To encounter such chaff.

Do take that bird down,

Have it stuffed again, Brown!

With some sawdust and bark

I could make an old hat

Look more like an owl

Than that horrid fowl

Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather.
In fact, about him there's not one natural feather!”

Just then with a wink and a sly normal lurch
The owl very gravely got down from his perch,
Walked around and regarded his fault-finding critic
(Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic.
And then fairly hooted, as if he would say:
"Your learning's at fault this time, anyway;
Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray.

I'm an owl; your another. Sir critic, good day!"
And the barber kept on shaving.

LEGEND OF THE CANON

Where the sunset's golden gleamings
On the rocky highlands rest,
'Neath the moonlight's silver beamings

Of the distant, dreamy West,
Once there roamed an Indian lover,

With his fawn-eyed Indian fair,

Lover blithe as mountain rover,

Maiden rich in flowing hair.

- FIELD.

But the sleep that knows no waking

Chilled the gentle maiden's breast, And the Brave, all hopes forsaking

Laid her in the hill to rest,

Laid her where the eye may wander
Far o'er slope, and ledges steep,
And the mind on billows yonder

Billows grand, but locked in sleep.

Then the Brave's bold eye was darkened,
And his hand forgot the bow,
Naught to human speech he hearkened;
Naught but sorrow would he know,
Frozen was his heart of gladness

As the summits capped with snow;
Dark his soul with sullen sadness
As their cavern depths below.

But the Great, Good Spirit sought him
Sought him in his speechless grief,
And in kindly promise brought him
Matchless comfort and relief.

"Come," He said, "and see thy dearest

See her in her spirit home;

Toward the Southland 'tis the nearest

We shall journey, hither come!"

And they went, the spirit leading
Speeding with unmeasured force;

Neither hill nor valley heeding,

On, straight onward, was their course;

With the whirlwind's footsteps striding,
By the smooth and rock-cut ledge,
Hills with earth in quakes dividing
Plowshare sharp as lightning's edge.
Such their way through hill and valley,
Cold and narrow, dark and steep,
Oped the rock-embosomed alley,

Cut a thousand fathoms deep.
Carving, piercing, cutting through,

Toward the drowsy southern shore,
The spirit formed the mystic furrow,
And told its sides to meet no more.

But the Spirit, good, all knowing,
Feared lest man's unresting race,
By the mystic pathway going,

Should mar the spirit-hunter's chase.
"Twas then He gave the torrents headway:

A thousand, thousand streams were poured; "Twas then adown its narrow bedway

That first the Colorado roared.

And still the diamond drops are speeding
Down a million, rippling rills,
The headlong, rushing cascades feeding
From liquid hoard of snow-clad hills.
And still the voices of the river

Within the cañon's depths are heard,
In echoing sounds to speak forever

At the bidding of His word.

JEREMIAH MAHONEY.

OUR COUNTRY

Our country! 'tis a glorious land!

With broad arms stretched from shore to shore;

The proud Pacific chafes her strand,

She hears the dark Atlantic roar; And, nurtured on her ample breast, How many a goodly prospect lies In Nature's wildest grandeur drest, Enameled with her loveliest dyes!

Rich prairies, decked with flowers of gold,
Like sunlit oceans roll afar;
Broad lakes her azure heavens behold,
Reflecting clear each trembling star;
And mighty rivers, mountain born,

Go sweeping onward, dark and deep,
Through forests where the bounding fawn
Beneath their sheltering branches leap.

And, cradled 'midst her clustering hills,
Sweet vales in dreamlike beauty hide,

Where love the air with music fills,
And calm content and peace abide;

For plenty here her fulness pours
In rich profusion o'er the land,
And sent to seize her generous stores,

There prowls no tyrant's hireling hand.