I well remember on that day
His widowed mother's pleasant smile;
How, ere we started off to play,
By Ashcroft's green and willowy isle,
To lure us back, in time for tea,
The large plum-cake she let us see.
And good advice she to us gave,
Which we aside did reckless throw,
One only promise did she crave,—
Into the river not to go.
We gave that promise, went away-
Alas! that we should disobey.
We left the vale and hills behind,
The wooden mill, and common wide;
Then did by circling footpaths wind
Our way up to the river's side.
Now in, now out, now seen, now hidden,
We came unto that spot forbidden.
Brightly the rippling river run,
In light and shadow, here and there, And quivered in the summer sun,
A golden pathway shining clear, That seemed to stretch out far away, As if to reach the gates of day.
"Let's bathe," said one ; "the day is warm, We know there is no danger here." So we agreed, and thought no harm;
For oft before we had bathed there.
He was the first to lead the way,
Whose birth we welcomed on that day.
There was no danger near the shore,
While within depth we did remain,
Nor ventured where the eddies tore
The jetty round, then met again:
'Twas said, no bottom could be found
Where they went ever boiling round.
We, who could swim, went far away,
Some plashed beneath the willows dank,
Others upon the greensward lay,
Or idly gazed from off the bank,
Until a shrill cry rent the air,
Which made our very hearts despair.
Although 'tis many years ago,
I feel my conscience still upbraid That I deceived his mother so,
And her strict orders disobeyed; And I would warn you for his sake Never your solemn word to break.
Amid the eddies' boiling roar
We saw his head move round and round;
And as his eyes turned to the shore,
He sank within that gulf profound.
On rolled the water as before,
Where he had sunk to rise no more.
Mute, horror-struck, we stood aghast!
Looking where the deep eddies lay;
And one poor boy exclaimed at last,
"Oh what will his dear mother say?"
Another said, "His birthday, too;
Oh, what will his poor mother do?"
And who will to his mother dear
The tidings of his death convey,
And home those empty garments bear?
(His Sunday clothes worn on that day.)
Who'll enter that low cottage door,
And say, "He will return no more!"
No more, no more,-oh, never more!
Thou'lt hear his merry footstep tread
Upon that white and sanded floor;
Pillowed is now his curly head
Deep down upon that sandy soil,
O'er which the eddies roar and boil.
Sobbing, we bore his clothes away,
For each a mournful portion took,
His hat, his boots, the branch of May,
Which he from the old hawthorn broke;
And with eyes bent upon the ground,
We walked along in grief profound.
We reached the whitewashed village school,
And to the master told our tale,
How, 'mid the eddies' dark whirlpool,
Below the bend of Ashcroft vale,
Deep drowned our little playmate lay.
He sighed, and turned his head away.
He walked along in awe and dread,
And unto her the tidings told.
She sat beside his empty bed
All night, until the morning cold.
They said 'twas pitiful to see
That woman in her misery.
The mother, broken-hearted, died
Upon the day her boy was found,
And they were buried, side by side,
The Sunday after he was drowned.
Then, children all, mind what I say,
Nor once your parents disobey.
I scarcely need tell my little readers that this is a true tale; that I was present when the poor boy was drowned in the river Trent, that I carried some portion of his clothes to the schoolmaster, and followed his remains to the grave. Thomas Miller.
THE BIRD AND THE ROSE.
PRETTY little fluttering thing,
Thou art for ever on the wing;
Thrusting thy bill in honey-cup,
And drinking all the sweetness up.
No matter where thou goest for food,
Each blossom has some hidden good;
An active foot and busy bill
Can always find it, if they will.
Pretty bird, I'll be like thee
I cannot fly from tree to tree;
And could I drink the violet dew,
"Twould never make me look like you.
But I can be a busy thing,
Although I have no splendid wing ;
In every bush I too can find,
Refreshing food for heart and mind.
For mother tells me nothing grows,
From the magnolia to the rose,
Which may not teach some useful truth
To the inquiring mind of youth.
"I'LL not come and be dress'd! I'll not go and be taught!
In fact, I'll do nothing at all that I ought."
"Hush, hush! my young lady; before you refuse
For your own good to act as your elders may choose,
Only list to a few simple words as they fell
From the lips of yon little girl going to the well."
"I own I would rather," she said, "go and play,
Where the bright sun shines out on the hills far away ;
Where the cattle, with breath like the cowslips around,
Their bed and their dinners together have found.
But my bare feet and tatters, too plainly they tell,
How poor are my parents-I'll go to the well.
""Tis little I can do, as yet, to reward
Those who early and late for my sake work so hard;
Though the pitcher were heavier, the way twice as long
From our cottage, to think upon them makes me strong,
And fond of my duties; my cares, if they dwell
In my mind, they but steady it. Come, to the well!
"I'll not loiter to hear the birds sing from the trees,
Nor chase the gay moths, but toil on like the bees;
And pray for the years when my actions may prove
To my father, my mother, how truly I love ;
And what good resolves in my heart used to swell,
When in childhood I went with my jug to the well!"
"Now if she is so patient, what ought you to be,
Who dress and fare better, from menial tasks free?
What gratitude owe you your parents in heaven!
Go, promise amendment, be kiss'd, and forgiven;
And think, when you next are inclined to rebel,
On the poor little cottager 'going to the well.'
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