Oh, yes, but they do! In the breezy wild rose,
The darlingest daughter of summer,

Whose heart with the sun's yellow gold overflows,
And whose blushes so well become her.

Instead of one flower I will vote for three;
The Mayflowers know that I mean them,
And the goldenrod surely my choice will be,
With the sweet brier-rose between them.

You see I'm impartial, I've no way but this.
My vote, with a rhyme and a reason,

For the Mayflower, the wild rose, and goldenrod is,
A blossom for every season.

— Lucy Larcom.

WE

TWO WISE OWLS.

E are two dusky owls, and we live in a tree;
Look at her, - look at me!

Look at her,

she's my mate, and the mother of three Pretty owlets, and we

Have a warm cosy nest, just as snug as can be.

We are both very wise; for our heads, as you see,
(Look at her, look at me!)

Are as large as the heads of four birds ought to be,
And our horns, you'll agree,

1

Make us look wiser still, sitting here on the tree.

Far away in the valley, a mile it may be,

Is a churchyard, and we

Often sit there at midnight, and hoot in high glee.
Does that owl look like me?

For the bird in the air is my mate, as you see.

And we care not how gloomy the night-time may be;

We can see,

- we can see

VES, Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew,

YES,

Just listen to this:

When the old mill took fire, and the flooring fell through,

And I with it, helpless, there, full in my view,

What do you think my eyes saw through the fire
That crept along, crept along, nigher and nigher,
But Robin, my baby boy, laughing to see

The shining? He must have come there after me.
Toddled alone from the cottage without

Any one's missing him. Then what a shout-
Oh! how I shouted, "For Heaven's sake, men,
Save little Robin!" Again and again

They tried, but the fire held them back like a wall,
I could hear them go at it, and at it, and call,

"Never mind, baby, sit still like a man!
We're coming to get you as fast as we can.”
They could not see him, but I could; he sat
Still on a beam, his little straw hat

Carefully placed by his side; and his eyes
Stared at the flame with a baby's surprise,
Calm and unconscious, as nearer it crept;
The roar of the fire up above must have kept
From reaching the child. But I heard it.
It came,

Again and again. O God, what a cry!
The axes went faster; I saw the sparks fly

-

Where the men worked like tigers, nor minded the heat That scorched them, when suddenly, there at their feet, The great beam leaned in—they saw him—then, crash, The men made a dash,

Down came the wall!

Jumped to get out of the way, — and I thought
"All's up with poor little Robin!" and brought
Slowly the arm that was least hurt to hide

The sight of the child there, — when swift at my side
Some one rushed by, and went right through the flame,
Straight as a dart, caught the child and then came
Back with him, choking and crying, but — saved!
Saved safe and sound!

Oh, how the men raved,

Shouted and cried, and hurrahed! Then they all
Rushed at the work again, lest the back wall,

Where I was lying away from the fire,

Should fall in and bury me.

Oh! you'd admire

To see Robin now; he's as bright as a dime,
Deep in some mischief, too, most of the time;
Tom, it was, saved him. Now, isn't it true
Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew?
There's Robin now! See, he's strong as a log!
And there comes Tom, too

Yes, Tom was our dog.

- Constance Fenimore Woolson.

THE

THE RAINY DAY.

HE day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the moldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the moldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days must be dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

THE

NOVEMBER.

HE leaves are fading and falling,
The winds are rough and wild,
The birds have ceased their calling,
But let me tell you, my child,

Though day by day, as it closes,
Doth darker and colder grow,
The roots of the bright red roses
Will keep alive in the snow,

And when the winter is over,

The boughs will get new leaves; The quail come back to the clover, And the swallow back to the eaves.

The robin will wear on his bosom
A vest that is bright and new,
And the loveliest wayside blossom
Will shine with the sun and dew.

The leaves, to-day, are whirling,
The brooks are all dry and dumb;
But let me tell you, my darling,

The spring will be sure to come.

There must be rough, cold weather,
And winds and rains so wild;
Not all good things together
Come to us here, my child.

So, when some dear joy loses

Its beauteous summer glow, Think how the roots of the roses Are kept alive in the snow.

- Alice Cary.

Ο

THANKSGIVING DAY.

VER the river and through the wood,

To grandfather's house we'll go ;

The horse knows the way

To carry the sleigh

Through the white and drifted snow,