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65

THE DUCK.

THINK it was a stroke of luck
To come into the world a duck;
I fly, I swim, I walk, you see;
What other can compare with me?

"I swim-far better than the swallow,
I fly and beat old Dobbin hollow,
I walk-and thus surpass the trout
And other fishes, out and out.

"But when did Envy ever lack
A word of ill behind one's back?
It makes me sick to hear them talk;
They say I waddle when I walk.

"And when I fly with outspread wings
The swallows mock-the saucy things.
They say I do not wheel nor skim,
Lest I should fall and break a limb.

"And yesterday, a pert young chub

Gave me, he thought, a hardish rub;

That swimming?' said he with a laugh; 'I call it only half and half.'

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Well, let them talk, it won't hurt me--They are not ducks and drakes, you sce; Our graces put them in a pet,

All grapes are sour one cannot get.

G

"There's only one thing where I fail,
I try to sing-it's no avail;

I got a cold a long time back,

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And never get beyond a Quack!'

"I'll take some lessons of the lark,
Next time I hear him in the Park,

Then won't folks listen with a Hush!
'The duck sings better than the thrush!""

THERE's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree; "He's singing to me! He's singing to me!"

And what does he say, little girl, little boy?

"O, the world's running over with joy

Don't you hear? Don't you see?

Hush! Look! In my tree

I'm as happy as happy can be."

And the brown thrush keeps singing, "a nest do you see, And five eggs, hid by me in the juniper tree?

Don't meddle! don't touch! little girl, little boy,

Or the world will lose some of its joy!

Now I'm glad! now I'm free!

And I always shall be,

If you never bring sorrow to me."

So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree,
To you and to me, to you and to me;

And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy
"O, the world's running over with joy!

But long it won't be,

Don't you know, don't you see,

Unless we be good as good can be!"

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THE FROST.

II, see the cunning frost again
Its magic art revealing,

With bower and hill and shady lane,
Again the windows sealing.
It shuts from us the clear cold sky,

The snowy-mantled meadow;
The icy trees that glitter high

In sunlight and in shadow.

And, oh, it gives full many a dream
Of pleasant summer rambles;
The dear old bridge, the streamlet's gleam,
The fern, the brakes, the brambles.
The sedgy lake, the wood-crowned hill,
They live again before us;

Again flows on the little rill,

And summer skies are o'er us.

MY GOOD-FOR-NOTHING.

"WHAT are you good for, my brave little man?
Answer that question for me if you can,—
You, with your fingers as white as a nun,-
You, with your ringlets as bright as the sun;
All the day long with your busy contriving,
Into all mischief and fun you are driving;
See if your wise little noddle can tell

What you are good for? Now ponder it well.

Over the carpet the dear little feet
Came with a patter to climb on my seat;
Two merry eyes, full of frolic and glee,
Under their lashes looked, bright, up to me;
Two little hands pressing soft on my face,
Drew me down close in a loving embrace;
Two rosy lips gave the answer so true,
"Good to love you, mamma,-good to love you."

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WATCHING FOR FATHER.

THERE's a little face at the window
And two dimpled hands on the pane;
And somebody's eyes are fixed upon
The gate at the end of the lane.

The hills have caught the shadow
Which heralds1 the coming night,
And the lane, with its flowering fringe grows dim
To the watcher's anxious sight.

Away behind,

With busy mind,

But a step that is light and free,

And a sun-burnt face

On which the trace

Of a hard day's work you see,

Comes the farmer home from toil,

Driving the cows before him;

And the child-eyes, strained at the window thero, Were the first in the house that saw him.

Ah! would, when the day is done

And I leave my cares behind me,

I could have such a pair of winsome2 eyes
Searching the night to find me!