"'For Christ and his truth I stand alone In the midst of millions: a sand-grain blown Against your temple of ancient stone

"'As soon may level it!'" Faith forsook My soul, as I turned on the pile to look; Then, rising, my saddened way I took

To its lofty roof, for the cooler air: I gazed, and marvelled;—how crumbled were The walls I had deemed so firm and fair!

For, wedged in a rift of the massive stone, Most plainly rent by its roots alone, A beautiful peepul-tree had grown:

Whose gradual stress would still expand The crevice, and topple upon the sand The temple, while o'er its wreck should stand

The tree in its living verdure!—Who Could compass the thought?—The bird that flew Hitherward, dropping a seed that grew,

Did more to shiver this ancient wall Than earthquake,—war,—simoon,—or all The centuries, in their lapse and fall!

Then I knelt by the riven granite there, And my soul shook off its weight of care, As my voice rose clear on the tropic air:—

"The living seeds I have dropped remain In the cleft: Lord, quicken with dew and rain, Then temple and mosque shall be rent in twain!"

MARGARET J. PRESTON.

* * * * *

OF BIRDS.

See, Christ makes the birds our masters and teachers! so that a feeble sparrow, to our great and perpetual shame, stands in the gospel as a doctor and preacher to the wisest of men.

MARTIN LUTHER.

* * * * *

BIRDS IN SPRING.

Listen! What a sudden rustle Fills the air! All the birds are in a bustle Everywhere. Such a ceaseless croon and twitter Overhead! Such a flash of wings that glitter Wide outspread! Far away I hear a drumming,— Tap, tap, tap! Can the woodpecker be coming After sap? Butterflies are hovering over (Swarms on swarms) Yonder meadow-patch of clover, Like snow-storms. Through the vibrant air a-tingle Buzzingly, Throbs and o'er me sails a single Bumble-bee. Lissom swayings make the willows One bright sheen, Which the breeze puffs out in billows Foamy green. From the marshy brook that's smoking In the fog I can catch the crool and croaking Of a frog. Dogwood stars the slopes are studding, And I see Blooms upon the purple-budding Judas-tree. Aspen tassels thick are dropping All about, And the alder-leaves are cropping Broader out; Mouse-ear tufts the hawthorn sprinkle, Edged with rose; The park bed of periwinkle Fresher grows. Up and down are midges dancing On the grass: How their gauzy wings are glancing As they pass! What does all this haste and hurry Mean, I pray— All this out-door flush and flurry Seen to-day? This presaging stir and humming, Thrill and call? Mean? It means that spring is coming; That is all!

MARGARET J. PRESTON.

* * * * *

THE CANARY IN HIS CAGE.

Sing away, ay, sing away, Merry little bird, Always gayest of the gay, Though a woodland roundelay You ne'er sung nor heard; Though your life from youth to age Passes in a narrow cage.

Near the window wild birds fly, Trees are waving round; Fair things everywhere you spy Through the glass pane's mystery, Your small life's small bound: Nothing hinders your desire But a little gilded wire.

Like a human soul you seem Shut in golden bars: Placed amid earth's sunshine stream, Singing to the morning beam, Dreaming 'neath the stars; Seeing all life's pleasures clear,— But they never can come near.

Never! Sing, bird-poet mine, As most poets do;— Guessing by an instinct fine At some happiness divine Which they never knew. Lonely in a prison bright Hymning for the world's delight.

Yet, my birdie, you're content In your tiny cage: Not a carol thence is sent But for happiness is meant— Wisdom pure as sage: Teaching the pure poet's part Is to sing with merry heart.

So lie down, thou peevish pen; Eyes, shake off all tears; And, my wee bird, sing again: I'll translate your song to men In these future years. "Howsoe'er thy lot's assigned, Meet it with a cheerful mind."

MRS. DINAH MARIA (MULOCK) CRAIK.

* * * * *

WHO STOLE THE BIRD'S-NEST.

Te-whit! te-whit! te-whee! Will you listen to me? Who stole four eggs I laid, And the nice nest I made?

Not I, said the cow, moo-oo! Such a thing I'd never do. I gave for you a wisp of hay, And did not take your nest away. Not I, said the cow, moo-oo! Such a thing I'd never do.

Not I, said the dog, bow-wow! I wouldn't be so mean as that, now, I gave hairs the nest to make, But the nest I did not take. Not I, said the dog, bow-wow! I wouldn't be so mean as that, now.

Not I, said the sheep, Oh no! I wouldn't treat a poor bird so! I gave the wool the nest to line, But the nest was none of mine. Baa! baa! said the sheep; Oh no, I wouldn't treat a poor bird so.

I would not rob a bird, Said little Mary Green; I think I never heard Of any thing so mean. 'Tis very cruel, too, Said little Alice Neal; I wonder if she knew How sad the bird would feel?

A little boy hung down his head, And went and hid behind the bed, For he stole that pretty nest From poor little yellow-breast; And he felt so full of shame He didn't like to tell his name.

Hymns for Mother and Children.

* * * * *

WHO STOLE THE EGGS?

"Oh, what is the matter with Robin, That makes her cry round here all day? I think she must be in great trouble," Said Swallow to little Blue Jay.

"I know why the Robin is crying," Said Wren, with a sob in her breast; "A naughty bold robber has stolen Three little blue eggs from her nest.

"He carried them home in his pocket; I saw him, from up in this tree: Ah me! how my little heart fluttered For fear he would come and rob me!"

"Oh! what little boy was so wicked?" Said Swallow, beginning to cry; "I wouldn't be guilty of robbing A dear little bird's-nest—not I."

"Nor I!" said the birds in a chorus: "A cruel and mischievous boy! I pity his father and mother; He surely can't give them much joy.

"I guess he forgot what a pleasure The dear little robins all bring, In early spring-time and in summer, By the beautiful songs that they sing.

"I guess he forgot that the rule is, To do as you'd be always done by; I guess he forgot that from heaven There looks down an All-seeing Eye."

MRS. C. F. BERRY.

* * * * *

WHAT THE BIRDS SAY.

When they chatter together,—the robins and sparrows, Bluebirds and bobolinks,—all the day long; What do they talk of? The sky and the sunshine, The state of the weather, the last pretty song;

Of love and of friendship, and all the sweet trifles That go to make bird-life so careless and free; The number of grubs in the apple-tree yonder, The promise of fruit in the big cherry-tree;

Of matches in prospect;—how Robin and Jenny Are planning together to build them a nest; How Bobolink left Mrs. Bobolink moping At home, and went off on a lark with the rest.

Such mild little slanders! such innocent gossip! Such gay little coquetries, pretty and bright! Such happy love makings! such talks in the orchard! Such chatterings at daybreak! such whisperings at night!

O birds in the tree-tops! O robins and sparrows! O bluebirds and bobolinks! what would be May Without your glad presence,—the songs that you sing us, And all the sweet nothings we fancy you say?

CAROLINE A. MASON.

* * * * *

Sweet Mercy is Nobility's true badge.

Titus Andronicus, Act 1, Sc. 2.

* * * * *

THE WREN'S NEST.

I took the wren's nest: Heaven forgive me! Its merry architects so small Had scarcely finished their wee hall That, empty still, and neat and fair, Hung idly in the summer air. The mossy walls, the dainty door, Where Love should enter and explore, And Love sit carolling outside, And Love within chirp multiplied;— I took the wren's nest; Heaven forgive me!

How many hours of happy pains Through early frosts and April rains, How many songs at eve and morn O'er springing grass and greening corn, What labors hard through sun and shade Before the pretty house was made! One little minute, only one, And she'll fly back, and find it—gone! I took the wren's nest: Bird, forgive me!

Thou and thy mate, sans let, sans fear, Ye have before you all the year, And every wood holds nooks for you, In which to sing and build and woo; One piteous cry of birdish pain— And ye'll begin your life again, Forgetting quite the lost, lost home In many a busy home to come. But I? your wee house keep I must, Until it crumble into dust. I took the wren's nest: God forgive me!

DINAH MARIA (MULOCK) CRAIK.

* * * * *

ON ANOTHER'S SORROW.

Can I see another's woe, And not be in sorrow too? Can I see another's grief, And not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear, And not feel my sorrow's share? Can a father see his child Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?

Can a mother sit and hear An infant groan, an infant fear? No, no! never can it be! Never, never can it be!

And can He who smiles on all Hear the wren with sorrows small, Hear the small bird's grief and care, Hear the woes that infants bear—

And not sit beside the nest, Pouring pity in their breast, And not sit in the cradle near, Weeping tear on infant's tear?

And not sit both night and day, Wiping all our tears away? Oh no! never can it be! Never, never can it be!

WILLIAM BLAKE.

* * * * *

THE SHEPHERD'S HOME.

My banks they are furnished with bees, Whose murmur invites one to sleep; My grottoes are shaded with trees, And my hills are white over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss, Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all bordered with moss, Where the harebells and violets blow.

Not a pine in the grove is there seen, But with tendrils of woodbine is bound: Not a beech's more beautiful green, But a sweet-brier entwines it around. Not my fields in the prime of the year, More charms than my cattle unfold; Not a brook that is limpid and clear, But it glitters with fishes of gold.

I found out a gift for my fair, I have found where the wood-pigeons breed; But let me such plunder forbear, She will say 'twas a barbarous deed; For he ne'er could be true, she averred, Who would rob a poor bird of its young; And I loved her the more when I heard Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

SHENSTONE (d. 1673).

* * * * *

THE WOOD-PIGEON'S HOME.

Come with me, if but in fancy, To the wood, the green soft shade: 'Tis a haven, pure and lovely, For the good of mankind made.

Listen! you can hear the cooing, Soft and soothing, gentle sounds, Of the pigeons, as they nestle In the branches all around.

In the city and the open, Man has built or tilled the land; But the home of the wood pigeon Bears the touch of God's own hand.

ANON.

* * * * *

THE SHAG.

"What is that great bird, sister, tell me, Perched high on the top of the crag?" "'Tis the cormorant, dear little brother; The fishermen call it the shag."

"But what does it there, sister, tell me, Sitting lonely against the black sky?" "It has settled to rest, little brother; It hears the wild gale wailing high."

"But I am afraid of it, sister, For over the sea and the land It gazes, so black and so silent!" "Little brother, hold fast to my hand."

