blending,
Moonbeams climbing,

Wee bells chiming,

Harebells tinkle, star gleams twinkle,

VI. THE HYMN OF THE NORTHERN PINES

Sure sure

sure

Are the promises He hath spoken,

His word hath never been broken.

Are the thoughts and the hearts of His chosen, As crystals the north wind hath frozen.

Underneath are the arms everlasting;

On them our cares we are casting.

Long-long long

Have we sung of the life He doth give us
His mercy and love shall outlive us.

VII. AT LAST

Far from its mountain home the fern

Has found a resting-place,

A maiden has begun to learn
To love its winsome face.

But when at night the north winds smite
Against the frosty pane,

The fern is listening with delight
To hear their voice again.

For in their solemn murmuring
The pine trees chant once more,
The harebells chime, the thrushes sing,
The mountain torrents roar;

Again the dark-robed fir trees stand
About its mossy bed,

And hold aloft with trembling hand
Their crosses o'er its head.

- WILLIS BOYD ALLEN.

THE FERN

Violets and fairy mayflowers,
Buttercups and daisies too,
Roses, lilies, clover, pansies,
All are magical, 'tis true.
But my choice in the botanic
Is a species never tall,
Grows in humid soil, is verdant,
But is not a flower at all.

'Tis not popular nor petted,
Is not beautiful nor coy;
Yet consider it, and you will
All these adjectives employ-
Dainty, gentle, restful, winning,
Balmy, comely, fresh, and sweet,
Gifted with the grace of fairies

And with symmetry complete;

Never haughty, nor disdainful,

But of graceful, modest mien; Not high-colored, but contented With a dress of simple green. Though not loved by all or many, Yet to me it is the best,

For to see it is refreshing,

In its presence there is rest.