THE WATER.RAT.

COME into the meadows, this bright summer day;
The people are merrily making the hay:
There's a blithe sound of pastoral life everywhere;
And the gay Lark is carolling up in the air.

And I know in the wood where the Columbine grows,
And the climbing Clematis and Pink Apple-rose;
And I know where the Buglos grows blue as the sky,
And the deep crimson Vetch like a wild Vine runs
high.

And I'll show you a sight you love better than these,
A little field-stream overshadowed with trees,
Where the water is clear as a free mountain-rill,
And now it runs rippling, and now it is still;
Where the crowned Butomus is gracefully growing,
Where the long purple spikes of the Loose-strife are
blowing,

And the rich, plumy crests of the Meadow-sweet seem
Like foam which the current has left on the stream;
There I'll show you the brown Water-Rat at his
play-

You will see nothing blither this blithe summer day;
A glad, innocent creature, for whom were ordained
The quiet of brooks, and the plants they contained,
But, hush! step as lightly as leaves in their fall,
Man has wronged him, and he is in fear of us all.
See! there he is sitting, the tree-roots among,
And the Reed-sparrow by him is singing his song.
See how gravely he sits; how demure and how still,
Like an anchorite old at his mossy door-sill!
Ah no, now his mood of sedateness is gone,
And his harlequin motions he 'll show us anon.
Look! look now! how quickly the water he cleaves,
And again he is up 'mong those arrow-head leaves;
See his little black head, and his eyes sparkling shine,
He has made up his mind on these dainties to dine,
For he has not a want which he cannot supply
In a water like this, with these water-plants nigh;
And he asketh no bounty from man; he can find
A plentiful table spread out to his mind;

For this little field-stream hath all good that he needs,
In the budding tree-roots and the clustering reeds,
And the snowy-flowered arrow-head thick growing
here:

Ah, pity it is man has taught him to fear!
But look at him now, how he sitteth afloat
On the broad Water-lily leaf, as in a boat.
See the antics he plays! how he dives in the stream,
To and fro-now he chases that dancing sunbeam;
Now he stands for a moment, as if half-perplexed,
In his frolicsome heart, to know what to do next.
Ha! see now, that Dragon-fly sets him astir,
And he launches away like a brave mariner;
See there, up the stream how he merrily rows,
And the tall fragrant Calamus bows as he goes!
And now he is lost at the foot of the tree;
"T is his home, and a snug little home it must be!

And 'tis thus that the Water-Rat liveth all day,
In these small pleasures wearing the summer away;

And when cold winter comes, and the water-plants die,

And his little brooks yield him no longer supply,
Down into his burrow he cozily creeps,

And quietly through the long winter-time sleeps.
Thus in summer his table by Nature is spread,
And old mother Earth makes in winter his bed.

THE SPARROW'S NEST.

NAY, only look what I have found!
A Sparrow's nest upon the ground;
A Sparrow's nest, as you may see,
Blown out of yonder old elm tree.

And what a medley thing it is!
I never saw a nest like this,-
So neatly wove with decent care,
Of silvery moss and shining hair;

But put together, odds and ends,
Picked up
from enemies and friends:
See, bits of thread, and bits of rag,
Just like a little rubbish-bag!

Here is a scrap of red and brown,
Like the old washer-woman's gown;
And here is muslin, pink and green,
And bits of calico between ;

O never thinks the lady fair,

As she goes by with mincing air,
How the pert Sparrow over-head,
Has robbed her gown to make its bed!
See, hair of dog and fur of cat,
And rovings of a worsted mat,
And shreds of silks, and many a feather,
Compacted cunningly together.

Well, here has hoarding been and hiving,
And not a little good contriving,
Before a home of peace and ease

Was fashioned out of things like these!

Think, had these odds and ends been brought
To some wise man renowned for thought,
Some man, of men a very gem,
Pray what could he have done with them?

