And stir all day to pretty tunes
The breezes fetch along,

And hold the sunshine in its lap

And bow to everything.

And thread the dews all night, like pearls,

And make itself so fine, —

A duchess were too common
For such a noticing.

And even when it dies, to pass

In odors so divine,

As lowly spices gone to sleep,

Or amulets of pine.

And then to dwell in sovereign barns,
And dream the days away,-
The grass so little has to do,
I wish I were the hay!

COLUMBIA'S EMBLEM

EDNA DEAN PROCTOR

BLAZON Columbia's emblem

The bounteous, golden Corn!

Eons ago, of the great sun's glow
And the joy of the earth, 'twas born.

From Superior's shore to Chili,

From the ocean of dawn to the west, With its banners of green and silken sheen It sprang at the sun's behest;

And by dew and shower, from its natal hour,

With honey and wine 'twas fed,

Till on slope and plain the gods were fain
To share the feast outspread :

For the rarest boon to the land they loved
Was the Corn so rich and fair,

Nor star nor breeze o'er the farthest seas
Could find its like elsewhere.

In their holiest temples the Incas
Offered the heaven-sent Maize-
Grains wrought of gold, in a silver fold,
For the sun's enraptured gaze;

And its harvest came to the wandering tribes
As the god's own gift and seal,
And Montezuma's festal bread

Was made of its sacred meal.
Narrow their cherished fields; but ours
Are broad as the continent's breast,
And, lavish as leaves, the rustling sheaves
Bring plenty, and joy, and rest;

For they strew the plains and crowd the wains
When the reapers meet at morn,

Till blithe cheers ring and west winds sing
A song for the garnered Corn.

The rose may bloom for England,
The lily for France unfold;
Ireland may honor the shamrock,
Scotland her thistle bold;

But the shield of the great Republic,

The glory of the West,

Shall bear a stalk of the tasseled Corn-
The sun's supreme bequest!

The arbutus and the goldenrod

The heart of the North may cheer,
And the mountain laurel for Maryland
Its royal clusters rear,
And jasmine and magnolia
The crest of the South adorn;
But the wide Republic's emblem
Is the bounteous, golden Corn!

THE BOBOLINKS

CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH

WHEN Nature had made all her birds,

With no more cares to think on,

She gave a rippling laugh, and out
There flew a Bobolinkon.

She laughed again; out flew a mate;

A breeze of Eden bore them

Across the fields of Paradise,

The sunrise reddening o'er them.

Incarnate sport and holiday,

They flew and sang forever;

Their souls through June were all in tune,

Their wings were weary never.

Their tribe, still drunk with air and light,

And perfume of the meadow, Go reeling up and down the sky,

In sunshine and in shadow.

One springs from out the dew-wet grass;

Another follows after;

The morn is thrilling with their songs
And peals of fairy laughter.

From out the marshes and the brook,

They set the tall weeds swinging,

And meet and frolic in the air,

Half prattling and half singing.

When morning winds sweep meadow lands
In green and russet billows,

And toss the lonely elm tree's boughs,
And silver all the willows,

I see you buffeting the breeze,

Or with its motion swaying,

Your notes half drowned against the wind,

Or down the current playing.

When far away o'er grassy flats,

Where the thick wood commences,

The white-sleeved mowers look like specks,

Beyond the zigzag fences,

And noon is hot, and barn roofs gleam,

While in the pale blue distance,

I hear the saucy minstrels still

In chattering persistence.

When eve her domes of opal fire
Piles round the blue horizon,

Or thunders roll from hill to hill
A Kyrie Eleison,

Still merriest of the merry birds,

Your sparkle is unfading,

Pied harlequins of June, -- no end
Of song and masquerading.

*

*

*

Hope springs with you: I dread no more
Despondency and dullness;

For Good Supreme can never fail
That gives such perfect fullness.

The life that floods the happy fields
With song, and light, and color
Will shape our lives to richer states,
And heap our measures fuller.

MEMORY GEMS

Familiarity does not breed contempt, except of contemptible things, or in contemptible people. - BROOKS.

We all complain of the shortness of time, and yet have much more than we know what to do with. Our lives are spent, either in doing nothing at all, or in doing nothing to the purpose, or in doing nothing that we ought to do; we are always complaining that our days are few, and acting as though there would be no end to them.

SENECA.