THE SPIDER AND THE FLY,

AN APOLOGUE.

A NEW VERSION OF AN OLD STORY.

"WILL you walk into my parlor?" said the Spider to the Fly,

""Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy; The way into my parlor is up a winding stair,

And I've many curious things to show when you are

there."

"Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, "to ask me is in vain, For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."

"I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so

high;

Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the Spider to

the Fly.

"There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin,

And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in!" “Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, "for I've often heard it said,

They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!"

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, "Dear friend, what can I do,

To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you?

I have within my pantry good store of all that's nice; I'm sure you're very welcome-will you please to take a slice?"

"Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, "kind sir, that can

not be,

I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!"

"Sweet creature!" said the Spider, "you're witty and you're wise,

How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!

I've a little looking-glass upon my parlor shelf,

If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself."

"I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you're pleased to say,

And bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day."

The Spider turned him round about, and went into his

den,

For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back

again :

So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,

And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly.

Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did

sing,

"Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing;

Your robes are green and purple-there's a crest upon your head;

Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead '"

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly,

Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting

by;

With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,

Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue

Thinking only of her crested head-poor foolish thing!

At last,

Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her

fast.

He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal

den,

Within his little parlor-but she ne'er came out again!

And now, dear little chilldren, who may this story read, To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed;

Unto an evil counsellor, close heart, and ear, and eye, And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the

Fly.

TALES IN VERSE.

ANDREW LEE.

THE FISHER BOY.

AH! Fisher Boy, I well know thee,
Brother thou art to Marion Lee!

What! didst thou think I knew thee not,
Couldst thou believe I had forgot?
For shame, for shame! what? I forget
The treasures of thy laden net!
And how we went one day together,
One day of showery summer weather,
Up the sea-shore, and for an hour
Stood sheltering from a pelting shower
Within an upturned, ancient boat,
That had not been for years afloat!
No, no, my boy! I liked too well
The old sea-stories thou didst tell;
I liked too well thy roguish eye-
Thy merry speech-thy laughter sly;
Thy old sea-jacket, to forget,-
And then the treasures of thy net!
Oh, Andrew! thou hast not forgot,
I'm very sure that thou hast not,
All that we talked about that day,
of famous countries far away!

Of Crusoes in their islands lone,
That never were, nor will be known,
And yet this very moment stand
Upon some point of mountain land,
Looking out o'er the desert sea,
If chance some coming ship there be.
Thou know'st we talked of this thou know'st
We talked about a ship-boy's ghost-
A wretched little orphan lad

Who served a master stern and bad,
And had no friend to take his part,
And perished of a broken heart;
Or by his master's blows, some said,
For in the boat they found him dead,
And the boat's side was stained and red!

And then we talked of many a heap
Of ancient treasure in the deep,
And the great serpent that some men
In far-off seas, meet now and then ;
Of grand sea-palaces that shine
Through forests of old coralline;
And wondrous creatures that may dwell
In many a crimson Indian shell;
Till I shook hands with thee, to see
Thou wast a poet-Andrew Lee!
Though thou wast guiltless all the time
Of putting any thoughts in rhyme;
Ah, little fisher boy! since then,
Ladies I've seen and learned men,
All clever, and some great and wise,
Who study all things, earth and skies,
Who much have seen, and much have read,

And famous things have writ and said;