If we had said, "Here, sir, we bring
You many a worthless little thing,
Just bits and scraps, so very small,
That they have scarcely size at all,

Ah! man of learning, you are wrong;
Instinct is, more than wisdom, strong;
And He who made the Sparrow, taught
This skill beyond your reach of thought.

And here, in this uncostly nest,
These little creatures have been blest;
Nor have kings known in palaces,
Half their contentedness in this -
Poor simple dwelling as it is!

THE KINGFISHER.

FOR the handsome Kingfisher, go not to the tree,
No bird of the field or the forest is he;
In the dry riven rock he did never abide,
And not on the brown heath all barren and wide.

He lives where the fresh, sparkling waters are flowing,

Where the tall, heavy Typha and Loosestrife are growing;

By the bright little streams that all joyfully run
Awhile in the shadow, and then in the sun.

He lives in a hole that is quite to his mind,
With the green, mossy Hazel roots firmly entwined;
Where the dark Alder-bough waves gracefully o'er,
And the Sword-flag and Arrow-head grow at his door.
There busily, busily, all the day long,

He seeks for small fishes the shallows among;
For he builds his nest of the pearly fish-bone,
Deep, deep in the bank far retired, and alone.

Then the brown Water-Rat from his burrow looks out,

To see what his neighbour Kingfisher 's about;
And the green Dragon-fly, flitting slowly away,
Just pauses one moment to bid him good-day.

O happy Kingfisher! what care should he know,
By the clear, pleasant streams, as he skims to and fro,
Now lost in the shadow, now bright in the sheen
Of the hot summer sun, glancing scarlet and green!

THE MIGRATION OF THE GREY SQUIRRELS.

WHEN in my youth I travelled

Throughout each north countrie,
Many a strange thing did I hear,
And many a strange thing see.

I sate with small men in their huts,
Built of the drifted snow;

No fire had we but the seal-oil lamp,
Nor other light did know.

For far and wide the plains were lost
For months in the winter dark;

And we heard the growl of the hungry Bear,
And the blue Fox's bark.

But when the sun rose redly up
To shine for half a year,
Round and round through the skies to sail,
Nor once to disappear,

Then on I went, with curious eyes And saw where, like to man, The Beaver built his palaces; And where the Ermine ran.

And came where sailed the lonely Swans Wild on their native flood;

And the shy Elk grazed up the mossy hills, And the Wolf was in the wood.

And the frosty plains like diamonds shone,
And the iced rocks also,
Like emeralds and like beryls clear,

Till the soft south wind did blow.

And then upsprang the grass and flowers,
Sudden, and sweet, and bright;

And the wild birds filled the solitude
With a fervour of delight.

But nothing was there that pleased me more Than when, in autumn brown,

I came in the depths of the pathless woods,
To the Grey Squirrel's town.

There were hundreds that in the hollow boles
Of the old, old trees did dwell,
And laid up their store hard by their door
Of the sweet mast as it fell.

But soon the hungry wild Swine came,
And with thievish snout dug up
Their buried treasure, and left them not
So much as an acorn-cup!

Then did they chatter in angry mood,
And one and all decree,
Into the forest of rich stone-pine
Over hill and dale to flee.

Over hill and dale, over hill and dale,

For many a league they went; Like a troop of undaunted travellers Governed by one consent.

But the Hawk and Eagle, and peering Owl,

Did dreadfully pursue;

And the farther the Grey Squirrels went,
The more their perils grew.
When lo! to cut off their pilgrimage,
A broad stream lay in view.

But then did each wondrous creature show
His cunning and bravery;

With a piece of the Pine-bark in his mouth,
Unto the stream came he,

And boldly his little bark he launched,
Without the least delay;

His bushy tail was his upright sail,

And he merrily steered away.

Never was there a lovelier sight

Than that Grey Squirrels' fleet;
And with anxious eyes I watched to see
What fortune it would meet.

