ferns and mosses grew greener before her eyes. They all told her what joy thrilled through them at her words. Human beings had passed them in abundance, they said, and as there was a tradition among the flowers that men once spoke, they hoped one day to hear them do so again. The maiden told them that all men spoke, at which they were astonished, but said that making articulate noises was not speaking; many such they had heard, but never till now real human speech; for that, they said, could come alone from the mind and heart. It was the voice of the body, which men usually talked with, and that they did not understand, but only the voice of the soul, which was rare to be heard. Then there was great joy through all the wood, and there went forth a report, that at length a maiden was found whose soul could speak, and who knew the language of the flowers and the fountain. And the trees and the stream said one to another, Even so did our old prophets teach, and now hath it been fulfilled." Then the maiden tried to tell her friends in the city what she heard at the fountain, but could explain very little; for, although they knew her words, they felt not her meaning. And certain young men came and begged her to take them to the wood, that they might hear the voices. So she took one after

another; but nothing came of it, for to them the fountain and the trees were mute. Many thought the maiden mad, and laughed at her belief, but they could not take the sweet voices away from her. Now the maidens wished her to take them, also; and she did, but with little better success. A few thought they heard something, but knew not what, and on their return to the city, its bustle obliterated the

small remembrance they had carried away. At length, a young man begged the maiden to give him a trial, and so she did. They went hand in hand to the fountain, and he heard the language, although not so well as the maiden; but she helped him, and found that, when both heard the words together, they were more beautiful than ever. She let go his hand, and much of the beauty was gone: the fountain told them to join hands and lips also, and they did it. Then arose sweeter sounds than they had ever heard, and soft voices encompassed them, saying, "From henceforth be united; for the Spirit of Youth and Beauty hath made you one."

HE Wren has a short and feeble flight, it is therefore easily hunted down; and in Ireland there is a cruel practice prevalent, of chasing the poor little bird from hedge to hedge, and beating it to death with sticks. This barbarous custom appears to be very ancient, its origin being lost in the regions of fable. Mr. Thompson, writing on the Birds of Ireland, introduces a note to this effect-"To hunt the Wren on Christmas-day, is a favorite pastime of the pesantry of Kerry. This they do, each using two sticks, one to beat the bushes the other to fling at the bird. It was the boast of an old man who lately died at the age of one hundred, that he had hunted the Wren for the last eighty years on a Christmas-day. On St. Stephen's day, the children exhibit the slaughtered birds in an ivy bush, decked with ribbons of various colours, singing the well-known song, and thus collect money."

In Hall's "Ireland," we have a full account given of this silly custom, with the following version of the "Wren-boy's song," as it is called, a composition not at all remarkable for poetic merit:

"The Wran, the Wran, the king of all birds,

St. Stephen's day was cot in the furze,
Although he is little, and his family's grate,
Put your hand in your pocket, and give us a thrate.
Sing holly, sing ivy,—sing ivy, sing holly,

A drop just to drink it will drown melancholy.

And if you dhraw it ov the best

I hope in heaven your soul will rest;
And if you dhraw it ov the small,

It won't agree with de Wran-boys at all."

According to one tradition, it is said, that in the "ould ancient times," when the Irish were about to catch their Danish enemies asleep, a wren flew upon a drum, and by the sound of it awoke the slumbering sentinels, just in time to give the alarm, and save the whole army, in consequence of which the little bird was proclaimed a traitor, and his life declared forfeited, whenever he was henceforward found. As to the origin of the imperial dignity conferred upon him in the opening line of the chant,

"The Wran, the Wran, the king of all birds." it may very reasonably be attributed to this legend:-Once upon a time, in a grand assembly of all the birds of the air, it was determined that the sovereignity of the feathered tribes should be conferred upon the one who could fly highest. None questioned that the Eagle would be the successful competitor, and this majestic bird at once commenced his sunward flight, in the full confidence of victory: when he had left the other winged aspirants for the kingship far below,

and attained an altitude which they could not hope to reach, he proclaimed triumphantly his monarchy over the feathered creation short-lived, however, was his triumph; for the little Wren, who had hidden his tiny form under the feathers of the Eagle's crest, stepped from his hiding place, and flying up a few inches higher, chirp'd as loudly as he could—

"Birds, look up, and behold your king,
Great of soul, though a tiny thing."

A WREN'S NEST.

BY W. WORDSWORTH.

"AMONG the dwellings framed by birds,
In field or forest with nice care,
Is none that with the little Wren's
In snugness may compare.
No door the tenement requires,
And seldom needs a laboured roof;
Yet is it to the fiercest sun

Impervious and storm-proof.

So warm, so beautiful withal,
In perfect fitness for its aim,
That to the kind by special grace
Their instinct surely came.

And when for their abodes they seek
An opportune recess,

The Hermit has no finèr eye

For shadowy quietness.

These find, 'mid ivied abbey walls,
A canopy in some still nook;
Others are pent-housed by a brae
That overhangs a brook.