"Oh, what was that, sister? The thunder? Did the shag bring the storm and the cloud, The wind and the rain and the lightning?" "Little brother, the thunder roars loud.

"Run fast, for the rain sweeps the ocean; Look! over the lighthouse it streams; And the lightning leaps red, and above us The gulls fill the air with their screams."

O'er the beach, o'er the rocks, running swiftly, The little white cottage they gain; And safely they watch from the window The dance and the rush of the rain.

But the shag kept his place on the headland, And, when the brief storm had gone by, He shook his loose plumes, and they saw him Rise splendid and strong in the sky.

Clinging fast to the gown of his sister, The little boy laughed as he flew: "He is gone with the wind and lightning! And—I am not frightened,—are you?"

CELIA THAXTER.

* * * * *

THE LOST BIRD.

My bird has flown away, Far out of sight has flown, I know not where. Look in your lawn, I pray, Ye maidens kind and fair, And see if my beloved bird be there.

His eyes are full of light; The eagle of the rock has such an eye; And plumes, exceeding bright, Round his smooth temples lie, And sweet his voice and tender as a sigh.

Look where the grass is gay With summer blossoms, haply there he cowers; And search, from spray to spray, The leafy laurel bowers, For well he loves the laurels and the flowers.

Find him, but do not dwell, With eyes too fond, on the fair form you see, Nor love his song too well; Send him, at once, to me, Or leave him to the air and liberty.

For only from my hand He takes the seed into his golden beak, And all unwiped shall stand The tears that wet my cheek, Till I have found the wanderer I seek.

My sight is darkened o'er, Whene'er I miss his eyes, which are my day, And when I hear no more The music of his lay, My heart in utter sadness faints away.

From the Spanish of CAROLINA CORONADO DE PERRY.

Translated by W. C. BRYANT.

* * * * *

THE BIRDS MUST KNOW.

The birds must know. Who wisely sings Will sing as they; The common air has generous wings, Songs make their way. No messenger to run before, Devising plan; No mention of the place or hour To any man; No waiting till some sound betrays A listening ear; No different voice, no new delays, If steps draw near. "What bird is that? Its song is good." And eager eyes Go peering through the dusky wood, In glad surprise. Then late at night, when by his fire The traveller sits, Watching the flame grow brighter, higher, The sweet song flits By snatches through his weary brain To help him rest; When next he goes that road again An empty nest On leafless bough will make him sigh, "Ah me! last spring Just here I heard, in passing by, That rare bird sing!"

But while he sighs, remembering How sweet the song, The little bird on tireless wing, Is borne along In other air; and other men With weary feet, On other roads, the simple strain Are finding sweet. The birds must know. Who wisely sings Will sing as they; The common air has generous wings, Songs make their way.

H. H.

* * * * *

THE BIRD KING.

Dost thou the monarch eagle seek? Thou'lt find him in the tempest's maw, Where thunders with tornadoes speak, And forests fly as though of straw; Or on some lightning-splintered peak, Sceptred with desolation's law, The shrubless mountain in his beak, The barren desert in his claw.

ALGER'S Oriental Poetry.

* * * * *

SHADOWS OF BIRDS.

In darkened air, alone with pain, I lay. Like links of heavy chain The minutes sounded, measuring day, And slipping lifelessly away. Sudden across my silent room A shadow darker than its gloom Swept swift; a shadow slim and small, Which poised and darted on the wall, And vanished quickly as it came. A shadow, yet it lit like flame; A shadow, yet I heard it sing, And heard the rustle of its wing, Till every pulse with joy was stirred; It was the shadow of a bird!

Only the shadow! Yet it made Full summer everywhere it strayed; And every bird I ever knew Back and forth in the summer flew, And breezes wafted over me The scent of every flower and tree; Till I forgot the pain and gloom And silence of my darkened room. Now, in the glorious open air I watch the birds fly here and there; And wonder, as each swift wing cleaves The sky, if some poor soul that grieves In lonely, darkened, silent walls, Will catch the shadow as it falls!

H. H.

* * * * *

THE BIRD AND THE SHIP.

"The rivers rush into the sea, By castle and town they go; The winds behind them merrily Their noisy trumpets blow.

"The clouds are passing far and high, We little birds in them play; And everything, that can sing and fly, Goes with us, and far away.

"I greet thee, bonny boat! Whither or whence, With thy fluttering golden band?" "I greet thee, little bird! To the wide sea, I haste from the narrow land.

"Full and swollen is every sail; I see no longer a hill, I have trusted all to the sounding gale, And it will not let me stand still.

"And wilt thou, little bird, go with us? Thou mayest stand on the mainmast tall, For full to sinking is my house With merry companions all."

"I need not and seek not company, Bonny boat, I can sing all alone; For the mainmast tall too heavy am I, Bonny boat, I have wings of my own.

"High over the sails, high over the mast, Who shall gainsay these joys? When thy merry companions are still, at last, Thou shalt hear the sound of my voice.

"Who neither may rest, nor listen may, God bless them every one! I dart away, in the bright blue day, And the golden fields of the sun.

"Thus do I sing my weary song, Wherever the four winds blow; And this same song, my whole life long, Neither Poet nor Printer may know."

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

A MYTH.

Afloating, afloating Across the sleeping sea, All night I heard a singing bird Upon the topmast tree.

"Oh, came you from the isles of Greece, Or from the banks of Seine? Or off some tree in forests free That fringe the western main?"

"I came not off the old world, Nor yet from off the new; But I am one of the birds of God Which sing the whole night through."

"Oh, sing and wake the dawning! Oh, whistle for the wind! The night is long, the current strong, My boat it lags behind."

"The current sweeps the old world, The current sweeps the new; The wind will blow, the dawn will glow, Ere thou hast sailed them through."

C. KINGSLEY.

* * * * *

THE DOG.

* * * * *

CUVIER ON THE DOG.

"The domestic dog," says Cuvier, "is the most complete, the most singular, and the most useful conquest that man has gained in the animal world. The whole species has become our property; each individual belongs entirely to his master, acquires his disposition, knows and defends his property, and remains attached to him until death; and all this, not through constraint or necessity, but purely by the influences of gratitude and real attachment. The swiftness, the strength, the sharp scent of the dog, have rendered him a powerful ally to man against the lower tribes; and were, perhaps, necessary for the establishment of the dominion of mankind over the whole animal creation. The dog is the only animal which has followed man over the whole earth."

* * * * *

A HINDOO LEGEND.

In the Mahabharata, one of the two great Hindoo poems, and of unknown antiquity, there is a recognition of the obligation of man to a dependent creature not surpassed in pathos in all literature.

We copy only such portions of the legend as bear upon this point.

The hero, Yudhistthira, leaves his home to go to Mount Meru, among the Himalayas, to find Indra's heaven and the rest he so much desired; and with him,

"The five brothers set forth, and Draupadi, and the seventh was a dog that followed them."

On the way the Princess Draupadi perished, and, after her, one brother after another, until all had died, and the hero reached his journey's end accompanied only by his dog.

Lo! suddenly, with a sound which rang through heaven and earth, Indra came riding on his chariot, and he cried to the king, "Ascend!" Then, indeed, did the lord of justice look back to his fallen brothers, And thus unto Indra he spoke, with a sorrowful heart: "Let my brothers, who yonder lie fallen, go with me; Not even unto thy heaven would I enter, if they were not there. And yon fair-faced daughter of a king, Draupadi the all-deserving, Let her too enter with us! O Indra, approve my prayer!"

INDRA.

In heaven thou shalt find thy brothers,—they are already there before thee; There are they all, with Draupadi; weep not, then, O son of Bharata! Thither have they entered, prince, having thrown away their mortal weeds; But thou alone shalt enter still wearing thy body of flesh.

YUDHISTTHIRA.

O Indra, and what of this dog? It hath faithfully followed me through; Let it go with me into heaven, for my soul is full of compassion.

INDRA.

Immortality and fellowship with me, and the height of joy and felicity, All these hast thou reached to-day; leave, then, the dog behind thee.

YUDHISTTHIRA.

The good may oft act an evil part, but never a part like this; Away, then, with that felicity whose price is to abandon the faithful!

INDRA.

My heaven hath no place for dogs; they steal away our offerings on earth: Leave, then, thy dog behind thee, nor think in thy heart that it is cruel.

YUDHISTTHIRA.

To abandon the faithful and devoted is an endless crime, like the murder of a Brahmin; Never, therefore, come weal or woe, will I abandon yon faithful dog. Yon poor creature, in fear and distress, hath trusted in my power to save it: Not, therefore, for e'en life itself will I break my plighted word.

INDRA.

If a dog but beholds a sacrifice, men esteem it unholy and void; Forsake, then, the dog, O hero, and heaven is thine own as a reward. Already thou hast borne to forsake thy fondly loved brothers, and Draupadi; Why, then, forsakest thou not the dog? Wherefore now fails thy heart?

YUDHISTTHIRA.

Mortals, when they are dead, are dead to love or hate,—so runs the world's belief; I could not bring them back to life, but while they lived I never left them. To oppress the suppliant, to kill a wife, to rob a Brahmin, and to betray one's friend, These are the four great crimes; and to forsake a dependent I count equal to them.

ALGER'S Oriental Poetry.

* * * * *

ULYSSES AND ARGUS.

This story, from the Odyssey, is also of an unknown antiquity. Ulysses, after many years of absence, returns to his home to find himself unrecognized by his family. With Eumaeus Ulysses walked about the familiar grounds:

Thus near the gates conferring as they drew, Argus, the dog, his ancient master knew; He, not unconscious of the voice and tread, Lifts to the sound his ear, and rears his head; Bred by Ulysses, nourished at his board, But, ah! not fated long to please his lord! To him, his swiftness and his strength were vain; The voice of glory called him o'er the main. Till then, in every sylvan chase renowned, With Argus, Argus, rung the woods around: With him the youth pursued the goat or fawn, Or traced the mazy leveret o'er the lawn; Now left to man's ingratitude he lay, Unhoused, neglected in the public way.

He knew his lord: he knew, and strove to meet; In vain he strove to crawl, and kiss his feet; Yet (all he could) his tail, his ears, his eyes. Salute his master, and confess his joys. Soft pity touched the mighty master's soul; Adown his cheek a tear unhidden stole, Stole unperceived: he turned his head and dried The drop humane: then thus impassioned cried:

"What noble beast in this abandoned state Lies here all helpless at Ulysses' gate? His bulk and beauty speak no vulgar praise: If, as he seems, he was in better days, Some care his age deserves; or was he prized For worthless beauty? therefore now despised: Such dogs and men there are, mere things of state, And always cherished by their friends the great."