Soon had they reached the rough mid-stream,
And ever and anon,

I grieved to behold some small bark wrecked, And its little steersman gone.

But the main fleet stoutly held across;

I saw them leap to shore;

They entered the woods with a cry of joy,
For their perilous march was o'er.

Your wondrous works were formed as true;
For the All-Wise instructed you!
But man! how hath he pondered on,
Through the long term of ages gone;
And many a cunning book hath writ,
Of learning deep, and subtle wit;
Hath compassed sea, hath compassed land,
Hath built up towers and temples grand,
Hath travelled far for hidden lore,
And known what was not known of yore,
Yet after all, though wise he be,
He hath no better skill than ye!

W. H.

THE BEAVER.

Up in the north if thou sail with me,

A wonderful creature I'll show to thee:
As gentle and mild as a Lamb at play,
Skipping about in the month of May;
Yet wise as any old learned sage
Who sits turning over a musty page!

Come down to this lonely river's bank,
See, driven-in stake and riven plank;
"Tis a mighty work before thee stands
That would do no shame to human hands.
A well-built dam to stem the tide
Of this northern river so strong and wide;
Look! the woven bough of many a tree,
And a wall of fairest masonry;
The waters cannot o'erpass this bound,
For a hundred keen eyes watch it round;
And the skill that raised can keep it good
Against the peril of storm and flood.

And yonder, the peaceable creatures dwell
Secure in their watery citadel!
They know no sorrow, have done no sin;
Happy they live 'mong kith and kin-
As happy as living things can be,
Each in the midst of his family!
Ay, there they live, and the hunter wild
Seeing their social natures mild,
Seeing how they were kind and good,
Hath felt his stubborn soul subdued;
And the very sight of their young at play
Hath put his hunter's heart away;
And a mood of pity hath o'er him crept,
As he thought of his own dear babes and wept.*

I know ye are but the Beavers small,
Living at peace in your own mud-wall;
I know that ye have no books to teach
The lore that lies within your reach.
But what? Five thousand years ago
Ye knew as much as now ye know;
And on the banks of streams that sprung
Forth when the earth itself was young,

A fact.

THE TRUE STORY OF WEB-SPINNER.

WEB-SPINNER was a miser old,

Who came of low degree;

His body was large, his legs were thin, And he kept bad company;

And his visage had the evil look

Of a black felon grim;

To all the country he was known,
But none spoke well of him.
His house was seven stories high,
In a corner of the street,
And it always had a dirty look,

When other homes were neat;
Up in his garret dark he lived,

And from the windows high Looked out in the dusky evening

Upon the passers by.

Most people thought he lived alone;

Yet many have averred,

That dismal cries from out his house

Were often loudly heard;
And that none living left his gate,

Although a few went in,

For he seized the very beggar old,

And stripped him to the skin; And though he prayed for mercy,

Yet mercy ne'er was shown The miser cut his body up,

And picked him bone from bone.
Thus people said, and all believed

The dismal story true;
As it was told to me, in truth,
I tell it so to you.
There was an ancient widow -
One Madgy de la Moth,

A stranger to the man, or she

Had not gone there, in troth;
But she was poor, and wandered out
At nightfall in the street,

To beg from rich men's tables

Dry scraps of broken meat.

So she knocked at old Web-Spinner's door,
With a modest tap, and low,
And down stairs came he speedily,

Like an arrow from a bow.

"Walk in, walk in, mother!" said he,

And shut the door behind

She thought for such a gentleman,

That he was wondrous kind;
But ere the midnight clock had tolled,
Like a tiger of the wood,

He had eaten the flesh from off her bones,
And drank of her heart's blood!

Now after this fell deed was done,
A little season's space,
The burly Baron of Bluebottle

Was riding from the chase:

The sport was dull, the day was hot,
The sun was sinking down,
When wearily the Baron rode
Into the dusty town.

