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There are fragments of song that nobody sings,
And a part of an infant's prayer;

There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings,
There are broken vows and pieces of rings,

And the garments our dead used to wear.

There are hands that are waved, when the fairy shore
By the mirage is lifted in air;

And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar,
Sweet voices we heard in days gone before,
When the wind down the river is fair.

Oh, remembered for aye be the blessed Isle,
All the day of our life till night-

When the evening comes with its beautiful smile,
And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile,
May that "Greenwood" of Soul be in sight!

TOM.

CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON.

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. Oh, 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.

THE FROG AND THE FRENCHMAN.

FRED EMERSON BROOKS.

WHEN the grass comes slowly creeping O'er the meadows, in good keeping With the spring,

Then appears the early peeper,

Who, to lull the wanton sleeper,
'Gins to sing.

Formerly, he used to sail
By the motion of his tail,
When pollywog;

But he lost that institution,
In the course of evolution
To the frog.

Such a cunning little fellow,
With his breast a greenish-yellow;
He will go

Tuning up that voice unfailing,
As young roosters, when first tailing,
Try to crow.

On a lily-pad he'll teeter,

And maintain he sings much sweeter Than a bird;

A canary-the last feather,

Washed away by rainy weather,

Take his word;

So absurd.

When he grows a little sweeter,

Epicurean frog-eater

Always begs

That his deft and agile henchman Will go catch this tender Frenchman, For his legs.

So he hies him to the pond,
Or the eddy just beyond,
In the creek,-

Where he finds the full-grown frog
Basking on a cozy log;
Hear him speak:

"Greek meets Greek!

Chug-a-reek!

"I'm suspicious of your nation, Though I like your conversation : Parlez-vous;

But if you are not polite, sir,

I'll jump quickly out of sight, sir,
Entre-nous !

Chug-a-roo!

"Do you think, oh, simple sinner, You will catch a Sunday dinner With a bug?

Regardez ! begin to banter

With 'red rag,' I'm gone instanter;

Chug-a-rug!

Chug-a-rug!

"Shrug your shoulders well, monsieur,
There's no use to make détour,
I know your game.

I'm content to parlez-vous,
If my broken French will do,
But I'll keep an eye on you,
All the same,
Chug-a-rame!

"Like the Première Danseuse,

A fat frog is of no use,
Save his limb;

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I REMEMBER once riding from Buffalo to the Niagara Falls. I said to a gentleman, "What river is that, sir?"

""

'That," he said, "is Niagara River."

"Well, it is a beautiful stream," said I; "bright and fair

and glassy; how far off are the rapids?"

"

'Only a mile or two," was the reply.

"Is it possible that only a mile from us we shall find the

water in the turbulence which it must show near to the Falls?"

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