peared restless and inconsolable for several days. On reaching New Orleans, I placed a looking-glass inside the place where she usually sat, and the instant she perceived her image, all her former fondness seemed to return, so that she could scarcely absent herself from it for a moment. It was evident that she was completely deceived. Always when even

ing drew on, and often during the day, she laid her head close to that of the image in the glass, and began to doze with great composure and satisfaction. In a short time she had learned to know her name; to answer and come when called on; to climb up my clothes, sit on my shoulder, and eat from my mouth. I took her with me to sea, determined to persevere in her education." And, to give an ending rather different to Mr. Wilson's, here we have presented her to our readers in the possession of an English lady, and with her education, for a Parrot, very complete.

FLOWER COMPARISONS. An cousin Blanche, let's see What's the flower resembling thee! With those dove-like eyes of thine, And thy fair hair's silken twine; With thy low, broad forehead, white As marble, and as purely bright; With thy mouth so calm and sweet, And thy dainty hands and feet; What's the flower most like to thee? Blossom of the orange-tree! Where may the bright flower be met That can match with Margaret, Margaret stately, staid, and good, Growing up to womanhood;

Loving, thoughtful, wise, and kind,
Pure in heart and strong in mind?
Eyes deep-blue as is the sky
When the full moon sails on high;
Eyebrow true and forehead fair,
And dark, richly-braided hair,
And a queenly head well set,
Crown my maiden Margaret.

Where's the flower that thou canst find
Match for her in form and mind?

Fair white lilies, having birth
In their native genial earth; -
These, in scent and queenly grace,
Match thy maiden's form and face!

Now for madcap Isabel

What shall suit her, pr'ythee tell!
Isabel is brown and wild;
Will be evermore a child;
Is all laughter, all vagary,
Has the spirit of a fairy.
Are you grave?-The gipsy sly
Turns on you her merry eye,
And you laugh, despite your will.
Isabel is never still,
Always doing, never done,

Be it mischief, work, or fun.
Isabel is short and brown,
Soft to touch as eider-down;
Tempered, like the balmy south,
With a rosy, laughing mouth;
Cheeks just tinged with peachy red,
And a graceful Hebe-head;
Hair put up in some wild way,
Decked with a hedge-rose's spray.
Now, where is the bud or bell
That may match with Isabel?
Streaky tulip jet and gold,
Dearly priced whenever sold;
Rich in colour, low and sweet,
This for Isabel is meet.

Last for Jeanie, grave and mild-
Jeanie never was a child!
Sitting on her mother's knee,
Hers was thoughtful infancy;
Growing up so meek and good,
Even from her babyhood.
All her mother's labour sharing;
For the house and children caring;
To her bed in silence creeping;
Rising early, little sleeping;
Learning soon of care and need;
Learning late to write and read;
To all hardships reconciled,
For she was a poor man's child!
What's the lowly flower of earth
Match for Jeanie's humble worth?

Soon poor Jeanie's flower is met,The meek, precious violet!

LITTLE STREAMS.

LITTLE streams, in light and shadow
Flowing through the pasture meadow;
Flowing by the green way-side;
Through the forest dim and wide:
Through the hamlet still and small;
By the cottage; by the hall;

By the ruined abbey still;
Turning, here and there, a mill;
Bearing tribute to the river;
Little streams, I love you ever!
Summer music is there flowing;
Flowering plants in them are growing;
Happy life is in them all,
Creatures innocent and small;
Little birds come down to drink
Fearless on their leafy brink;
Noble trees beside them grow,
Glooming them with branches low,
And between, the sunshine glancing,
In their little waves is dancing.
Little streams have flowers a many,
Beautiful and fair as any;

Typha strong, and green bur-reed;
Willow-herb with cotton-seed;
Arrow-head with eye of jet,
And the water-violet;

There the flowering rush you meet,
And the plumy meadow-sweet;
And in places deep and stilly,
Marble-like, the water-lily.