Says he, "I'll ask a lodging

At the first house I come to;" With that the gate of Web-Spinner Came suddenly in view:

Loud was the knock the Baron gave-
Down came the churl with glee.
Says Bluebottle, "Good sir, to-night
I ask your courtesy;

I'm wearied with a long day's chase
My friends are far behind."

"You may need them all," said Web-Spinner,

"It runneth in my mind."

"A Baron am I," says Bluebottle;

"From a foreign land I come."

"I thought as much," said Web-Spinner, "Fools never stay at home!"

Says the Baron, "Churl, what meaneth this? I defy ye, villain base!"

And he wished the while in his inmost heart He was safely from the place.

Web-Spinner ran and locked the door,

And a loud laugh, laughed he;
With that each one on the other sprang,
And they wrestled furiously.
The Baron was a man of might,

A swordsman of renown;
But the Miser had the stronger arm,
And kept the Baron down:
Then out he took a little cord,

From a pocket at his side,
And with many a crafty, cruel knot
His hands and feet he tied;
And bound him down unto the floor,

And said in savage jest,
"There's heavy work in store for you;
So, Baron, take your rest!"
Then up and down his house he went,
Arranging dish and platter,
With a dull heavy countenance,
As if nothing were the matter.
At length he seized on Bluebottle,
That strong and burly man,

And with many and many a desperate tug,
To hoist him up began:

And step by step, and step by step,

He went with heavy tread;

But ere he reached the garret door,
Poor Bluebottle was dead!

Now all this while, a Magistrate,
Who lived the house hard by,
Had watched Web-Spinner's cruelty
Through a window privily:

So in he bursts, through bolts and bars,
With a loud and thundering sound,
And vowed to burn the house with fire,
And level it with the ground;
But the wicked churl, who all his life
Had looked for such a day,
Passed through a trap-door in the wall,
And took himself away:

But where he went no man could tell;
"T was said that under ground,

He died a miserable death,

But his body ne'er was found.

They pulled his house down stick and stone,"For a caitiff vile as he,"

Said they, "within our quiet town
Shall not a dweller be!"

THE actions of the Spider above described, were told me by a very intelligent man, who permitted the web to remain for a considerable time in his counting-house window, that he might have the means of closely observing its occupier's way of life. It was, as described above, under the semblance of a dwell ing-house, seven stories high, and in each story was a small circular hole by which the spider ascended and descended at pleasure; serving, in fact, all the purposes of a stair-case. His usual abode was in his seventh, or garret story, where he sat in a sullen sort of patience waiting for his prey. The small downywinged moth was soon taken; she was weak, and made but little resistance; and was always eaten on the spot. His behaviour towards a heavy and noisy bluebottle fly was exactly as related. The fly seemed bold and insolent; and hurled himself, as if in defiance, against the abode of his enemy. The spider descended in great haste, and stood before him, when an angry parley seemed to take place. The bluebottle appeared highly affronted, and plunged about like a wild horse; but his efforts were generally unsuc cessful; the spider, watching an unguarded moment, darted behind him, and falling upon him with all his force, drew a fine thread from his side, with which he so completely entangled his prostrate victim, that it was impossible he could move leg or wing. The spider then set about making preparations for the feast, which, for reasons best known to himself, he chose to enjoy in his upper story. The staircase, which would admit his body, was too strait for that of his victim; he accordingly set about enlarging it, with a delicate pair of shears with which his head was furnished, and then with great adroitness he hoisted the almost exhausted Bluebottle to the top of his dwelling, where he fell upon him with every token of satisfaction.

SPRING.

