"But I will run after;
Mother says that I may;
For I would know where
You are running away."

So Mary ran on;
But I have heard say,

That she never could find

Where the brook ran away.

- Mrs. Follen.

THE VOICE OF THE GRASS.

ERE I come creeping, creeping everywhere;

HE

By the dusty roadside,

On the sunny hillside,

Close by the noisy brook,

In every shady nook,

I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
All around the open door,

Where sit the aged poor,

Here where the children play,

In the bright, merry May,

I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
In the noisy city street,

My pleasant face you'll meet
Cheering the sick at heart,

Toiling his busy part,

Silently creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
You cannot see me coming,

You hear my low, sweet humming;

For in the starry night,

And the glad morning light,

I come, quietly creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
When you're numbered with the dead
In your still and narrow bed,
In the happy spring I'll come,
And deck your silent home,
Creeping silently, creeping everywhere.

THE

THE GRASS.

HE grass has so little to do,
A spear of simple green,

With only butterflies to brood,
And bees to entertain,

And stir all day to pretty tunes

The breezes fetch along,

And hold the sunshine in its lap,

And bow to everything;

And thread the dews all night, like pearls,

And make itself so fine,

A duchess were too common
For such a noticing.

And even when it dies, to pass

In odors so divine, —

As lowly spices gone to sleep,

Or amulets of pine.

And then to dwell in sovereign barns,
And dream the days away,

The grass so little has to do,

I wish I were the hay!

- Emily Dickinson.

THE CROCUS'S SOLILOQUY.

OWN in my solitude under the snow,

DOWN

Where nothing cheering can reach me

Here, without light to see how to grow,

I'll trust to Nature to teach me.

I will not despair, nor be idle, nor frown,
Locked in so gloomy a dwelling;

My leaves shall run up, and my roots shall run down,
While the bud in my bosom is swelling.

Soon as the frost will get out of my bed,
From this cold dungeon to free me,
I will peep up with my little bright head,
And all will be joyful to see me.

Then from my heart will young petals diverge,
As rays of the sun from their focus;

I from the darkness of earth will emerge,
A happy and beautiful crocus.

Gayly arrayed in my yellow and green,
When to their view I have risen,
Will they not wonder how one so serene
Came from so dismal a prison?

Many, perhaps, from so simple a flower,
This little lesson may borrow,
Patient to-day, through its gloomiest hour,
We come out the brighter to-morrow.

-Miss H. F. Gould.

L

THE VENTURESOME BUDS.

AST autumn, when winter was taking
His last cosy nap in his bed,

And each little leaf bud was sleeping,
With blankets pulled over its head,

We crept half-way out of our cradles;
The sun kissed us sadly; the air
Was colder, by far, than we liked it;
The pines whispered softly-"Beware!"

But just then old Winter came roaring
And rushing down over the hill:
At the first awful blast of the trumpet
Our poor little hearts stood still.

He clutched us so with cold fingers
We nearly were choking to death;
And rustled us so with his breezes

We came near to losing our breath.

And then growing tenderer towards us,
He made us white hoods, warm and nice,
And fastened them under our noses

With quaint little buckles of ice.

But, an hour ago, a dear bluebird
Perched here on our trembling spray,
And sang, and sang, and sang, and sang,
Till he sang old Winter away.

Now we must each meet the springtime
With a frost-bitten nose or an ear.
We shall sleep like all the sensible buds.
When Winter comes round next year.

-A. C.

ΤΗ

THE TREE.

HE Tree's early leaf-buds were bursting their brown: "Shall I take them away?" said the Frost, sweeping down.

"No, let them alone

Till the blossoms have grown,"

Prayed the Tree, while it trembled from rootlet to crown.

The Tree bore its blossoms and all the birds sung: "Shall I take them away?" said the Wind, as it swung. "No, let them alone

Till the berries have grown,"

Said the Tree, while its leaflets, quivering, hung.