Pěg'a sus.

On the morrow, when the village
Woke to all its toil and care,
Lo! the strange steed had departed,
And they knew not when nor where.

But they found, upon the greensward.
Where his struggling hoofs had trod,
Pure and bright, a fountain flowing
From the hoof-marks in the sod.

From that hour, the fount unfailing
Gladdens the whole region round,
Strengthening all who drink its waters,
While it soothes them with its sound.

manding urgently.

Á lěc'try on. Clamorous (klǎm er us): calling or de-
Som'ber: somewhat dark.

SONG FROM "PIPPA PASSES.”

The year's at the spring,

And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;

The hillside's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in His Heaven-
All's right with the world.

Robert Browning.

WALTER'S BIRDS.

AGNES REPPLIER.

AGNES REPPLIER, an American writer of essays. She ranks among the best writers of the country.

Many years ago, there lived in Germany a poet named Walter of Vogelweide, who sang so sweetly that the great ladies at Court and the poor peasants in the field alike loved to listen to him.

"Walter sings like a bird," they said; and this was the praise he valued most; for, of all things on earth, the little birds were dearest to his heart.

He was very gentle and very gay, and he was noted specially for three things: a great pity for the heathen, a great devotion to Saint Elizabeth of Hungary, and a great love for flowers and birds.

When winter came, and the swallows flew to the south, Walter's heart was heavy and downcast.

"The hoar-frost thrilled the little birds with pain,
And they forgot to sing,"

he wrote sadly in one of his poems.

When spring returned, and the green woods rang with merry chirping, Walter was happy as a lark, and would wander abroad for days, listening to his feathered friends, and matching his own notes with theirs.

When the hour of death was at hand, the poet even then remembered his old favorites, and begged that he might be buried under a linden tree in the cloister of Wurz

burg Minster, where the robin and the thrush loved to nest. He left his little fortune to the monks upon two conditions: that they would pray every day for his soul, and every day feed the birds upon his grave.

So for many, many years, in times of peace and times of war, a dole of bread was scattered each morning over the tomb where Walter lay, and hundreds of little birds collected there to feed.

The spot grew famous, and strangers from all parts of Germany came to visit the poet's resting-place, and to listen to the little songsters that repeated over and over again, in their joyous warblings, the name of Vogelweide.

No one ever threw a stone at them, no one ever disturbed their glee.

Even the children would not harm them, but stood by gently, with fingers on their lips, whispering to one another: 'They are Walter's birds."

Wurzburg (würts'boorō). Minster (min'stěr): a church connected with a monastery.

A CAVALCADE.

"Thistle-down, thistle-down, whither away?
Will you not longer abide?"

"Nay, we have wedded the winds to-day,
And home with the rovers we ride."

Rev. J. B. Tabb.

BOBOLINK.

ALEXANDER MCLACHLAN.

Merry mad-cap on the tree,
Who so happy are as thee?
Is there aught so full of fun,
Half so happy 'neath the sun,
With thy merry whiskodink?
Bobolink! Bobolink!

With thy mates such merry meetings, Such queer jokes and funny greetings; Oh, such running and such chasing! Oh, such banter and grimacing! Thou'rt the wag of wags the pink Bobolink! Bobolink!

How you tumble 'mong the hay,
Romping all the summer's day;
Now upon the wing all over,
In and out among the clover,
Far too happy e'er to think
Bobolink! Bobolink!

Now thou'rt on the apple tree,
Crying, "Listen unto me!"
Now upon the mossy banks,