Little streams, their voices cheery
Sound forth welcomes to the weary,
Flowing on from day to day
Without stint and without stay.
Here, upon their flowery bank,
In the old-times Pilgrims drank;
Here have seen, as now, pass by
Kingfisher and dragon-fly;

Those bright things that have their dwelling

Where the little streams are welling.

Down in valleys green and lowly,

Murmuring not and gliding slowly;
Up in mountain hollows wild,
Fretting like a peevish child;
Through the hamlet, where all day
In their waves the children play,—
Running west, or running east,
Doing good to man and beast,
Always giving, weary never,
Little streams, I love you ever!

THE WOLF.

THINK of the lamb in the fields of May Cropping the dewy flowers for play; Think of the sunshine, warm and clear; Of the bending corn in golden ear;

Of little children singing low Through flowery meadows as they go; Of cooing doves, and the hum of bees 'Mong the lime-trees' yellow racimes; Of the pebbly waters gliding by, Of the wood bird's peaceful sylvan cry. Then turn thy thought to a land of snow Where the cutting icy wind doth blowA dreary land of mountains cold, With ice-crags splintered hoar and old, Jagged with woods of storm-beat pines, Where a cold moon gleams, a cold sun shines, And all through this distant land we'll go In a dog-drawn sledge o'er the frozen snow, On either hand the ice-rocks frore, And a waste of trackless snow before! Where are the men to guide us on? Men! in these deserts there are none. Men come not here, unless to track The ermine white or marten black. Here we must speed alone.

But hark!

What sound was that? The wild wolf's bark!
The terrible wolf!-Is he anigh,

With his gaunt, lean frame and his blood-shot eye?
Yes!-across the snow I saw the track
Where they have sped on, a hungry pack;
And see how the eager dogs rush on,

For they scent the track where the wolf has gone.
And beast and man are alike afraid

Of that cruelest creature that e'er was made!
Oh, the horrible wolves! methinks I hear
The sound of their barking drawing near;
Down from their dismal caves they drive,
And leave behind them nought alive;
Down from their caves they come by day,
Savage as mad-dogs for their prey;
Down on the tracks where the hunters roam,
Down to the peasant's hut they come.
The peasant is waked from his pine-branch bed
By the direst, fiercest sound of dread;
A snuffing scent, a scratching sound,
Like a dog that rendeth up the ground;
Up from his bed he springs in fear,
For he knows that the cruel wolf is near.
A moment's pause—a moment more—
And he hears them snuffing 'neath his door.
Beneath his door he sees them mining,
Snuffing, snarling, scratching, whining.
Horrible sight! no more he sees,
With terror his very senses freeze;—
Horrible sounds! he hears no more,
The wild wolves bound across his floor,
And the next moment lap his gore;
And ere the day come o'er the hill,
The wolves are gone, the place is still,
And to none that dreadful death is known,
Save to some ermine hunter lone,
Who in that death foresees his own!

Or think thee now of a battle field,
Where lie the wounded with the killed;
Hundreds of mangled men they lie;
A horrible mass of agony!

The night comes down, and in they bound,
The ravening wolves from the mountains round.
All day long have they come from far,
Snuffing that bloody field of war;
But the rolling drum, and the trumpet's bray,
And the strife of men through the livelong day,
For a while kept the prowling wolves away;
But now when the roaring tumults cease,
In that dreadful hush, which is not peace,
The wolves rush in to have their will,
And to lap of living blood their fill.
Stark and stiff the dead men lie,
But the living,--Oh, woe, to hear their cry,
When they feel the teeth of those cruel foes,
And hear them lap up the blood that flows'
Oh, shame, that ever it hath been said,
That bloody war is a glorious trade,
And that soldiers die upon honour's bed!
Let us hence, let us hence, for horrible war
Than the merciless wolf is more merciless far!

THE PASSION.FLOWER

I LOVE Sweet flowers of every sort,
High-spired or trailing low;

I love the musky roses red,

The lilies white as snow. The aster and the columbine,

Sweet-pea and virgin-bower,

I love them all-but most I love
The good old passion-flower!

