Through the day and through the night, Whispering at the garden wall,

;

Talked with me from fall to fall
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond;
Mine the walnut slopes beyond;

Mine, on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides!

Still, as my horizon grew
Larger grew my riches too;
All the world I saw or knew,
Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
Fashioned for a barefoot boy!

O, for festal dainties spread,
Like my bowl of milk and bread,
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,
On the door-stone, gray and rude!
O'er me, like a regal tent,
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,
Looped in many a wind-swung fold;
While for music came the play
Of the pied frog's orchestra;
And, to light the noisy choir,
Lit the fly his lamp of fire.
I was monarch: pomp and joy
Waited on the barefoot boy!

Cheerily, then, my little man,
Live and laugh, as boyhood can!
Though the flinty slopes be hard,
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew;

Every evening from thy feet
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat:
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt's for work be shod,
Made to tread the mills of toil,

Up and down in ceaseless moil :
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground;
Happy if they sink not in

Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou could'st know thy joy,

Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

John G. Whittier.

LITTLE BELL.

PIPED the blackbird on the beechwood spray, "Pretty maid, slow wandering this way,

What's your name?" quoth he

"What's your name? O stop, and straight unfold, Pretty maid with showery curls of gold.”.

'Little Bell," said she.

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocksTossed aside her gleaming golden locks "Bonny bird," quoth she,

Sing me your best song, before I go." "Here's the very finest song I know, Little Bell," said he.

And the blackbird piped; you never heard
Half so gay a song from any bird;

Full of quips and wiles,

Now so round and rich, now soft and slow,
All for love of that sweet face below,
Dimpled o'er with smiles.

And the while the bonny bird did pour
His full heart out freely o'er and o'er,
'Neath the morning skies,

In the little childish heart below,

All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,
And shine forth in happy overflow

From the blue, bright eyes.

Down the dell she tripped, and through the glade Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade,

And, from out the tree

Swung, and leaped, and frolicked, void of fear, — While bold blackbird piped, that all might hear, "Little Bell!" piped he.

Little Bell sat down amid the fern:
"Squirrel, squirrel, to your task return-
Bring me nuts," quoth she.

Up, away the frisky squirrel hies
Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes --
And adown the tree,

Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun,
In the little lap, dropped one by one;
Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun!
"Happy Bell!" pipes he.

Little Bell looked up and down the glade ;
Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid,
Come and share with me!"

Down came squirrel, eager for his fare, -
Down came bonny blackbird, I declare!
Little Bell gave each his honest share;
Ah, the merry three!

And the while these frolic playmates twain Piped and frisked from bough to bough again, 'Neath the morning skies,

In the little childish heart below,

All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,
And shine out in happy overflow,

From her blue, bright eyes.

By her snow-white cot at close of day,
Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to pray:
Very calm and clear

Rose the praying voice to where, unseen,
In blue heaven, an angel shape serene
Paused awhile to hear.

"What good child is this," the angel said,

That, with happy heart, beside her bed

Prays so lovingly?"

Low and soft, oh! very low and soft,

Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft,
Bell, dear Bell!" crooned he.

"Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair
Murmured, "God doth bless with angels' care;
Child, thy bed shall be

Folded safe from harm. Love, deep and kind,
Shall watch around, and leave good gifts behind,

Little Bell, for thee."

T. Westwood.

SEVEN TIMES ONE.

THERE's no dew left on the daisies and clover,

There's no rain left in heaven:

I've said my

66

seven times" over and over,

Seven times one are seven.