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When those words were heard
That poor little bird

Yet on the rose's humble bed
The sweetest dews of night are shed,

Was so changed in a moment, 't was As if she wept the waste to see,
But none shall weep a tear for me!

really absurd:

He grew sleek and fat;
In addition to that,

A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a

mat!

His tail waggled more
Even than before;

But no longer it wagged with an impu-
dent air,

No longer he perched on the Cardinal's chair.

He hopped now about
With a gait devout;

At matins, at vespers, he never was out;
And, so far from any more pilfering deeds,
He always seemed telling the Confessor's
beads.

If any one lied, or if any one swore,
Or slumbered in prayer-time and hap-
pened to snore,

That good Jackdaw

Would give a great "Caw!"

As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!"

While many remarked, as his manners they saw,

That they "never had known such a
pious Jackdaw!"

He long lived the pride
Of that country side,

And at last in the odor of sanctity died;
When, as words were too faint
His merits to paint,

The Conclave determined to make him a
Saint.

RICHARD HENRY WILDE.

[U. S. A., 1789-1847.]

MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE.
My life is like the summer rose

That opens to the morning sky,
But ere the shades of evening close
Is scattered on the ground- to die.

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And on newly made Saints and Popes, as you know,

It's the custom at Rome new names to

bestow,

So they canonized him by the name of No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Jem Crow!

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound
him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow
bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

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O, wear the ring, and guard the flow- These may have language all thine own,

er,

To him a mystery still.

Her heart may not be thine!

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