Warble to show unto every new-comer
How to hush stars, yet to waken the Day:
Singing first, lullabies, then, jubilates,
Watching the blue sky where every bird's heart is;
Then, as lamenting the day's fading light,
Down through the twilight, when wearied with flight,
Singing divinely, they breathe out, "good-night!"Little brown thrushes with birds yellow-breasted
Bright as the sunshine that June roses bring,
Climb up and carol o'er hills silver-crested
Just as the bluebirds do in the spring,
Seeing the bees and the butterflies ranging,
Pointed-winged swallows their sharp shadows changing;
But while some sunset is flooding the sky,
Up through the glory the brown thrushes fly,
Singing divinely, "good-night and good-by!"
BY Mrs. WHITON-STONE.
This tall Giraffe,
Measures ten feet and a half,
And I wonder if his neck
Of rubber is made.
Out of the sun
He thinks he has run
But only his feet
Are in the shade.
THE STORY OF THE EMPTY SLEEVE.
Here, sit ye down alongside of me; I'm getting old and gray;
But something in the paper, boy, has riled my blood today.
To steal a purse is mean enough, the most of men agree;
But stealing reputation seems a meaner thing to me. A letter in the Herald says some generals allow
That there wa'n't no fight where Lookout rears aloft its shaggy
brow;
But this coat sleeve swinging empty here beside me, boy, to-day,
Tells a mighty different story in a mighty different way. When sunbeams flashed o'er Mission Ridge that bright November
morn,
The misty cap on Lookout's crest gave token of a storm;
For grim King Death had draped the mount in grayish, smoky
shrouds--
Its craggy peaks were lost to sight above the fleecy clouds. Just at the mountain's rocky base we formed in serried lines,
While lightning with its jagged edge played on us from the pines;
The mission ours to storm the pits 'neath Lookout's crest that

 Prev. P 33/95 next