And the mother-sheep and her little one And they went to sleep on the hillside warm, I went to the kitchen, and what did I see My kittens, with tails so cunningly curled, And the old ewe - she, May love their babies exceedingly, Under the rocking chair. I love my kittens with all my might, I love them at morning, noon, and night, I went to the yard, and I saw the old hen Go clucking about with her chickens ten; She clucked and she scratched and she bustled away, And what do you think I heard the hen say? I heard her say, "The sun never did shine On anything like to these chickens of mine! You may hunt the full moon and the stars if you please, But you never will find ten such chickens as these; My dear downy darlings, my sweet little things, Come, nestle now cosily under my wings." So the hen said, And the chickens all sped, As fast as they could, to their nice feather bed, And there let them sleep in their feathers so warm, While my little chick lies here on my arm. - Mrs. Carter. H' IN THE SWING. ERE we go to the branches high! Swing, little flower, for the wind blows now, Dear little bird, come sit on my toes; I'm just as careful as I can be; And oh, I tell you, nobody knows What fun we'd have if you'd play with me! Bright little flower, come swing in my hair; The sweet little bird, he sings and sings, Let them stay where they like it best; Here we go to the branches high! GOOD-NIGHT AND GOOD-MORNING. A FAIR little girl sat under a tree, Sewing as long as her eyes could see; Then smoothed her work and folded it right, And said, "Dear work, good-night, good-night!" Such a number of crows came over her head, The horses neighed, and the oxen lowed, She did not say to the sun, "Good-night! The tall, pink fox-glove bowed his head; And, while on her pillow she softly lay, She knew nothing more till again it was day; "Good-morning, good-morning; our work is begun!" -Lord Houghton. THE BANK-SWALLOWS. N a village of Bank-Swallows IN You will find so many a nest, "That you scarce can tell their number In the sand-hill, see the openings, On how loose the sands become. When with their short bills they pecked it, Till they made an open doorway Suiting them in size and style. Once within, they peck and peck it, — But, so wise are they, this archway, That no rain within may rest. So the pink-white eggs are laid there, Parent-birds care less for young ones, Thus they, many a time, fall prey to Swallows migrate in the winter, From the cold to warmer climes, Flying back as spring approaches, To the haunts of former times. "Ne'er one swallow makes a summer," But when swallows come in myriads, |