The Leprechaun saw he'd no chance-on they went,
But he led Tom through bogs and through ditches,
No doubt out of spite, but still Tom was content,
For he only could think of his riches.

At last they arrived at a field of tall wheat,
Said the Leprechaun, "You'd never guess it,
The gold that you seek lies right under your feet,
You have only to dig and possess it."

But there was not a landmark to mark out the spot,
Not even a tree nor a hovel,

And Tom recollected that with him he'd not
His pickaxe, his spade, nor his shovel.

He knew that the Leprechaun wouldn't stay there Till he could go home and procure them,

And his thoughts that the treasure he still might not share,

Were so bitter, he scarce could endure them.

The Leprechaun laughed, and cried, "Tom, work

away,

And I will stand by just to view you,

There's gold to be got that will labour repay;
When you get it—much good may it do you."

A thought then rushed right into cunning Tom's head,
Quoth he, "I am not to be beat here!"

Then he took off his garter, of ribbon, bright red,
Which he carefully tied to a wheat ear.

"It's all right," he said, "I shall now know the place,"

And he felt once again quite light-hearted ;— "Well, good by t'ye Tom, since the spot you can trace,"

Said the Leprechaun;-then he departed.

Tom jumped over ditches, Tom ran o'er each field,
For the thoughts of his wealth made him bolder;
From his father and mother his luck he concealed,
When he got home, his pickaxe to shoulder.

He stayed not a moment-he took up his tools,
And back to the wheat field he hurried;
He thought all the world but himself must be fools,
To work while such treasure lied buried.

He got near the field-Yes! it must be the same—
For a thousand his chance he'd not barter,
But when he right up to it suddenly came,
Every wheat-ear had on a red garter !

"Lord have mercy !" cried Tom, "why I can't dig all this!

The field fifty acres has in it,

It would take me a lifetime, and then I might miss— And how'd I know where to begin it?

"That dirty ould blackguard has cheated me still, It's I am the biggest of martyrs!"

And now, when the poppies the growing crops fill,
They call them there-CUNNING TOM'S GARTERS.

Thus Tom he went home again just as he came,
And all his relations and brothers,

They told him he only himself had to blame
For coveting that which was others;

Because if the treasure had really been there,
Though the Leprechaun might be the donor,
Tom's duty was plainly the find to declare,
And to see if there might be an owner.

He never went looking for fairies again,
His proper employment thus shirking;

And when he, at last, some few guineas did gain,
He was proud to confess 'twas by working.

Our tale has a moral-all fairy tales have—
And 'tis this-If you'd wealth be possessing,
The gold that is worked for, to spend or to save,
Will prove in the end the best blessing.
(Copyright.)

THE CLOUD.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shades for the leaves when laid
In their noon-day dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,

When rocked to rest, on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under;
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night, 'tis my pillow white
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers
Lightning, my pilot, sits,

In a cavern under is fettered the thunder
It struggles and howls by fits;

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,

Lured by the love of the genii they move
In the depths of the purple sea;

Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,

Over the lakes and the plains,

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream The spirit he loves remains;

And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack
When the morning star shines dead;
As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle alit, one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings.

And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,

Its ardours of rest and of love;

And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above,

With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest,

As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,

Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
And, wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer:

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,

Like a swarm of golden bees,

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm river, lakes, and seas,

Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl;

The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.

From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,

Over a torrent sea,

Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,
The mountains its columns be.

The triumphal arch through which I march,
With hurricane, fire, and snow,

When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-coloured bow;

The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,
While the moist earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of the earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky;

I

pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die.

For after the rain, when, with never a stain,

The pavilion of heaven is bare,

And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex

gleams,

Build up the blue dome of air

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain,

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,

I arise and unbuild it again.

CORPORAL CRUMP'S NARRATIVE.
JOHN MILLS.

Author of "The Belle of the Village," "Old English Gentleman," and other popular novels.

"I'm not going," said Corporal Crump, "to give ye the particulars of my own life, only in so far as they may be considered part and parcel of the history of my betters, although, if I just break ground by saying that, in the words of the song,

"Twas in the merry month of May,

When bees from flower to flower do hum;

Soldiers marching, passing gay,

The village all flew to the sound of the drum ;'