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 chaseMy 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 dwelling-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 unsuccessful; 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.

Go out through pleasant field and lane,
And come back, glad of heart again,
Bringing with you life's best of wealth,
Knowledge, and joy of heart, and health;
Ere long each bank whereon ye look
Will be to you an open book,
And flowers, by the Creator writ,
The characters inscribed on it!

Come let us forth into the fields!
Unceasing joy the season yields-
Why should we tarry within door?
And see, the children of the poor
Are out, all joy, and running races,
With buoyant limbs and laughing faces.
Thank heaven! the sunshine and the air
Are free to these young sons of care!
Come, let us, too, be glad as they,
For soon is gone the merry May!

THE NORTHERN SEAS.

UP! up! let us a voyage take;
Why sit we here at ease?
Find us a vessel tight and snug,
Bound for the Northern Seas.

I long to see the Northern-Lights,

With their rushing splendours fly; Like living things with flaming wings, Wide o'er the wondrous sky.

I long to see those ice-bergs vast,

With heads all crowned with snow; Whose green roots sleep in the awful deep, Two hundred fathoms low.

I long to hear the thundering crash
Of their terrific fall;

And the echoes from a thousand cliffs,

Like lonely voices call.

There shall we see the fierce White Bear;
The sleepy Seals a-ground,

And the spouting Whales that to and fro
Sail with a dreary sound.
There may we tread on depths of ice,
That the hairy Mammoth hide;
Perfect, as when in times of old,

The mighty creature died.

And while the unsetting sun shines on

Through the still heaven's deep blue, We'll traverse the azure waves, the herds Of the dread Sea-horse to view. We'll pass the shores of solemn pine, Where Wolves and Black Bears prowl; And away to the rocky isles of mist,

To rouse the northern fowl.

Up there shall start ten thousand wings
With a rushing, whistling din;
Up shall the Auk and Fulmar start,-
All but the fat Penguin.

Tread many a far-off strand.
Right onward as our course we hold,

From day to day, the sky

Above our head its arch shall spread

More glowing, bright, and high.

And from night to night-oh, what delight!
In its azure depths to mark

Stars all unknown come glittering out

Over the ocean dark.

The moon uprising like a sun,

So stately, large, and sheen,

And the very stars like clustered moons
In the crystal ether keen.
While all about the ship below,

Strange fiery billows play,-
The ceaseless keel through liquid fire
Cuts wondrously its way.
But O, the South! the balmy South!
How warm the breezes float!

How warm the amber waters stream
From off our basking boat.

Come down, come down from the tall ship's side!
What a marvellous sight is here!
Look-purple rocks and crimson trees,

Down in the deep so clear.

See! where those shoals of Dolphins go,
A glad and glorious band,
Sporting among the day-bright woods
Of a coral fairy-land.
See! on the violet sands beneath,

How the gorgeous shells do glide!
O Sea! old Sea, who yet knows half
Of thy wonders and thy pride?