Oh yes, the good old passion-flower!
It bringeth to my mind,

The young days of the Christian church,
Dim ages left behind.

I see the bloody streets of Rome;
The throng -the burning pyre,
And Christians stand with clasped hands
Amid the raging fire.

I hear the women, angel-toned,

The men with courage high,

Preach their dear Lord amid their pangs,

Forgive their foes-and die.

1 see, far from the world apart,
In desert-places dwell,

The early fathers of the church,
In wood or mountain-cell.

And there the wondering thousands come
By love and pity brought,

To hear them tell of Jesus Christ,
And the new truths he taught.

I see the fearless fathers stand,
Amid the eager throng,
Preaching like Paul at Ephesus,

In burning words and strong.
-Again I see a lonely man,

Of spirit sad and mild,
Who hath his little dwelling-place
Amid a region wild.

The wild flowers of the desert

Grow round him thick as weeds, And, in their beautiful array,

Of holy things he reads.

The red is the dear blood of Christ,
The white, the pure from sin,
The yellow is the seamless robe

Christ was apparelled in.

All four-leaved flowers bring to his mind
The cross whereon he died;

And every thorn the cruel spear,
That pierced his blessed side.

I see him as he mused one day

Beneath a forest-bower,

With clasped hands stand, and upturned eyes, Before an open flower;

Exclaiming with a fervent joy,

"I have found the Passion-flower!

"The Passion of our blessed Lord,

With all his pangs and pain, Set forth within a little flower,

In shape and colour plain!

"Behold the ladder, and the cord

With which his limbs were tied ; Behold his five deep, cruel wounds In hands, and feet, and side!

"Behold the hammer and the nails;

The bloody crown of thorn;

And these his precious tears, when left Of God and man forlorn!

"Up, I will forth into the world,

And take this flower with me, To preach the death of Christ to all, As it was preached to me!"

And thus the good old passion-flower Throughout the world was sent, To breathe into all Christian hearts It's holy sentiment.

And in the after-times, when kings Of Christian fathers came; And to profess the faith of Christ No longer purchased shame :

When abbeys rose in towered state;

And over wood and dell, Went sounding, with a royal voice, The stately minster-bell : Then was the abbey-garden made

All with the nicest care;

Its little borders quaintly cut

In fancies rich and rare.

And there they brought all curious plants,
With sainted names, a flower

For every saint's day of the year,
For every holy hour;

And there was set, in pride of place,
The noble passion-flower.

And there they kept the pious monks, Within a garden small,

All plants that had a healing power,
All herbs medicinal.

And thither came the sick, the maimed,
The moonstruck and the blind,
For holy flower, for wort of power,
For charmed root and rind!

-Oh, those old abbey-gardens
With their devices rich,
Their fountains, and green, solemn walks,
And saint in many a niche!

I would I could call back again

Those gardens in their pride,
And see slow walking up and down,
The abbot dignified.

And the fat monk with sleepy eyes,
Half dozing in his cell;
And him, the poor lay-brother,

That loved the flowers so well;
That laid the abbey-gardens out,

With all their fancies quaint, And loved a little flower as much As his own patron saint! That gardened late and early,

And twined into a bower,
Wherein he set the crucifix

The good old passion-flower!
Oh, would I could bring back again
Those abbey-gardens old,
And see the poor lay-brother
So busy in the mould;
Tying up his flowers and thinking
The while, with streaming eyes
Of Jesus in the garden;

Of Eve in Paradise!

-Alas, the abbey lieth low;

The Abbot's tomb is bare;
And he, the abbey-gardener,
Is all forgotten there;

His garden is a pasture field

Wherein the flocks repose, And where his choicest flowers were set The common clover grows! But still we have the passion-flower, Although he lieth low,

And ever may its holy flowers

In pleasant gardens grow!

To garland bower and window pane,
And ever bring to mind,
The young days of the Christian church,
Long ages left behind!

To bring the abbey's garden back,
With its quaint beds and bowers,
And him the good lay-brother

That worked among the flowers.