BRIGHT Creature, lift thy voice and sing,
Like the glad birds, for this is Spring!
Look up- the skies above are bright,
And darkly blue as deep midnight;
And piled-up, silvery clouds lie there,
Like radiant slumberers of the air:
And hark! from every bush and tree
Rings forth the wild-wood melody.
The Blackbird and the Thrush sing out;
And small birds warble round about,
As if they were bereft of reason,
In the great gladness of the season;
And though the hedge be leafless yet,
Still many a little nest is set
'Mong the twisted boughs so cunningly,
Where early eggs lie, two or three.
And hark! those Rooks the trees among,
Feeding their never-silent young;
A pleasant din it is, that calls
The fancy to ancestral halls.

But hush! from out that warm wood's side,
I hear a voice that ringeth wide-
O, joyful Spring's sweet minstrel, hail!
It is indeed the Nightingale,
Loud singing in the morning clear,
As poets ever love to hear!

Look now abroad.-All creatures see,
How they are filled with life and glee:
This little Bee among the flowers
Hath laboured since the morning hours,
Making the pleasant air astir,
And with its murmuring, pleasanter.
See there! the wavering Butterfly,
With starting motion fluttering by.
From leaf to leaf, from spray to spray,
A thing whose life is holiday;
The little Rabbits too, are out,
And Leverets skipping all about;
And Squirrels, peeping from their trees,
A-start at every vagrant breeze;
For life, in the glad days of Spring,
Doth gladden each created thing.
Now green is every bank, and full
of flowers and leaves for all to pull.
The Ficary, in each sunny place,
Doth shine out like a merry face;
The strong green Mercury, and the dear
Fresh Violets of the early year,
Peering their broad green leaves all through,
In odorous thousands, white and blue;
And the broad Dandelion's blaze,
Bright as the sun of summer's days;
And in the woods beneath the green
Of budding trees are brightly seen,
The nodding Blue-bell's graceful flowers,
The Hyacinth of this land of ours-
As fair as any flower that blows;
And here the pale Stellaria grows,
Like Una with her gentle grace,
Shining out in a shady place;

And here, on open slopes we see
The lightly-set Anemone;
Here too the spotted Arum green,
A hooded mystery, is seen;
And in the turfy meadows shine,
White Saxifrage and Cardamine;
And acres of the Crocus make⭑

A lustre like a purple lake.

And overhead how nobly towers
The Chestnut, with its waxen flowers,

And broad green leaves, which all expand,
Like to a giant's open hand.

Beside you blooms the Hawthorn tree;
And yonder the wild Cherry-tree,
The fairy-lady of the wood;

And there the Sycamore's bursting bud,
The Spanish-chestnut, and the Lime,
Those trees of flowery summer-time.
Look up, the leaves are fresh and green,
And every branching vein is seen
Through their almost transparent sheen!
Spirit of Beauty, thou dost fling
Such grace o'er each created thing,
That even a little leaf may stir
The heart to be a worshipper;
And joy, which in the soul has birth
From these bright creatures of the earth,-
Good is it thou shouldst have thy way,
Thou art as much of God as they!

Now let us to the garden go,

And dig and delve, and plant and sow;
The fresh dark mould is rich and sweet,
And each flower-plot is trim and neat;
And Daffodil and Primrose see,
And many-hued Anemone,
As full of flower as they can be;
And here the Hyacinth sweetly pale,
Recalling some old Grecian tale;
And here the mild Narcissus too;
And every flower of every hue,
Which the glad scason sends, is here;
The Almond, while its branch is sere,
With myriad blossoms beautified,
As pink as the sea-shell's inside;
And, under the warm cottage-eaves,
Among its clustered, budding leaves,
Shines out the Pear-tree's flowers of snow,
As white as any flowers that grow:
And budding is the southern Vine,
And Apricot and Nectarine;
And Plum-trees in the garden warm,
And Damsons round the cottage-farm,
Like snow-showers shed upon the trees,
And like them shaken by the breeze.
Dear ones! 't is now the time, that ye
Sit down with zeal to botany;

And names which were so hard and tough,

Are easy now, and clear enough;
For from the morn to evening's hours
Your bright instructers are sweet flowers

As in the Nottingham Meadows.