THE WIND IN A FROLIC.

BY WILLIAM HOWITT.

THE wind one morning sprung up from sleep,
Saying, “Now for a frolic! now for a leap!
Now for a mad-cap galloping chase!
I'll make a commotion in every place!”

So it swept with a bustle right through a great town,

Creaking the signs, and scattering down

Shutters; and whisking, with merciless squalls,
Old women's bonnets and gingerbread stalls:
There never was heard a much lustier shout,
As the apples and oranges trundled about;
And the urchins, that stand with their thievish eyes
For ever on watch, ran off each with a prize.
Then away to the field, it went blus'tring and hum-
ming,

And the cattle all wonder'd whatever was coming;
It pluck'd by their tails the grave, matronly cows,
And toss'd the colts' manes all about their brows,
Till, offended at such a familiar salute,

They all turn'd their backs, and stood sullenly mute.

So on it went, capering and playing its pranks, Whistling with reeds on the broad river's banks,

Puffing the birds as they sat on the spray,
Or the traveller grave on the king's highway.
It was not too nice to hustle the bags

Of the beggar, and flutter his dirty rags :
'Twas so bold, that it fear'd not to play its joke
With the doctor's wig or the gentleman's cloak.
Through the forest it roar'd, and cried gaily, "Now,
You sturdy old oaks, I'll make you bow!"

And it made them bow without more ado,

And crack'd their great branches through and through.

Then it rush'd like a monster on cottage and farm, Striking their dwellers with sudden alarm;

And they ran out like bees in a midsummer swarm: There were dames with their 'kerchiefs tied over

their caps,

To see if their poultry were free from mishaps : The turkeys they gobbled, the geese scream'd aloud, And the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd: There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on Where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to

be gone.

But the wind had pass'd on, and had met, in a lane,

With a schoolboy who panted and struggled in vain;

For it toss'd him and twirl'd him, then pass'd, and

he stood

With his hat in a pool and his shoe in the mud.

There was a poor man, hoary and old,
Cutting the heath on the open wold;

The strokes of his bill were faint and few,
Ere this frolicsome wind upon him blew;

But behind him, before him, about him, it came,
And the breath seem'd gone from his feeble frame;
So he sat him down, with a muttering tone,
Saying, "Plague on the wind! was the like ever
known?

But now-a-days every wind that blows,
Tells one how weak an old man grows!"

But away went the wind in its holiday glee,
And now it was far on the billowy sea,
And the lordly ships felt its staggering blow,
And the little boats darted to and fro.

But lo! it was night, and it sank to rest,
On the sea-bird's rock, in the gleaming west,
Laughing, to think in its fearful fun,

How little of mischief it had done.

THE SON OF ARMINIUS.

A TALE OF ANCIENT ROME.

BY MISS SUSANNA STRICKLAND,

AUTHOR OF "THE LITTLE QUAKER,” “HUGH LATIMER," &c. &c.

ROME had assembled her thousands to witness the triumph of Germanicus over the Cheruscans, the Cattians, the Agrivarians, and the rest of the nations extending as far as the Elbe. It was a day of jubilee—a day of proud rejoicing-to the inhabitants of that vast metropolis. Every freeborn Roman, in whose veins flowed the blood of her ancient patriots and warriors, glowed with lofty emulation as he went forth to greet the return of her renowned champion, to participate in his glory, to increase his triumph, and to celebrate his praise.

"Long live Germanicus-the conqueror of the North, the favourite of the Gods, and the hope of his country!" burst spontaneously forth from the living mass, who pressed eagerly forward to catch the first glance of their victorious chief.

Tiber trembled beneath his banks; the distant shores caught up the sound, and hills and vales reechoed "Long live Germanicus!"

Y

The spoils of the conquered, the prisoners of war, with various pictures of battles, mountains, and rivers, were displayed with great pomp and splendour; and, amid the grandeur of this magnificent spectacle, nothing appeared so striking as the graceful form of Germanicus, with his five children, mounted on the triumphal car. On him all eyes were bent-all tongues were eloquent in his praise; and such was the zeal displayed by the populace, that many of them fell prostrate in the path of the conqueror, and, casting crowns of laurel at his feet, paid him divine honours. Men were observed eagerly recounting to each other the glorious deeds that Germanicus had achieved, the battles in which he had fought, and the triumphs which had been decreed him; as if these well known facts were new or foreign, and had not been celebrated by the poets of the day, recited in the streets, and acted

in the theatres.

Behind the car of Germanicus, bare-headed, with their eyes bent mournfully to the earth, and moving slowly forward with the solemnity of a funeral procession, came the prisoners of war-the living trophies of his victory. Silence was upon their lips, tears were in their eyes, hope was extinguished in their hearts; their grief was voiceless,