Over the river and through the wood,

Oh, how the wind does blow!

It stings the toes,

And bites the nose

As over the ground we go.

Over the river and through the wood,
To have a first-rate play,

Hear the bells ring

'Ting-a-ling-ding!"

Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!

Over the river and through the wood
Trot fast, my dapple gray!
Spring over the ground

Like a hunting hound!

For this is Thanksgiving Day.

Over the river and through the wood,
And straight through the barn-yard gate;

We seem to go

Extremely slow;

It is so hard to wait!

Over the river and through the wood,
Now grandmother's cap I spy!
Hurrah for the fun!

Is the pudding done?

́ Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!

- Lydia Maria Child.

Co

THE RACCOON.

OME, child, and see our pet raccoon, The raccoons live in the woods, you know, But ours was caught

And caged, and brought

From old Virginia, long ago.

Oh, no, you need not be afraid;

See, he is fastened with a chain;
For ropes enough

He has gnawed off,

And he is hard to catch again.

He e'en will climb this ten-foot fence,
And, careless where his feet may strike,
He tumbles, bang!

And there will hang,

His rope being caught by vine or spike.

So now he's chained; yet up he'll climb
The stake to which he's fastened tight,
And mutter low,

So pleading, Oh!

'Twould make you sorry for him, quite.

Just see his nose, so pointed, sharp,-
His ears as keen as keen can be,

His eyes so bright,

So full of light,

And see him leap right merrily!

His fur, you see, is yellowish gray,-
And he is nearly two feet long;

He lives on roots,

And nuts and fruits,

When he's his native woods among.

But here we give him bread and milk;
He never eats like dogs or lambs,
But takes it up

From out the cup

With his fore feet, as we use hands.

You'd laugh to see him, I am sure;
Of strawberries, too, he's very fond;
Will poke around
Till he has found

Each one among the hulls out-thrown.

- Mother Truth's Melodies.

THE ANT AN ENGINEER.

HE pastry was delicious, and I wanted it myself,

ΤΗ

So I put it in the pantry on the very lowest shelf; And to keep it from the insects, those ants so red and

small,

I made a river round it of molasses, best of all.

But the enemy approached it, all as hungry as could be, And the captain, with his aide-de-camp, just skirmished round to see

Whether they could ford the river or should try some

other plan,

And, together with his comrades, he around the liquid ran.

To his joy and satisfaction, after traveling around,

The place where the molasses was the narrowest he found; Then again he reconnoitered, rushing forward and then back,

Till he spied some loosened plaster in the wall around a tack.

He divided then his forces, with a foreman for each squad, And he marshaled the whole army and before him each ant trod;

His directions all were given; to his chiefs he gave a call, While he headed the procession as they marched off up the wall.

Every ant then seized his plaster, just a speck and nothing

more,

And he climbed and tugged and carried till he'd brought it to the shore;

Then they built their bridge, just working for an hour by the sky,

After which they all marched over and all fell to eating

pie.

THE DAY IS DONE.

TH
Tals from the wings of Night,

HE day is done, and the darkness

As a feather is wafted downward

From an eagle in his flight.

- Selected.

I see the lights of the village..

Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That my soul cannot resist :

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,

Still heard from his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

R