Not Argus so (Eumaeus thus rejoined), But served a master of a nobler kind, Who never, never, shall behold him more! Long, long since perished on a distant shore! Oh, had you seen him, vigorous, bold, and young, Swift as a stag, and as a lion strong: Him no fell savage on the plain withstood, None 'scaped him bosomed in the gloomy wood; His eye how piercing, and his scent how true, To wind the vapor in the tainted dew! Such, when Ulysses left his natal coast: Now years unnerve him, and his lord is lost.

Odyssey, Pope's translation.

* * * * *

TOM.

Yes, Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew. 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 The sound of his mother's voice shrieking his name 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 beams leaned in—they saw him—then, crash, Down came the wall! The men made a dash,— 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.

* * * * *

WILLIAM OF ORANGE SAVED BY HIS DOG.

On the night of the 11th and 12th of September, 1572, a chosen band of six hundred Spaniards made an attack within the lines of the Dutch army. The sentinels were cut down, the whole army surprised and for a moment powerless. The Prince of Orange and his guards were in profound sleep; "but a small spaniel dog," says Mr. Motley, "who always passed the night upon his bed, was a most faithful sentinel. The creature sprang forward, barking furiously at the sound of hostile footsteps, and scratching his master's face with his paws. There was but just time for the Prince to mount a horse which was ready saddled, and to effect his escape through the darkness, before his enemies sprang into the tent. His servants were cut down, his master of the horse and two of his secretaries, who gained their saddles a moment later, all lost their lives, and but for the little dog's watchfulness, William of Orange, upon whose shoulders the whole weight of his country's fortune depended, would have been led within a week to an ignominious death. To his death, the Prince ever afterwards kept a spaniel of the same race in his bed-chamber."

MOTLEY'S Rise of the Dutch Republic.

* * * * *

The mausoleum of William the Silent is at Delft. It is a sort of small temple in black and white marble, loaded with ornaments and sustained by columns between which are four statues representing Liberty, Providence, Justice, and Religion. Upon the sarcophagus lies the figure of the Prince in white marble, and at his feet the effigy of the little dog that saved his life at the siege of Malines.

DE AMICIS' Holland.

* * * * *

THE BLOODHOUND.

Come, Herod, my hound, from the stranger's floor! Old friend—we must wander the world once more! For no one now liveth to welcome us back; So, come!—let us speed on our fated track. What matter the region,—what matter the weather, So you and I travel, till death, together? And in death?—why, e'en there I may still be found By the side of my beautiful black bloodhound.

We've traversed the desert, we've traversed the sea, And we've trod on the heights where the eagles be; Seen Tartar, and Arab, and swart Hindoo; (How thou pull'dst down the deer in those skies of blue;) No joy did divide us; no peril could part The man from his friend of the noble heart; Aye, his friend; for where, where shall there ever be found A friend like his resolute, fond bloodhound?

What, Herod, old hound! dost remember the day When I fronted the wolves like a stag at bay? When downward they galloped to where we stood, Whilst I staggered with fear in the dark pine wood? Dost remember their howlings? their horrible speed? God, God! how I prayed for a friend in need! And—he came! Ah, 'twas then, my dear Herod, I found That the best of all friends was my bold bloodhound.

Men tell us, dear friend, that the noble hound Must forever be lost in the worthless ground: Yet "Courage," "Fidelity," "Love" (they say), Bear Man, as on wings, to his skies away. Well, Herod—go tell them whatever may be, I'll hope I may ever be found by thee. If in sleep,—in sleep; if with skies around, Mayst thou follow e'en thither, my dear bloodhound!

BARRY CORNWALL.

* * * * *

HELVELLYN.

This fine poem was suggested by the affection of a dog, which kept watch over the dead body of its master until found by friends three months afterwards. The young man had lost his way on Helvellyn. Time, 1805.

I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide; All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling, And starting around me the echoes replied. On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending, And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died.

Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain heather, Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay. Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended, The much-loved remains of her master defended, And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start? How many long days and long weeks didst thou number, Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? And, oh! was it meet, that—no requiem read o'er him— No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him— Unhonored the Pilgrim from life should depart?

When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded, The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall; With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming; In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming, Far adown the long isle the sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a Chief of the People should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb, When, 'wildered he drops from some cliff huge in stature, And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam.

WALTER SCOTT.

* * * * *

LLEWELLYN AND HIS DOG.

The spearmen heard the bugle sound, And cheerily smiled the morn, And many a brach, and many a hound, Attend Llewellyn's horn. And still he blew a louder blast, And gave a louder cheer; "Come, Gelert! why art thou the last, Llewellyn's horn to hear?

"Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam? The flower of all his race! So true, so brave—a lamb at home, A lion in the chase!" That day Llewellyn little loved The chase of hart or hare; And scant and small the booty proved, For Gelert was not there.

Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied, When near the portal seat, His truant Gelert he espied, Bounding his lord to greet. But when he gained the castle door, Aghast the chieftain stood: The hound was smeared with drops of gore; His lips and fangs ran blood.

Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise, Unused such looks to meet; His favorite checked his joyful guise, And crouched and licked his feet. Onward in haste Llewellyn passed, (And on went Gelert too;) And still, where'er his eyes were cast, Fresh blood-drops shocked his view.

O'erturned his infant's bed he found, The blood-stained cover rent And all around the walls and ground With recent blood besprent. He called his child—no voice replied; He searched—with terror wild; Blood! blood! he found on every side, But nowhere found the child!

"Monster, by thee my child's devoured!" The frantic father cried, And to the hilt his vengeful sword He plunged in Gelert's side. His suppliant, as to earth he fell, No pity could impart; But still his Gelert's dying yell, Passed heavy o'er his heart.

Aroused by Gelert's dying yell, Some slumberer wakened nigh: What words the parent's joy can tell To hear his infant cry! Concealed beneath a mangled heap His hurried search had missed: All glowing from his rosy sleep, His cherub boy he kissed.

Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread; But the same couch beneath Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead— Tremendous still in death. Ah, what was then Llewellyn's pain! For now the truth was clear; The gallant hound the wolf had slain To save Llewellyn's heir.

Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe— "Best of thy kind, adieu! The frantic deed which laid thee low This heart shall ever rue." And now a gallant tomb they raise, With costly sculpture decked; And marbles, storied with his praise, Poor Gelert's bones protect.

Here never could the spearman pass, Or forester unmoved; Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass Llewellyn's sorrow proved. And here he hung his horn and spear; And oft, as evening fell, In fancy's piercing sounds would hear Poor Gelert's dying yell.

SPENSER.

* * * * *

LOOKING FOR PEARLS.

AN ORIENTAL LEGEND.

The Master came one evening to the gate Of a far city; it was growing late, And sending his disciples to buy food, He wandered forth intent on doing good, As was his wont. And in the market-place He saw a crowd, close gathered in one space, Gazing with eager eyes upon the ground. Jesus drew nearer, and thereon he found A noisome creature, a bedraggled wreck,— A dead dog with a halter round his neck. And those who stood by mocked the object there, And one said scoffing, "It pollutes the air!" Another, jeering, asked, "How long to-night Shall such a miscreant cur offend our sight?" "Look at his torn hide," sneered a Jewish wit,— "You could not cut even a shoe from it," And turned away. "Behold his ears that bleed," A fourth chimed in; "an unclean wretch indeed!" "He hath been hanged for thieving," they all cried, And spurned the loathsome beast from side to side. Then Jesus, standing by them in the street, Looked on the poor spent creature at his feet, And, bending o'er him, spake unto the men, "Pearls are not whiter than his teeth." And then The people at each other gazed, asking, "Who is this stranger pitying the vile thing?" Then one exclaimed, with awe-abated breath, "This surely is the Man of Nazareth; This must be Jesus, for none else but he Something to praise in a dead dog could see!" And, being ashamed, each scoffer bowed his head, And from the sight of Jesus turned and fled.

ALGER'S Eastern Poetry.

* * * * *

ROVER.

"Kind traveller, do not pass me by, And thus a poor old dog forsake; But stop a moment on your way, And hear my woe for pity's sake!

"My name is Rover; yonder house Was once my home for many a year; My master loved me; every hand Caressed young Rover, far and near.

"The children rode upon my back, And I could hear my praises sung; With joy I licked their pretty feet, As round my shaggy sides they clung.

"I watched them while they played or slept; I gave them all I had to give: My strength was theirs from morn till night; For them I only cared to live.

"Now I am old, and blind, and lame, They've turned me out to die alone, Without a shelter for my head, Without a scrap of bread or bone.

"This morning I can hardly crawl, While shivering in the snow and hail; My teeth are dropping, one by one; I scarce have strength to wag my tail.

"I'm palsied grown with mortal pains, My withered limbs are useless now; My voice is almost gone you see, And I can hardly make my bow.

"Perhaps you'll lead me to a shed Where I may find some friendly straw On which to lay my aching limbs, And rest my helpless, broken paw.

"Stranger, excuse this story long, And pardon, pray, my last appeal; You've owned a dog yourself, perhaps, And learned that dogs, like men, can feel."

Yes, poor old Rover, come with me; Food, with warm shelter, I'll supply; And Heaven forgive the cruel souls Who drove you forth to starve and die!

J. T. FIELDS.

* * * * *

TO MY DOG "BLANCO."

My dear dumb friend, low lying there, A willing vassal at my feet, Glad partner of my home and fare, My shadow in the street.

I look into your great brown eyes, Where love and loyal homage shine, And wonder where the difference lies Between your soul and mine!

For all of good that I have found Within myself or humankind, Hath royalty informed and crowned Your gentle heart and mind.

I scan the whole broad earth around For that one heart which, leal and true, Bears friendship without end or bound, And find the prize in you.

I trust you as I trust the stars; Nor cruel loss, nor scoff of pride, Nor beggary, nor dungeon-bars, Can move you from my side!

As patient under injury As any Christian saint of old, As gentle as a lamb with me, But with your brothers bold;

More playful than a frolic boy, More watchful than a sentinel, By day and night your constant joy, To guard and please me well:

I clasp your head upon my breast— And while you whine and lick my hand— And thus our friendship is confessed And thus we understand!

