A frog leaps out from bordering grass,
Startling the timid as they pass,

Do you observe him, and endeavor
To take the intruder into favor.
Nor blush if o'er your heart be stealing
A love for things that have no feeling;
The spring's first rose that you espy,
May fill with joy your sparkling eye;
You too may love the strawberry flower,
And love the strawberry in its bower.
But when the fruit, so often praised
For beauty, to your lip is raised,
Say not you love the wholesome treat,
But take, enjoy, and thankful, eat:
Nor for her cruel sport the cat,
That deadly foe of mouse and rat,
Hate, for but the law of all her kind
She follows, not with instinct blind.
Then think of her beautiful gliding form,
Her tread that would not crush a worm,
And her soothing purr by the winter fire,
As kindly domestic as you can desire.

I would not circumscribe your love;

It may soar with the eagle, and brood with the dove,
May pierce the earth with the patient mole,
Or track the hedgehog to his hole.

Loving and Liking are the solace of life;
They foster all joy, and extinguish all strife.
You love your father and your mother,
Your grown-up and your baby brother;
You love your sister and your friends,
And countless blessings which God sends.
Our Likings come and pass away;
'Tis Love that remains till our latest day:
Our heavenward guide is holy love,
And it will be our bliss above.

XXVII. AIR.

MISS JANE TAYLOR.

WHAT is it that winds about over the world,
Spread thin like a covering fair?

Into each crack and crevice 'tis artfully curled;
-Air.
This sly little fluid is

In summer's still evening how peaceful it floats,
When not a leaf moves on the spray,

And no sound is heard but the nightingale's notes,
And merry gnats dancing away!

The village bells glide on its bosom serene,
And steal in sweet cadence along;

The shepherd's soft pipe warbles over the green,
And the cottage girls join in the song.

But when winter blows, then it bellows aloud,
And roars in the northerly blast;

With fury drives onward the snowy blue cloud,
And cracks the tall, tapering mast.

The sea rages wildly, and mounts to the skies
In billows and fringes of foam;

And the sailor in vain turns his pitiful eyes

Towards his dear, peaceable home.

When fire lays and smothers, or gnaws through the beam,

Air forces it fiercer to glow;

And engines in vain in cold torrents may stream,
Unless the wind ceases to blow.

In the forest it tears up the sturdy old oak,

That many a tempest had known;

The tall mountain's pine into splinters is broke,
And over the precipice blown.

And yet though it rages with fury so wild,
On the solid earth, water, or fire,
Without its assistance, the tenderest child
Would struggle, and gasp, and expire.

Pure air, pressing into the curious clay,
Gave life to these bodies at first;
And when in the bosom it ceases to play,
We crumble again to our dust.

XXVIII.—WATER.

MISS JANE TAYLOR.

WHAT is it that glitters so clear and serene,

Or dances in billows so white?

Ships skimming along on its surface are seen; "Tis Water that glitters so bright.

Sea weeds wind about in its cavities wet,
The pearl oyster quietly sleeps;

A thousand fair shells, yellow, amber, and jet,
And coral, glow bright in its deeps.

Whales lash the white foam in their frolicsome wrath, While hoarsely the winter wind roars,

And shoals of green mackerel stretch from the north, And wander along by our shores.

When tempests sweep over its bosom serene,
Like mountains its billows arise;

The ships now appear to be buried between,
And now carried up to the skies.

It gushes out clear from the sides of the hill,
And merrily runs down the steep;

Then waters the valley, and roars through the mill,
And wanders in many a sweep.

The traveller, that crosses the desert so wide,
Hot, weary, and stifled with dust,

Longs often to stoop at some rivulet's side,
To quench in its waters his thirst.

The stately white swan glides along on its breast,
Nor ruffles its surface serene;

And the duckling unfledged waddles out of its nest
To dabble in ditch water green.

The clouds, blown about in the chilly blue sky,
Vast cisterns of water contain;

Like snowy white feathers in winter they fly,
In summer stream gently in rain.

When sunbeams so bright on the falling drops shine,
The rainbow enlivens the shower,

And glows in the heavens a beautiful sign,
That water shall drown us no more.

XXIX.-CROTON WATER.

MRS. CHILD.

[The city of New York is supplied with water from the Croton River; hence the water is called Croton water. This poem expresses the feelings of a New York boy about this water.]

O, BLESSED be the Croton!

It floweth every where—

It sprinkleth o'er the dusty ground,

It cooleth all the air.

It poureth by the wayside
A constant stream of joy
To every little radish girl

And chimney-sweeping boy.

Poor little ragged children,

Who sleep in wretched places,
Come out for Croton water,
To wash their dirty faces.

And if they find a big tub full,
They shout aloud with glee,
And all unite to freight a chip,
And send it out to sea.

To the ever-running hydrant *
The dogs delight to go,

To bathe themselves, and wet their tongues,
In the silver water-flow.

The thirsty horse, he knoweth well
Where the Croton poureth down,
And thinks his fare is much improved
In the hot and dusty town.

And many a drunkard has forgot
To seek the fiery cup;
For every where, before his face,
Sweet water leapeth up.

Then blessings on the Croton!
It flows for man and beast,
And gives its wealth out freely
To the greatest and the least.

We city boys take great delight
To watch its bubbling play,
To make it rush up in the air,
Or whirl around in spray.

It is good sport to guide a hose
Against the window pane,

* Hydrant, a pipe, or spout, through which the water runs.