A COMFORTER.

WILL she come to me, little Effie ?
Will she come in my arms to rest,
And nestle her head on my shoulder,
While the sun goes down in the west?

"I and Effie will sit together,

All alone, in this great arm-chair :

Is it silly to mind it, darling,

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When life is so hard to bear?

No one comforts me like my Effie;
Yet I think she does not try,

Only looks with a wistful wonder

Why grown people should ever cry;

"While her little soft arms close tighter Round my neck in their clinging hold ;Well, I must not cry on your hair, dear, For my tears might tarnish the gold.

I am tired of trying to read, dear; It is worse to talk and seem gay : There are some kinds of sorrow, Effie, It is useless to thrust away.

But my comforter knows a lesson
Wiser, truer than all the rest :

That to help and heal a sorrow,

Love and silence are always best.

“ Well, who is my comforter - tell me ?
Effe smiles, but she will not speak;
Or look up through the long curled lashes
That are shading her rosy cheek.

"Is she thinking of talking fishes,
The blue-bird, or magical tree?
Perhaps I am thinking, my darling,
Of something that never can be.

"You long -- don't you, dear, - for the Genii,
Who were slaves of lamps and of rings?
And I - I am sometimes afraid, dear,
I want as impossible things.

"But hark! there is Nurse calling Effie!
It is bedtime, so run away !

And I must go back, or the others
Will be wondering why I stay.

"So good-night to my darling Effie;
Keep happy, sweetheart, and grow wise 1 -
Here's one kiss for her golden tresses,

And two for her sleepy eyes."

- Adelaide Anne Proctor.

A STORY BY THE FIRE.

CHILDREN love to hear of children!
I will tell of a little child
Who dwelt alone with his mother

By the edge of a forest wild.

One summer's eve from the forest,
Late, late, down the grassy track,
The child came back with lingering step,
And looks oft turning back.

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'Oh, mother!" he said, "in the forest

I have met with a little child ;
All day he played with me all day
He talked with me and smiled.
At last he left me alone, but then
He gave me this rosebud red;
And said he would come to me again
When all its leaves were spread.

"I will put my rosebud in a glass,
I will watch it night and day,
Dear little friend, wilt thou come again?

Wilt thou come by my side to play?

I will seek for strawberries

Of all shall be for thee;

the best

I will show thee the eggs in the linnet's nest

None knoweth of but me."

At noon, beside the window-sill,

Awoke a bird's clear song;

But all within the house was still,
The child was sleeping long.
The mother went to his little room
With all its leaves outspread
She saw a rose in fullest bloom ;

And, in the little bed,

A child that did not breathe or stir,

A little, happy child,

Who had met his little friend again,

And in the meeting smiled.

Dora Greenwell.

A NIGHT WITH A WOLF.

LITTLE One, come to my knee !

Hark how the rain is pouring

Over the roof, in the pitch-black night,
And the wind in the woods a-roaring!

Hush, my darling, and listen,

Then pay for the story with kisses: Father was lost in the pitch-black night, In just such a storm as this is!

High up on the lonely mountains,

Where the wild men watched and waited; Wolves in the forest, and bears in the bush, And I on my path belated.

The rain and the night together

Came down, and the wind came after, Bending the props of the pine-tree roof, And snapping many a rafter.

I crept along in the darkness,
Stunned, and bruised, and blinded
Crept to a fir with thick-set boughs,
And a sheltering rock behind it.

There, from the blowing and raining,
Crouching, I sought to hide me :
Something rustled, two green eyes shone,
And a wolf lay down beside me.

Little one, be not frightened:

I and the wolf together,

Side by side, through the long, long night
Hid from the awful weather.

His wet fur pressed against me;

;

Each of us warmed the other Each of us felt, in the stormy dark, That beast and man was brother.

And when the falling forest

No longer crashed in warning, Each of us went from our hiding-place Forth in the wild, wet morning.

Darling, kiss me in payment!

Hark, how the wind is roaring; Father's house is a better place When the stormy rain is pouring!

-Bayard Taylor.

LOST ON THE PRAIRIE.

Он, my baby, my child, my darling!
Lost and gone in the prairie wild;
Mad gray wolves from the forest snarling,
Snarling for thee, my little child!

Lost, lost! gone forever!

Gay snakes rattled, and charmed, and sung;

On thy head the sun's fierce fever,

Dews of death on thy white lip hung!