Ah, Blanco! did I worship God As truly as you worship me, Or follow where my master trod With your humility;

Did I sit fondly at His feet, As you, dear Blanco, sit at mine, And watch him with a love as sweet, My life would grow divine!

J. G. HOLLAND.

* * * * *

THE BEGGAR AND HIS DOG.

"Pay down three dollars for my hound! May lightning strike me to the ground! What mean the Messieurs of police? And when and where shall this mockery cease?

"I am a poor, old, sickly man, And earn a penny I no wise can; I have no money, I have no bread, And live upon hunger and want, instead.

"Who pitied me, when I grew sick and poor, And neighbors turned me from their door? And who, when I was left alone In God's wide world, made my fortunes his own?

"Who loved me, when I was weak and old? And warmed me, when I was numb with cold? And who, when I in poverty pined, Has shared my hunger and never whined?

"Here is the noose, and here the stone, And there the water—it must be done! Come hither, poor Pomp, and look not on me, One kick—it is over—and thou art free!"

As over his head he lifted the band, The fawning dog licked his master's hand; Back in an instant the noose he drew, And round his own neck in a twinkling threw.

The dog sprang after him into the deep, His howlings startled the sailors from sleep; Moaning and twitching he showed them the spot: They found the beggar, but life was not!

They laid him silently in the ground, His only mourner the whimpering hound Who stretched himself out on the grave and cried Like an orphan child—and so he died.

Chamisso, tr. by C. T. BROOKS.

* * * * *

DON.

This is Don, the dog of dogs, sir, Just as lions outrank frogs, sir, Just as the eagles are superior To buzzards and that tribe inferior.

He's a shepherd lad—a beauty— And to praise him seems a duty, But it puts my pen to shame, sir, When his virtues I would name, sir. "Don! come here and bend your head now, Let us see your best well-bred bow!" Was there ever such a creature! Common sense in every feature! "Don! rise up and look around you!" Blessings on the day we found you.

Sell him! well, upon my word, sir, That's a notion too absurd, sir. Would I sell our little Ally, Barter Tom, dispose of Sally? Think you I'd negotiate For my wife, at any rate?

Sell our Don! you're surely joking, And 'tis fun at us you're poking! Twenty voyages we've tried, sir, Sleeping, waking, side by side, sir, And Don and I will not divide, sir; He's my friend, that's why I love him,— And no mortal dog's above him!

He prefers a life aquatic, But never dog was less dogmatic. Years ago when I was master Of a tight brig called the Castor, Don and I were bound for Cadiz, With the loveliest of ladies And her boy—a stalwart, hearty, Crowing one-year infant party, Full of childhood's myriad graces, Bubbling sunshine in our faces As we bowled along so steady, Half-way home, or more, already.

How the sailors loved our darling! No more swearing, no more snarling; On their backs, when not on duty, Round they bore the blue-eyed beauty,— Singing, shouting, leaping, prancing,— All the crew took turns in dancing; Every tar playing Punchinello With the pretty, laughing fellow; Even the second mate gave sly winks At the noisy mid-day high jinks. Never was a crew so happy With a curly-headed chappy, Never were such sports gigantic, Never dog with joy more antic.

While thus jolly, all together, There blew up a change of weather, Nothing stormy, but quite breezy, And the wind grew damp and wheezy, Like a gale in too low spirits To put forth one half its merits, But, perchance, a dry-land ranger Might suspect some kind of danger.

Soon our stanch and gallant vessel With the waves began to wrestle, And to jump about a trifle, Sometimes kicking like a rifle When 'tis slightly overloaded, But by no means nigh exploded.

'Twas the coming on of twilight, As we stood abaft the skylight, Scampering round to please the baby, (Old Bill Benson held him, maybe,) When the youngster stretched his fingers Towards the spot where sunset lingers, And with strong and sudden motion Leaped into the weltering ocean! "What did Don do?" Can't you guess, sir? He sprang also—by express, sir; Seized the infant's little dress, sir, Held the baby's head up boldly From the waves that rushed so coldly; And in just about a minute Our boat had them safe within it.

Sell him! Would you sell your brother? Don and I love one another.

J. T. FIELDS.

* * * * *

GEIST'S GRAVE.

Four years!—and didst thou stay above The ground, which hides thee now, but four? And all that life, and all that love, Were crowded, Geist! into no more?

Only four years those winning ways, Which make me for thy presence yearn, Called us to pet thee or to praise, Dear little friend! at every turn?

That loving heart, that patient soul, Had they indeed no longer span, To run their course, and reach their goal, And read their homily to man?

That liquid, melancholy eye, From whose pathetic, soul-fed springs Seemed surging the Virgilian cry.[1] The sense of tears in mortal things—

That steadfast, mournful strain, consoled By spirits gloriously gay, And temper of heroic mould— What, was four years their whole short day?

Yes, only four!—and not the course Of all the centuries to come, And not the infinite resource Of nature, with her countless sum.

Of figures, with her fulness vast Of new creation evermore, Can ever quite repeat the past, Or just thy little self restore.

Stern law of every mortal lot! Which man, proud man, finds hard to bear, And builds himself I know not what Of second life I know not where.

But thou, when struck thine hour to go, On us, who stood despondent by, A meek last glance of love didst throw, And humbly lay thee down to die.

Yet would we keep thee in our heart— Would fix our favorite on the scene, Nor let thee utterly depart And be as if thou ne'er hadst been.

And so there rise these lines of verse On lips that rarely form them now; While to each other we rehearse: Such ways, such arts, such looks hast thou!

We stroke thy broad, brown paws again, We bid thee to thy vacant chair, We greet thee by the window-pane, We hear thy scuffle on the stair;

We see the flaps of thy large ears Quick raised to ask which way we go: Crossing the frozen lake appears Thy small black figure on the snow!

Nor to us only art thou dear Who mourn thee in thine English home; Thou hast thine absent master's tear, Dropt by the far Australian foam.

Thy memory lasts both here and there, And thou shalt live as long as we. And after that—thou dost not care? In us was all the world to thee.

Yet fondly zealous for thy fame, Even to a date beyond thine own We strive to carry down thy name, By mounded turf, and graven stone.

We lay thee, close within our reach, Here, where the grass is smooth and warm, Between the holly and the beech, Where oft we watched thy couchant form,

Asleep, yet lending half an ear To travellers on the Portsmouth road— There choose we thee, O guardian dear, Marked with a stone, thy last abode!

Then some, who through the garden pass, When we too, like thyself, are clay, Shall see thy grave upon the grass, And stop before the stone, and say:—

People who lived here long ago Did by this stone, it seems, intend To name for future times to know The dachs-hound, Geist, their little friend.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

[1] Sunt lacrimae rerum.

* * * * *

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVORITE OLD SPANIEL.

Poor old friend, how earnestly Would I have pleaded for thee! thou hadst been Still the companion of my boyish sports; And as I roamed o'er Avon's woody cliffs, From many a day-dream has thy short, quick bark Recalled my wandering soul. I have beguiled Often the melancholy hours at school, Soured by some little tyrant, with the thought Of distant home, and I remembered then Thy faithful fondness; for not mean the joy, Returning at the happy holidays, I felt from thy dumb welcome. Pensively Sometimes have I remarked thy slow decay, Feeling myself changed too, and musing much On many a sad vicissitude of life. Ah, poor companion! when thou followedst last Thy master's parting footsteps to the gate Which closed forever on him, thou didst lose Thy truest friend, and none was left to plead For the old age of brute fidelity. But fare thee well! Mine is no narrow creed; And He who gave thee being did not frame The mystery of life to be the sport Of merciless man. There is another world For all that live and move—a better one! Where the proud bipeds, who would fain confine Infinite Goodness to the little bounds Of their own charity, may envy thee.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

* * * * *

EPITAPH IN GREY FRIARS' CHURCHYARD.

The monument erected at Edinburgh to the memory of "Grey Friars' Bobby" by the Baroness Burdett-Coutts has a Greek inscription by Professor Blackie. The translation is as follows:

This monument was erected by a noble lady, THE BARONESS BURDETT-COUTTS, to the memory of GREY FRIARS' BOBBY, a faithful and affectionate LITTLE DOG, who followed the remains of his beloved master to the churchyard, in the year 1858, and became a constant visitor to the grave, refusing to be separated from the spot until he died in the year 1872.

* * * * *

FROM AN INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.

When some proud son of man returns to earth, Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe, And storied urns record who rests below; When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, Not what he was, but what he should have been: But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still his master's own, Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, Unhonored falls, unnoticed all his worth, Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth.

* * * * *

Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn, Pass on,—it honors none you wish to mourn; To mark a friend's remains these stones arise; I never knew but one,—and here he lies.

LORD BYRON, 1808.

* * * * *

THE DOG.

Poor friend and sport of man, like him unwise, Away! Thou standest to his heart too near, Too close for careless rest or healthy cheer; Almost in thee the glad brute nature dies. Go scour the fields in wilful enterprise, Lead the free chase, leap, plunge into the mere, Herd with thy fellows, stay no longer here, Seeking thy law and gospel in men's eyes.

He cannot go; love holds him fast to thee; More than the voices of his kind thy word Lives in his heart; for him thy very rod Has flowers: he only in thy will is free. Cast him not out, the unclaimed savage herd Would turn and rend him, pining for his God.

EMILY PFEIFFER.

* * * * *

JOHNNY'S PRIVATE ARGUMENT.

A poor little tramp of a doggie, one day, Low-spirited, weary, and sad, From a crowd of rude urchins ran limping away, And followed a dear little lad. Whose round, chubby face, with the merry eyes blue, Made doggie think, "Here is a good boy and true!"

So, wagging his tail and expressing his views With a sort of affectionate whine, Johnny knew he was saying, "Dear boy, if you choose, To be any dog's master, be mine." And Johnny's blue eyes opened wide with delight, And he fondled the doggie and hugged him so tight.

But alas! on a day that to Johnny was sad, A newspaper notice he read, "Lost a dog: limped a little, and also he had A spot on the top of his head. Whoever returns him to me may believe A fair compensation he'll surely receive."

Johnny didn't want money, not he; 'twasn't that That made him just sit down to think, And made a grave look on his rosy face fat, And made those blue eyes of his wink To keep back the tears that were ready to flow, As he thought to himself, "Must the dear doggie go?"

