Without, the cricket's ceaseless song The housewife's hand has turned the lock; Singing, calling "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" And oft the milkmaid in her dreams Drums in the pail with the flashing streams, W Murmuring, "So, boss! so!" JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE THE HORSEBACK RIDE. HEN troubled in spirit, when weary of life, When its fruits, turned to ashes, are mocking And its fairest scene seems but a desolate waste, But bring me, oh, bring me my gallant young steed, Now we're off-like the winds to the plains whence And the rapture of motion is thrilling my frame ! See his glancing hoofs tossing the white pebbles back! Though shadows are round us, and rocks o'er us frown; How he tosses his mane, with a shrill, joyous neigh, Till the long, flinty pathway is flashing with fire! dare, Like a swift-wingéd arrow we rush through the air! SARAH JANE LIPPINCOTT (Grace Greenwood). THE HOUSE ON THE HILL. ROM the weather-worn house on the brow of the hill We are dwelling afar, in our manhood, today; But we see the old gables and hollyhocks still, As they looked long ago, ere we wandered away; We can hear the low hum of the hard-working bees As they busily gather their sweet winter store; And the loud, cackling hens in the gray barn near by, And its rafters that once seemed to reach to the sky; We behold the great beams, and the bottomless bay Where the farm-boys once joyfully jumped on the hay. We can see the low hog-pen, just over the way, And the long-ruined shed by the side of the road, Where the sleds in the summer were hidden away And the wagons and plows in the winter were And the cider-mill, down in the hollow below. The thick branches shake, as we're hurrying through, Where we learned by the homely old tub long ago, What a world of sweet rapture there was in a straw; We behold the bleak hillsides still bristling with rocks, sound, Where we hunted and fished, where we chased the red | Brave men were our grandfathers, sturdy and strong; fox, With lazy old house-dog or loud-baying hound; And the cold, cheerless woods we delighted to tramp For the shy, whirring partridge, in snow to our knees, Where, with neck yoke and pails, in the old sugarcamp, We gathered the sap from the tall maple-trees; And the fields where our plows danced a furious jig, While we wearily followed the furrow all day, Where we stumbled and bounded o'er boulders so big That it took twenty oxen to draw them away; Where we sowed, where we hoed, where we cradled and mowed, Where we scattered the swaths that were heavy with dew, The kings of the forest they plucked from their lands; They were stern in their virtues, they hated all wrong, And they fought for the right with their hearts and their hands. Down, down from the hillsides they swept in their might, And up from the valleys they went on their way, To fight and to fall upon Hubbardton's height, To struggle and conquer in Bennington's fray. Oh! fresh be their memory, cherished the sod That long has grown green o'er their sacred remains, And grateful our hearts to a generous God For the blood and the spirit that flows in their veins. Where we tumbled and pitched, and behind the tall Our Allens, our Starks, and our Warners are gone, load The broken old bull-rake reluctantly drew. How we grasped the old "sheepskin" with feelings of scorn As we straddled the back of the old sorrel mare, And rode up and down through the green rows of corn, Like a pin on a clothes-line that sways in the air ; We can hear our stern fathers reproving us still, As the careless old creature "comes down on a hill." We are far from the home of our boyhood to-day, In the battle of life we are struggling alone; The weather-worn farmhouse has gone to decay, The chimney has fallen, the swallows have flown, But fancy yet brings, on her bright golden wings, Her beautiful pictures again from the past, And memory fondly and tenderly clings To pleasures and pastimes too lovely to last. We wander again by the river to-day ; We sit in the school-room, o'erflowing with fun, We whisper, we play, and we scamper away When our lessons are learned and the spelling is done. We see the old cellar where apples were kept, The garret where all the old rubbish was thrown, The little back chamber where snugly we slept, The homely old kitchen, the broad hearth of stone, Where apples were roasted in many a row, Where our grandmothers nodded and knit long ago. Our grandmothers long have reposed in the tomb; With a strong, healthy race they have peopled the land; They worked with the spindle, they toiled at the loom, Nor lazily brought up their babies by hand. Our gallant old grandfathers captured at "Ti." But our mountains remain with their evergreen crown. The souls of our heroes are yet marching on, home, Where they wait, where they watch, and will welcome us still, As they waited and watched in the house on the hill. EUGENE J. HALL. ON THE BANKS OF THE TENNESSEE. SIT by the open window And look to the hills away, Over beautiful undulations That glow with the flowers of May- Within my vision's range— On the banks of the Tennessee. Now up from the rolling meadows, And down from the hill-tops now, Fresh breezes steal in at my window, And sweetly fan my brow And the sounds that they gather and bring me, From rivulet, meadow and hill, Come in with a touching cadence, To many a fond remembrance And recall the faded past- Of the ever-moving years, Lie wrecks of hope and of purpose That I now behold through tears— And of all of them, the saddest That is thus brought back to me, Makes holy that old log cabin On the banks of the Tennessee. Glad voices now greet me daily, And dream of the times of old- From a knoll near that old log cabin On the banks of the Tennessee. WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER. THE HAPPINESS OF ANIMALS. ERE unmolested, through whatever sign. The sun proceeds, I wander. Neither mist, Nor freezing sky nor sultry, checking me, Nor stranger, intermeddling with my joy, Even in the spring and playtime of the year, That calls the unwonted villager abroad With all her little ones, a sportive train, To gather kingcups in the yellow mead, And prink their hair with daisies, or to pick A cheap but wholesome salad from the brook, The heart is hard in nature, and unfit Nor feels their happiness augment his own. When none pursues, through mere delight of heart, The horse as wonton, and almost as fleet That skims the spacious meadow at full speed, Then stops, and snorts, and throwing high his heels, The very kine, that gambol at high noon, WILLIAM Cowper. BIJAH'S STORY. 'E was little more than a baby, He was ragged, and cold, and hungry, When night came, cold and darkly, The pallid lips grew whiter With childish grief and fright. As I was passing the entrance I found a poor dead baby, With his head on a broken sleigh. Soon young and eager footsteps On his coat was a newsboy's number, "You see, I leave him at Smithers' "Last night when he said 'Our Father,' He just threw in an extra "I was tellin' the boys at the office, As how he was only three; And they stuck in for this here stunner |