'Twas an argument Johnny was holding just there With his own little conscience so true. "It is plain," whispered conscience, "that if you'd be fair, There is only one thing you can do; Restore to his owner the dog; don't delay, But attend to your duty at once, and to-day!"

No wonder he sat all so silent and still, Forgetting to fondle his pet— The poor little boy thinking hard with a will; While thought doggie, "What makes him forget, I wonder, to frolic and play with me now, And why does he wear such a sorrowful brow?"

Well, how did it end? Johnny's battle was fought, And the victory given to him: The dearly-loved pet to his owner was brought, Tho' it made little Johnny's eyes dim. But a wag of his tail doggie gives to this day Whenever our Johnny is passing that way.

MARY D. BRINE.

* * * * *

THE HARPER.

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I; No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part, She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart), Oh, remember your Sheelah when far, far away! And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.

Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure; He constantly loved me although I was poor; When the sour-looking folks turned me heartless away, I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.

When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold, And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old, How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray! And he licked me for kindness,—my poor dog Tray.

Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case, Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face; But he died at my feet on a cold winter day, And I played a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.

Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind? Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind? To my sweet native village, so far, far away, I can never return with my poor dog Tray.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

"FLIGHT."

Never again shall her leaping welcome Hail my coming at eventide; Never again shall her glancing footfall Range the fallow from side to side. Under the raindrops, under the snowflakes, Down in a narrow and darksome bed, Safe from sorrow, or fear, or loving, Lieth my beautiful, still and dead.

Mouth of silver, and skin of satin, Foot as fleet as an arrow's flight, Statue-still at the call of "steady," Eyes as clear as the stars of night. Laughing breadths of the yellow stubble Now shall rustle to alien tread, And rabbits run in the dew-dim clover Safe—for my beautiful lieth dead.

"Only a dog!" do you say, Sir Critic? Only a dog, but as truth I prize, The truest love I have won in living Lay in the deeps of her limpid eyes. Frosts of winter nor heat of summer Could make her fail if my footsteps led; And memory holds in its treasure-casket The name of my darling who lieth dead.

S. M. A. C. in Evening Post.

* * * * *

THE IRISH WOLF-HOUND.

As fly the shadows o'er the grass, He flies with step as light and sure. He hunts the wolf through Tostan Pass, And starts the deer by Lisanoure. The music of the Sabbath bells, O Con! has not a sweeter sound, Than when along the valley swells The cry of John McDonnell's hound.

His stature tall, his body long, His back like night, his breast like snow, His fore leg pillar-like and strong, His hind leg bended like a bow; Rough, curling hair, head long and thin, His ear a leaf so small and round; Not Bran, the favorite dog of Fin, Could rival John McDonnell's hound.

DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY.

* * * * *

SIX FEET.

My little rough dog and I Live a life that is rather rare, We have so many good walks to take, And so few bad things to bear; So much that gladdens and recreates, So little of wear and tear.

Sometimes it blows and rains, But still the six feet ply; No care at all to the following four If the leading two knows why, 'Tis a pleasure to have six feet we think, My little rough dog and I.

And we travel all one way; 'Tis a thing we should never do, To reckon the two without the four, Or the four without the two; It would not be right if any one tried, Because it would not be true.

And who shall look up and say, That it ought not so to be, Though the earth that is heaven enough for him, Is less than that to me, For a little rough dog can wake a joy That enters eternity.

Humane Journal.

* * * * *

THERE'S ROOM ENOUGH FOR ALL.

Ah, Rover, by those lustrous eyes That follow me with longing gaze, Which sometimes seem so human-wise, I look for human speech and ways. By your quick instinct, matchless love, Your eager welcome, mute caress, That all my heart's emotions move, And loneliest moods and hours bless, I do believe, my dog, that you Have some beyond, some future new.

Why not? In heaven's inheritance Space must be cheap where worldly light In boundless, limitless expanse Rolls grandly far from human sight. He who has given such patient care, Such constancy, such tender trust, Such ardent zeal, such instincts rare, And made you something more than dust, May yet release the speechless thrall At death—there's room enough for all.

Our Continent.

* * * * *

HIS FAITHFUL DOG.

Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutored mind Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; His soul proud science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk, or milky way; Yet simple nature to his hope has given, Behind the cloud-topped hill, an humbler heaven; Some safer world in depth of woods embraced, Some happier island in the watery waste, Where slaves once more their native land behold, No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. To be, contents his natural desire, He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire; But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company.

POPE.

* * * * *

THE FAITHFUL HOUND.

A traveller, by the faithful hound, Half-buried in the snow was found, Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange device, Excelsior!

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

MISCELLANEOUS.

* * * * *

THE SPIDER'S LESSON.

Robert, the Bruce, in his dungeon stood, Waiting the hour of doom; Behind him the palace of Holyrood, Before him—a nameless tomb. And the foam on his lip was flecked with red, As away to the past his memory sped, Upcalling the day of his past renown, When he won and he wore the Scottish crown: Yet come there shadow or come there shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine.

"Time and again I have fronted the tide Of the tyrant's vast array, But only to see on the crimson tide My hopes swept far away;— Now a landless chief and a crownless king, On the broad, broad earth not a living thing To keep me court, save this insect small, Striving to reach from wall to wall:" For come there shadow or come there shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine.

"Work! work like a fool, to the certain loss, Like myself, of your time and pain; The space is too wide to be bridged across, You but waste your strength in vain!" And Bruce for the moment forgot his grief, His soul now filled with the sure belief That, howsoever the issue went, For evil or good was the omen sent: And come there shadow or come there shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine.

As a gambler watches the turning card On which his all is staked,— As a mother waits for the hopeful word For which her soul has ached,— It was thus Bruce watched, with every sense Centred alone in that look intense; All rigid he stood, with scattered breath— Now white, now red, but as still as death: Yet come there shadow or come there shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine.

Six several times the creature tried, When at the seventh, "See, see! He has spanned it over!" the captive cried; "Lo! a bridge of hope to me; Thee, God, I thank, for this lesson here Has tutored my soul to PERSEVERE!" And it served him well, for erelong he wore In freedom the Scottish crown once more: And come there shadow or come there shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine.

JOHN BROUGHAM.

* * * * *

THE SPIDER AND STORK.

Who taught the natives of the field and flood To shun their poison and to choose their food? Prescient, the tides or tempests to withstand, Build on the wave, or arch beneath the sand? Who made the spider parallels design Sure as De Moivre, without rule or line? Who bid the stork Columbus-like explore Heavens not his own, and worlds unknown before? WHO CALLS THE COUNCIL, STATES THE CERTAIN DAY, WHO FORMS THE PHALANX, AND WHO POINTS THE WAY?

POPE.

* * * * *

THE HOMESTEAD AT EVENING.—EVANGELINE'S BEAUTIFUL HEIFER.

Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness. Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead. Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other, And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening. Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer, Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar, Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection. Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside, Where was their favorite pasture. Behind them followed the watch-dog, Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct, Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers; Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector, When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves howled. Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes, Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor, Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks, While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles, Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson, Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms. Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders Unto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in regular cadence Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended. Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard, Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness; Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors, Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent.

H. W. LONGFELLOW: Evangeline.

* * * * *

THE CATTLE OF A HUNDRED FARMS.

And now, beset with many ills, A toilsome life I follow; Compelled to carry from the hills, These logs to the impatient mills, Below there in the hollow.

Yet something ever cheers and charms The rudeness of my labors; Daily I water with these arms The cattle of a hundred farms, And have the birds for neighbors.

H. W. LONGFELLOW: Mad River.

* * * * *

CAT-QUESTIONS.

Dozing, and dozing, and dozing! Pleasant enough, Dreaming of sweet cream and mouse-meat,— Delicate stuff!

Waked by a somerset, whirling From cushion to floor; Waked to a wild rush for safety From window to door.

Waking to hands that first smooth us, And then pull our tails; Punished with slaps when we show them The length of our nails!

These big mortal tyrants even grudge us A place on the mat. Do they think we enjoy for our music Staccatoes of "scat"?

To be treated, now, just as you treat us,— The question is pat,— To take just our chances in living, Would you be a cat?

LUCY LARCOM.

* * * * *

THE NEWSBOY'S CAT.

Want any papers, Mister? Wish you'd buy 'em of me— Ten year old, an' a fam'ly, An' bizness dull, you see. Fact, Boss! There's Tom, an' Tibby, An' Dad, an' Mam, an Mam's cat, None on 'em earning money— What do you think of that?

Couldn't Dad work? Why yes, Boss, He's working for gov'ment now,— They give him his board for nothin',— All along of a drunken row. An' Mam? Well, she's in the poorhouse,— Been there a year or so; So I'm taking care of the others, Doing as well as I know.

Oughtn't to live so? Why, Mister, What's a feller to do? Some nights, when I'm tired an' hungry, Seems as if each on 'em knew— They'll all three cuddle around me, Till I get cheery, and say: Well, p'raps I'll have sisters an' brothers, An' money an' clothes, too, some day.

But if I do git rich, Boss, (An' a lecturin' chap one night Said newsboys could be Presidents If only they acted right); So, if I was President, Mister, The very first thing I'd do, I'd buy poor Tom an' Tibby A dinner—an' Mam's cat, too!

None o' your scraps an' leavin's, But a good square meal for all three; If you think I'd skimp my friends, Boss, That shows you don't know me. So 'ere's your papers—come take one, Gimme a lift if you can— For now you've heard my story, You see I'm a fam'ly man!

E. T. CORBETT.

* * * * *

THE CHILD AND HER PUSSY.

I like little pussy, her coat is so warm, And if I don't hurt her, she'll do me no harm; So I'll not pull her tail, nor drive her away, But pussy and I very gently will play:

She shall sit by my side, and I'll give her some food; And she'll love me, because I am gentle and good. I'll pat little pussy, and then she will purr, And thus show her thanks for my kindness to her.

E. TAYLOR.

* * * * *

THE ALPINE SHEEP.

They in the valley's sheltering care, Soon crop the meadow's tender prime, And when the sod grows brown and bare, The shepherd strives to make them climb

To airy shelves of pastures green That hang along the mountain's side, Where grass and flowers together lean, And down through mists the sunbeams slide:

But nought can tempt the timid things The steep and rugged paths to try, Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings, And seared below the pastures lie,—

Till in his arms their lambs he takes Along the dizzy verge to go, Then heedless of the rifts and breaks They follow on o'er rock and snow.

And in those pastures lifted fair, More dewy soft than lowland mead, The shepherd drops his tender care, And sheep and lambs together feed.

MARIA LOWELL.

* * * * *

LITTLE LAMB.

Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? Gave thee life and made thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight,— Softest clothing, woolly, bright? Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice; Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee?

Little lamb, I'll tell thee; Little lamb, I'll tell thee; He is callen by thy name, For he calls himself a lamb. He is meek, and He is mild; He became a little child. I a child, and thou a lamb, We are called by His name. Little lamb, God bless thee! Little lamb, God bless thee!

WILLIAM BLAKE.

* * * * *

COWPER'S HARE.

Well—one at least is safe. One sheltered hare Has never heard the sanguinary yell Of cruel man, exulting in her woes. Innocent partner of my peaceful home, Whom ten long years' experience of my care Has made at last familiar, she has lost Much of her vigilant instinctive dread, Not needful here, beneath a roof like mine. Yes—thou mayst eat thy bread, and lick the hand That feeds thee; thou mayst frolic on the floor At evening, and at night retire secure To thy straw-couch, and slumber unalarmed; For I have gained thy confidence, have pledged All that is human in me to protect Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love. If I survive thee I will dig thy grave, And when I place thee in it, sighing say, I knew at least one hare that had a friend.

COWPER.

* * * * *

TURN THY HASTY FOOT ASIDE.

Turn, turn thy hasty foot aside, Nor crush that helpless worm! The frame thy wayward looks deride Required a God to form.

The common lord of all that move, From whom thy being flowed, A portion of his boundless love On that poor worm bestowed.

Let them enjoy their little day, Their humble bliss receive; Oh! do not lightly take away The life thou canst not give!

T. GISBORNE.

* * * * *

THE WORM TURNS.

I've despised you, old worm, for I think you'll admit That you never were beautiful even in youth; I've impaled you on hooks, and not felt it a bit; But all's changed now that Darwin has told us the truth Of your diligent life, and endowed you with fame: You begin to inspire me with kindly regard. I have friends of my own, clever worm, I could name, Who have ne'er in their lives been at work half so hard.

It appears that we owe you our acres of soil, That the garden could never exist without you, That from ages gone by you were patient in toil, Till a Darwin revealed all the good that you do. Now you've turned with a vengeance, and all must confess Your behavior should make poor humanity squirm; For there's many a man on this planet, I guess, Who is not half so useful as you, Mister worm.

PUNCH.

* * * * *

GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET.

Green little vaulter in the sunny grass, Catching your heart up at the feet of June, Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon, Whenever the bees lag at the summoning brass; And you, warm little housekeeper, who class With those who think the candles come too soon, Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune Nicks the glad silent moments as they pass.

O sweet and tidy cousins, that belong One to the fields, the other to the hearth, Both have your sunshine: both, though small, are strong At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth To ring in thoughtful ears this natural song— Indoors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.

LEIGH HUNT.

* * * * *

THE HONEY-BEES.

Therefore doth Heaven divide The state of man in divers functions, Setting endeavor in continual motion; To which is fixed, as an aim or butt, Obedience: for so work the honey-bees; Creatures, that, by a rule in nature, teach The act of order to a peopled kingdom. They have a king and officers of sorts: Where some, like magistrates, correct at home; Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings, Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds; Which pillage they with merry march bring home To the tent royal of their emperor: Who, busied in his majesty, surveys THE SINGING MASONS BUILDING ROOFS OF GOLD; The civil citizens kneading up the honey; The poor mechanic porters crowding in Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate; The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum, Delivering o'er to the executioner's pale The lazy, yawning drone.

SHAKESPEARE: Henry V., Act 1, Sc. 2.

* * * * *

CUNNING BEE.

Said a little wandering maiden To a bee with honey laden, "Bee, at all the flowers you work, Yet in some does poison lurk."

"That I know, my little maiden," Said the bee with honey laden; "But the poison I forsake, And the honey only take."

"Cunning bee with honey laden, That is right," replied the maiden; "So will I, from all I meet, Only draw the good and sweet."

ANON.

* * * * *

AN INSECT.

Only an insect; yet I know It felt the sunlight's golden glow, And the sweet morning made it glad With all the little heart it had.

It saw the shadows move; it knew The grass-blades glittered, wet with dew; And gayly o'er the ground it went; It had its fulness of content.

Some dainty morsel then it spied, And for the treasure turned aside; Then, laden with its little spoil, Back to its nest began to toil.

An insect formed of larger frame, Called man, along the pathway came. A ruthless foot aside he thrust, And ground the beetle in the dust.

Perchance no living being missed The life that there ceased to exist; Perchance the passive creature knew No wrong, nor felt the deed undue;

Yet its small share of life was given By the same hand that orders heaven. 'Twas for no other power to say, Or should it go or should it stay.

ANON.

* * * * *

THE CHIPMUNK.

I know an old couple that lived in a wood— Chipperee, chipperee, chip! And up in a tree-top their dwelling it stood— Chipperee, chipperee, chip! The summer it came, and the summer it went— Chipperee, chipperee, chip! And there they lived on, and they never paid rent— Chipperee, chipperee, chip!

Their parlor was lined with the softest of wool— Chipperee, chipperee, chip! Their kitchen was warm, and their pantry was full— Chipperee, chipperee, chip! And four little babies peeped out at the sky— Chipperee, chipperee, chip! You never saw darlings so pretty and shy— Chipperee, chipperee, chip!

Now winter came on with its frost and its snow— Chipperee, chipperee, chip! They cared not a bit when they heard the wind blow— Chipperee, chipperee, chip! For, wrapped in their furs, they all lay down to sleep— Chipperee, chipperee, chip! But oh, in the spring, how their bright eyes will peep— Chipperee, chipperee, chip!

UNKNOWN.

* * * * *

MOUNTAIN AND SQUIRREL.

The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel; And the former called the latter "Little Prig." Bun replied, "You are doubtless very big; But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together To make up a year And a sphere; And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I'm not so large as you, You are not so small as I, And not half so spry. I'll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track. Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut."

EMERSON.

* * * * *

TO A FIELD-MOUSE.

Wee sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin and chase thee Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken nature's social union, And justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion And fellow-mortal!

Thou saw the fields lay bare and waste And weary winter comin' fast, And cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till, crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell.

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane[2] In proving foresight may be bain: The best laid schemes o' mice and men Gang aft a-gley, And lea'e us nought but grief and vain, For promised joy.

BURNS.

[2] Not alone.

* * * * *

A SEA-SHELL.

See what a lovely shell, Small and pure as a pearl, Lying close to my foot. Frail, but a work divine, Made so fairily well With delicate spire and whorl. How exquisitely minute A miracle of design!

The tiny cell is forlorn, Void of the little living will That made it stir on the shore. Did he stand at the diamond door Of his house in a rainbow frill? Did he push when he was uncurled, A golden foot or a fairy horn Through his dim water-world?

Slight, to be crushed with a tap Of my finger-nail on the sand; Small, but a work divine: Frail, but of force to withstand, Year upon year, the shock Of cataract seas that snap The three-decker's oaken spine, Athwart the ledges of rock, Here on the Breton strand.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

* * * * *

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS.

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main,— The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed,— Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft steps its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—

"Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven within a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unwresting sea!"

O. W. HOLMES.

* * * * *

HIAWATHA'S BROTHERS.

When he heard the owls at midnight, Hooting, laughing in the forest, "What is that?" he cried in terror; "What is that?" he said, "Nokomis?" And the good Nokomis answered: "That is but the owl and owlet, Talking in their native language, Talking, scolding at each other." Then the little Hiawatha Learned of every bird its language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How they built their nests in Summer, Where they hid themselves in Winter, Talked with them whene'er he met them, Called them "Hiawatha's Chickens." Of all beasts he learned the language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How the beavers built their lodges, Where the squirrels hid their acorns, How the reindeer ran so swiftly, Why the rabbit was so timid, Talked with them whene'er he met them, Called them "Hiawatha's Brothers." Then Iagoo, the great boaster, He the marvellous story-teller, He the traveller and the talker, He the friend of old Nokomis, Made a bow for Hiawatha; From a branch of ash he made it, From an oak-bough made the arrows, Tipped with flint, and winged with feathers, And the cord he made of deer-skin. Then he said to Hiawatha: "Go, my son, into the forest, Where the red deer herd together, Kill for us a famous roebuck, Kill for us a deer with antlers!" Forth into the forest straightway All alone walked Hiawatha Proudly, with his bow and arrows; And the birds sang ruffed him, o'er him, "Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!" Sang the robin, the Opechee, Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, "Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!" Up the oak-tree, close beside him, Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo, In and out among the branches, Coughed and chattered from the oak-tree, Laughed, and said between his laughing, "Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!" And the rabbit from his pathway Leaped aside, and at a distance Sat erect upon his haunches, Half in fear and half in frolic, Saying to the little hunter, "Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!" But he heeded not, nor heard them, For his thoughts were with the red deer; On their tracks his eyes were fastened, Leading downward to the river, To the ford across the river, And as one in slumber walked he.

H. W. LONGFELLOW: Hiawatha.

* * * * *

UNOFFENDING CREATURES.

The Being that is in the clouds and air, That is in the green leaves among the groves, Maintains a deep and reverential care For the unoffending creatures whom he loves.

One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide, Taught both by what He shows, and what conceals, Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

WORDSWORTH.

* * * * *

SEPTEMBER.

And sooth to say, yon vocal grove Albeit uninspired by love, By love untaught to ring, May well afford to mortal ear An impulse more profoundly dear Than music of the spring.

But list! though winter storms be nigh Unchecked is that soft harmony: There lives Who can provide, For all his creatures: and in Him, Even like the radiant Seraphim, These choristers confide.

WORDSWORTH.

* * * * *

THE LARK.

Happy, happy liver, With a soul as strong as a mountain river, Pouring out praises to the Almighty Giver.

WORDSWORTH.

* * * * *

THE SWALLOW.

When weary, weary winter Hath melted into air, And April leaf and blossom Hath clothed the branches bare, Came round our English dwelling A voice of summer cheer: 'Twas thine, returning swallow, The welcome and the dear.

Far on the billowy ocean A thousand leagues are we, Yet here, sad hovering o'er our bark, What is it that we see? Dear old familiar swallow, What gladness dost thou bring: Here rest upon our flowing sail Thy weary, wandering wing.

MRS. HOWITT.

* * * * *

RETURNING BIRDS.

Birds, joyous birds of the wandering wing Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring? "We come from the shores of the green old Nile, From the land where the roses of Sharon smile, From the palms that wave through the Indian sky, From the myrrh trees of glowing Araby."

MRS. HEMANS.

* * * * *

THE BIRDS.

With elegies of love Make vocal every spray.

CUNNINGHAM.

* * * * *

THRUSH.

Whither hath the wood thrush flown From our greenwood bowers? Wherefore builds he not again Where the wild thorn flowers?

Bid him come! for on his wings The sunny year he bringeth, And the heart unlocks its springs Wheresoe'er he singeth.

BARRY CORNWALL.

* * * * *

LINNET.

Within the bush her covert nest A little linnet fondly prest, The dew sat chilly on her breast Sae early in the morning.

She soon shall see her tender brood The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, Among the fresh green leaves bedewed, Awake the early morning.

BURNS.

* * * * *

NIGHTINGALE.

But thee no wintry skies can harm Who only needs to sing To make even January charm And every season Spring.

COWPER.

* * * * *

SONGSTERS.

Little feathered songsters of the air In woodlands tuneful woo and fondly pair.

SAVAGE.

* * * * *

MOHAMMEDANISM.

THE CATTLE.[3]

The "Chapter of the Cattle:" Heaven is whose, And whose is earth? Say Allah's, That did choose On His own might to lay the law of mercy. He, at the Resurrection, will not lose

One of His own. What falleth, night or day, Falleth by His Almighty word alway. Wilt thou have any other Lord than Allah, Who is not fed, but feedeth all flesh? Say!

For if He visit thee with woe, none makes The woe to cease save He; and if He takes Pleasure to send thee pleasure, He is Master Over all gifts; nor doth His thought forsake

The creatures of the field, nor fowls that fly; They are "a people" also: "These, too, I Have set," the Lord saith, "in My book of record; These shall be gathered to Me by and by."

With Him of all things secret are the keys; None other hath them, but He hath; and sees Whatever is in land, or air, or water, Each bloom that blows, each foam-bell on the seas.

E. ARNOLD: Pearls of the Faith.

[3] Koran, chap. vi.

* * * * *

I cannot believe that any creature was created for uncompensated misery; it would be contrary to God's mercy and justice.

MARY SOMERVILLE.

* * * * *

THE SPIDER AND THE DOVE.

The spider and the dove,—what thing is weak If Allah makes it strong? The spider and the dove! if He protect, Fear thou not foeman's wrong.

From Mecca to Medina fled our Lord, The horsemen followed fast; Into a cave to shun their murderous rage, Mohammed, weary, passed.

Quoth Aba Bekr, "If they see me die!" Quoth Eba Foheir, "Away!" The guide Abdallah said, "The sand is deep, Those footmarks will betray."

Then spake our Lord "We are not four but Five; He who protects is here. 'Come! Al-Muhaimin' now will blind their eyes; Enter, and have no fear."

The band drew nigh; one of the Koreish cried, "Search ye out yonder cleft, I see the print of sandalled feet which turn Thither, upon the left!"

But when they drew unto the cavern's mouth, Lo, at its entering in, A ring-necked desert-dove sat on her eggs; The mate cooed soft within.

And right athwart the shadow of the cave A spider's web was spread; The creature hung upon her web at watch; Unbroken was each thread;

"By Thammuz' blood," the unbelievers cried, "Our toil and time are lost; Where doves hatch, and the spider spins her snare, No foot of man hath crossed!"

Thus did a desert bird and spider guard The blessed Prophet then; For all things serve their maker and their God Better than thankless men.

Pearls of the Faith.

* * * * *

THE YOUNG DOVES.

There came before our Lord a certain one Who said, "O Prophet! as I passed the wood I heard the voice of youngling doves which cried, While near the nest their pearl-necked mother cooed.

"Then in my cloth I tied those fledglings twain, But all the way the mother fluttered nigh; See! she hath followed hither." Spake our Lord: "Open thy knotted cloth, and stand thou by."

But when she spied her nestlings, from the palm Down flew the dove, of peril unafeared, So she might succor these. "Seest thou not," Our Lord said, "how the heart of this poor bird

"Grows by her love, greater than his who rides Full-face against the spear-blades? Thinkest thou Such fire divine was kindled to be quenched? I tell ye nay! Put back upon the bough

"The nest she claimeth thus: I tell ye nay! From Allah's self cometh this wondrous love: Yea! And I swear by Him who sent me here, He is more tender than a nursing dove,

"More pitiful to men than she to these. Therefore fear God in whatsoe'er ye deal With the dumb peoples of the wing and hoof."

* * * * *

Pearls of the Faith.

* * * * *

FORGIVEN.

Verily there are rewards for our doing good to dumb animals, and giving them water to drink. A wicked woman was forgiven who, seeing a dog at a well holding out his tongue from thirst, which was near killing him, took off her boot, and tied it to the end of her garment, and drew water in it for the dog, and gave him to drink; and she was forgiven her sin for that act.

Table Talk of Mohammed.

* * * * *

PRAYERS.

It is recorded of the Prophet, that when, being on a journey, he alighted at any place, he did not say his prayers until he had unsaddled his camel.

POOLE'S Mohammed.

* * * * *

DUMB MOUTHS.

By these dumb mouths be ye forgiven, Ere ye are heard pleading with heaven.

Pearls of the Faith.

* * * * *

THE PARSEES.

FROM THE ZEND AVESTA.

Of all and every kind of sin which I have committed against the creatures of Ormazd, as stars, moon, sun, and the red-burning fire, the Dog, the Birds, the other good creatures which are the property of Ormazd, if I have become a sinner against any of these, I repent.

* * * * *

"If a man gives bad food to a shepherd Dog, of what sin is he guilty?"

Ahura Mazda[4] answered:

"It is the same guilt as though he should serve bad food to a master of a house of the first rank."

* * * * *

"The dog, I, Ahura Mazda, have made self-clothed and self-shod, watchful, wakeful, and sharp-toothed, born to take his food from man and to watch over man's goods.

"I, Ahura Mazda, have made the dog strong of body against the evil-doer and watchful over your goods, when he is of sound mind."

[4] Ahura Mazda or Ormazd is the King of Light; the Good. The Zend Avesta is of great but uncertain antiquity; believed to be three thousand years old.

* * * * *

HINDOO.

He who, seeking his own happiness, does not punish or kill beings who also long for happiness, will find happiness after death.

Dhammapada.

Whoever in this world harms living beings, and in whom there is no compassion for living beings, let one know him as an outcast.

Sutta Nipata.

* * * * *

THE TIGER.

Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And, when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand forged thy dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did He smile his work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

WILLIAM BLAKE.

* * * * *

VALUE OF ANIMALS.

Nobody doubts their general value, as nobody doubts the value of sunlight; but a more practical appreciation may be felt of their moneyed value if we look at that aspect of the question in some of its details.

We quote from a hand-book published for the South Kensington Museum:—

"CLASS I.—Animal Substances employed for Textile Manufactures and Clothing. Division I. Wool, Mohair, and Alpaca. Division II. Hair, Bristles, and Whalebone. Division III. Silk. Division IV. Furs. Division V. Feathers, Down, and Quills. Division VI. Gelatin, Skins, and Leathers.

"CLASS II.—Animal Substances used for Domestic and Ornamental Purposes. Division I. Bone and Ivory. Division II. Horns and Hoofs. Division III. Tortoise-shell. Division IV. Shells and Marines. Animal Products for Manufacture, Ornaments, etc. Division V. Animal Oils and Fats.

"CLASS III.—Pigments and Dyes yielded by Animals."—Division I. Cochineal and Kermes. Division II. Lac and its applications. Division III. Nutgalls, Gall Dyes, Blood, etc. Division IV. Sepia, Tyrian Purple, Purree, etc.

"CLASS IV.—Animal Substances used in Pharmacy and in Perfumery." Division I. Musk, Civet, Castorem, Hyraceum, and Ambergris. Division II. Cantharides, Leeches, etc.

"CLASS V.—Application of Waste Matters. Division I. Entrails and Bladders. Division II. Albumen, Casein, etc. Division III. Prussiates of Potash and Chemical Products of Bone, etc. Division IV. Animal Manures—Guano, Coprolites, Animal Carcases, Bones, Fish Manures, etc."

From a table of the value of imports of animal origin brought into the United Kingdom in the year 1875, we take a few items:—

"Live animals, L8,466,226. Wool of various kinds, L23,451,887. Silk, manufactures of all kinds, L12,264,532. Silk, raw and thrown, L3,546,456. Butter, L8,502,084. Cheese, L4,709,508. Eggs, L2,559,860. Bacon and hams, L6,982,470. Hair of various kinds, L1,483,984. Hides, wet and dry, L4,203,371. Hides, tanned or otherwise prepared, L2,814,042. Guano, L1,293,436. Fish, cured or salted, L1,048,546."

The value of the domestic stock in Great Britain and Channel Islands, in 1875, is stated to have been:—

"Horses, 1,349,691 at L16, L21,587,056. Cattle, 6,050,797 at L10, L60,507,970. Sheep, 29,243,790 at L1 10s., L43,865,685. Swine, 2,245,932 at L1 5s., L2,807,415. Total, L128,768,126."

"When we find," says the compiler of the statistics from which we have quoted, "that the figures give an estimated money value exceeding L331,000,000 sterling, and that to this has to be added all the dairy produce; the poultry and their products for Great Britain; the annual clip of British wool, which may be estimated at 160,000,000 lbs., worth at least L8,000,000; the hides and skins, tallow, horns, bones, and other offal, horse and cow hair, woollen rags collected, the game and rabbits, the sea and river fisheries; besides the products of our woollen, leather, glove, silk, soap, and comb manufactures retained for home consumption, furs, brushes, and many other articles, we ought to add a great many millions more to the aggregate value or total."—SIMMONDS: Animal Products, p. xix.

* * * * *

SOCIETIES FOR THE PREVENTION OF CRUELTY TO ANIMALS.

The first society formed under this name, or for this object, was the "Royal," of London, in 1825.

The first in America was that of New York, in 1866; that of Pennsylvania, in 1867; and that of Massachusetts, in 1868.

They all sprang from the same Christian root with the other great voluntary organizations for religious and moral purposes which distinguished the century just passed. All helped to widen the consciousness of the world, and to prepare the way for reformations not then thought of.

In this goodly company of voluntary societies, those for the Protection of Animals are entitled to an honorable place. It is not too much to say that any list would be incomplete without them.

But they have gone beyond Europe and America, and are spreading over the world. Among their devoted members are found the professors of many religions.

These "Voices," it is hoped, may impel their readers, wherever they may be, to help on, through such Societies, a long delayed work of justice to the humbler creatures of God. In many countries the young may find juvenile societies to promote the cause in schools and neighborhoods.

But whether inside or outside of organizations, the words of Mr. Longfellow suggest a universal duty,—

"Act, act in the living present, Hearts within and God o'erhead."



INDEX OF SUBJECTS AND TITLES.

* * * * *

Achilles, Horses of Action Ahura-Mazda Aix, Good News to Alexander Allah Among the Noblest Ancient Mariner Animals and Human Speech Animals, Feeling for Animals, Happiness Animals, Innocent Animals, Products Animals, Suffering Another's Sorrow Arabs Argus and Ulysses Aspiration Asoka Inscriptions Atri in Abruzzo Aziola

Baby, Human Bavieca Bay Billy Beaver Bedouin's Rebuke Bees, The Beetle Beggar and Dog Be Kind Bess, Poor Bible Bird and Ship Bird King Bird, Lost Bird of the Wilderness Birds Birds and Mohammed Birds at Dawn Bird's Evening Song Birds In Spring Birds Learning to Fly Birds Let Loose Bird's Ministry Birds Must Know Birds, Our Teachers Birds Returning Birds, Shadows of Birthday Address Birth of the Horse Blanco Bloodhound Bluebird Bob-o'-link Bride Brotherhood Buddhism Butrago, Lord of

Cage Canary Can they Suffer? Cat Care for the Lowest Chick-a-dee-dee Child, Lydia Maria Chipmunk Choir, Hymeneal Choir, Invisible Cid and Bavieca Cock's Shrill Clarion Compassion Concord Cormorant Crane Cricket Crow Cruelty, Effect of, on Man Cuckoo

Damascus Darwin, Charles Delft Dog Dog "Blanco" Dog "Don" Dog "Flight" Dogs, Dead Dogs, Domestic Dogs, Epitaph on Dogs "Faithful" Dog's Grave Doves Do with your Own Do you Know? Drudge Ducks Dumb Dumb Mouths Duty Duty and Fame Dying in Harness

Eagle Eggs Egyptian Ritual Elegy Elephants Emperor's Bird's-Nest Epitaph Erskine, Lord Exulting Sings

Failures Fame and Duty Feathered Tribes Feeling for Animals Field Sparrow Fire Firmness and Faithfulness Foray, The Freedom to Beasts Friend of every Friendless Beast Friends Future, The

Gamarra Geist's Grave Gelert Generosity Gentleness Giant's Strength Glow-Worm God's Children Good News to Aix Good Samaritan Good Will Grasshoppers Graves, Collins, Ride of Grey Friars' Bobby Growth of Humane Ideas Gulls

Happiness of Animals Hare Harness, Dying in Harper, The Heart Service Helvellyn Hen and Honey Bee Herbert, George Herod, my Hound Heroes Herons of Elmwood Hiawatha's Brothers Hill-Star's Nest Hippopotamus Honor and Revere Horse. See Rides. Horse Horse, Birth of Horse, Blood Horse, Fallen Horse of Achilles Horse Waiting for Master Horse, War Hound Howard, John Hindoo Poem Hindooism Humanity Humming-Bird Hundred Farms Hymns

Immortality India Indian In Holy Books Inscriptions Insect Instinct Introduction Irish Wolf-Hound

Jay June Day Justice

Killingworth, Birds of Kindness Kindness to Aged Creatures King of Denmark's Ride Kites

L'Allegro Lamb Lark Lark (Sky) Lark (Wood) Leaders Learn from the Creatures Legend of Cross-Bill Lexington Life is Glad Lincoln, Robert of Linnet Little Brown Bird Little by Little Living Swan Llewellyn and Gelert Looking for Pearls Lord of Butrago Lost Love Loyalty

Magpie Man's Morality on Trial Man's Rule Man's Supremacy Marriage Feast Martin Mausoleum Measureless Gulfs Mercy Misery Monkey Moral Lessons Mother's Care Mountain and Squirrel Mouse, A Field Myth

Nautilus Natural Rights Nature, Animated Nature's Teachings Nest Newfoundland Dog Newsboy Nightingale Nobility No Ceremony No Grain of Sand Non-interference Not born for Death Not Contempt Nothing Alone

Odyssey Old Mill Old Spaniel One Hundred Years Ago Open Sky Oriole Our Pets Owl Ox

Pain to Animals Papers Parrots Parsees Peacock Peepul Tree Pegasus in Pound Persevere Petrel, Stormy Pets, Our Pheasant Phoebe Piccola Pity Plutarch Poor Dog Tray Prayers Pretty Birds Pussy

Quail Questions Quit the Nest

Reason Returning Birds Ride of Collins Graves Ride of King of Denmark Ride of Paul Revere Ride of Sheridan Ride of "The Colonel" Ride to Aix Rights Must Win Rights, Natural Ring Out Robins Roland Rooks Room Enough Rover

Sake of the Animals Sand, No Grain of Sandpiper Scarecrow Sea-Fowl Sea Shell September Shadows of Birds Shaftesbury, Earl of Shag Sheep Shepherd's Home She-Wolf Ship of Pearl Siddartha Sin Six Feet Skylark Societies for Protection of Animals Solitude Songs Sorrow Sounds and Songs Sparrow Spider Squirrel Statue over the Cathedral Door St. Francis Stole the Eggs Stole the Nest Stork Study of Animals Suffer, Can they? Suffering Sultan Swallow Swan Sympathy

Tame Animals Teeth of Dog Tenderness Te whit, te who Texts. See Bible. Thrush Tiger Tiger Moth Tom Tramp Trotwood, Betsy Troubadour Trust Truth

Ulysses Upward

Value of Animals to Man Venice, Doves of Village Sounds Vireos Virtue Vision Vivisection Vogelweid, Walter von der

Waiting for Master War-Horse Waterfowl Way to Sing Wedding Guest Wedding, The Fairy What the Birds Say Whippoorwill Who Stole the Bird's Eggs? Who Stole the Bird's Nest? Who Taught? William of Orange Williamsburg Winchester Wish, A Wolf Wolf-Hound Wood Lark Wood Pigeons Workman of God Worm Worm Turns, The Wren

Yudhistthira

* * * * *



INDEX OF AUTHORS.

Akenside, Mark Alger's Oriental Poetry Amicis, de E. Andros, R. S. Anonymous. See Unknown. Aristotle Arnold, Edwin Arnold, Matthew Asoka, Emperor

Barbauld, Mrs. Bates, Mrs. C. D. Bentham, Jeremy Berry, Mrs. C. F. Bible Blackie, Professor Blake, William Blanchard, Laman Bostwick, Helen B. Bremer, Frederika Bright, John Brine, Mary D. Brooks, Rev. C. T. Brougham, John Browning, Mrs. E. B. Browning, Robert Bryant, W. C. Buddhism. See Hindoo. Burns, Robert Butler, Bishop Byron, Lord

Caird, Rev. Dr. Californian Campbell, Thomas Carlyle, Mrs. Thomas Carpenter, Rev. H. B. Carpenter, Rev. J. E. Chamber's Journal Chamisso Child's Book of Poetry Cincinnati Humane Appeal Clayton, Sir Robert Clough, Arthur H. Cobbe, Miss F. P. Coleridge, Hartley Coleridge, S. T. Corbett, E. T. Cornwall, Barry Cowper, William Craik, Mrs. Dinah M. Cunningham, Allen Cuvier, Baron

Davids, T. W. R. Dickens, Charles Dryden, John

Egyptian Ritual Eliot, George Emerson, R. W.

Faber, F. W. Fields, James T.

Gassaway, F. H. Gisborne, Thomas Goethe Goldsmith, O. Gray

H. H. Hathaway, E. Hedge, Rev. Dr. F. H. Helps, Arthur Hemans, Mrs. Herbert, George Hindoo Hogg, James Holland, J. G. Holmes, O. W. Homer Howitt, Mary Humane Journal Hunt, Leigh Hymns for Mothers

Ingelow, Jean

Jackson, Mrs. See H. H. Job Johnson, Laura W.

Keats, John Keble, J. Kingsley, Charles

Lamb, Charles and Mary Langhorne, J. Larcom, Lucy Lathbury, Mary A. Lawrence, Kate Lewes, Mrs. See George Elliot. Lillie, Arthur Lockhart, J. G. Logan, John Longfellow, H. W. Lord, Miss Emily B. Lowell, James R. Lowell, Maria Luther, Martin

Mahabharata Mackenzie MacCarthy, Denis F. Mason, Caroline A. Masque of Poets McLeod, Norman Mill, John Stuart Milton, John Mohammed Moore, Thomas Motley, J. L. Mueller, Max Muloch. See Mrs. Dinah M. Craik.

Norton, Mrs. C. E.

Odyssey O'Reilly, John Boyle

Paine, Miss Harriet E. Parseeism Perry, Carolina Coronado de Pfeiffer, Emily Plutarch Poole, Stanley Pope, Alexander Preston, Margaret J. Procter. See Barry Cornwall. Punch

Read, T. B. Ruskin, John

Savage, Richard Saxe, John G. Schiller Scott, Walter Scudder, Eliza Shakespeare, W. Shelley, P. B. Shenstone, W. Sheppard, Mary. Simmonds Somerville, Mary Southey, Robert Spenser, W. R. Stanley, A. P. Sterling, John Swing, David

Taylor, Bayard Taylor, Emily Taylor, Henry Temple Bar Tennyson, Alfred Thaxter, Mrs. Celia

Unknown

Verplanck, Julia C.

Walton, Izaak Whittier, J. G. Wilcox Wither, George Woolson, C. F. Wordsworth, W.

Zend Avesta

THE END