All hopping through the sandy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked out a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low.

And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

"The time has come,' the Walrus said, "To talk of many things:

Of shoes-and ships-and sealing-wax-
Of cabbages-and kings-
And why the sea is boiling hot-
And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
Before we have our chat;

For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"

"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

'A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:

Pepper and vinegar besides,
Are very good indeed—

Now if you're ready Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."

"But not on us!" the Oysters cried, Turning a little blue.

"After such kindness, that would be A dismal thing to do!"

S.P.

M

The night is fine," the Walrus said. "Do you admire the view?

It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"

The Carpenter said nothing but

Cut us another slice:

I wish you were not quite so deaf-
I've had to ask you twice!"

It seems a shame," the Walrus said, "To play them such a trick, After we've brought them out so far, And made them trot so quick!" The Carpenter said nothing but "The butter's spread too thick."

I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathise."

With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?"
But answer there was none-
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.

LEWIS CARRoll.

VESPERS

There is something boyish in the note of some birds; something sporting. I find it in the song of the Redbreast in autumn. T. E. Brown finds it delightfully in the Blackbird's.

O BLACKBIRD, what a boy you are!
How you do go it!

Blowing your bugle to that one sweet star—
How you do blow it!

And does she hear you, blackbird boy, so far?
Or is it wasted breath?
"Good Lord, she is so bright
To-night!"

The blackbird saith.

THOMAS EDWARD BROWN.

THE LAUGH

This happy poem needs no explaining. But perhaps it is well to say that an Eolian harp was so strung that its strings gave a musical sound at the breath of the wind.

AN empty laugh, I heard it on the road
Shivering the twilight with its lance of mirth;
And yet, why empty? Knowing not its birth,
This much I know, that it goes up to God;
And if to God, from God it surely starts,
Who has within Himself the secret springs
Of all the lovely, causeless, unclaimed things,
And loves them in His very heart of hearts.

A girl of fifteen summers, pure and free,
Æolian, vocal to the lightest touch

Of fancy's winnowed breath-Ah, happy such

Whose life is music of the eternal sea! Laugh on, laugh loud and long, O merry child;

And be not careful to unearth a cause :
Thou art serenely placed above our laws,
And we in thee with God are reconciled.

THOMAS EDWARD BROWN.

BATTLE HYMN OF THE
REPUBLIC

America, since the great war that kept the Union from breaking up into two nations, has remained ever since at peace with itself. A glorious result of the victory of the Northern States, which had no slaves, over the Southern States, which bought and sold them like cattle, was that slavery was ended for ever. In the hope of that great result of the war Julia Ward Howe wrote her splendid marching hymn for the men of the Northern armies.

MINE eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:

He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored:

He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword:

His truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred

circling camps:

They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps :

I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps:

His day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel:

"As ye deal with My contemners so with you My grace shall deal:'

"

Let the hero born of woman crush the serpent with his heel!

Since God is marching on.

He hath sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;

He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat :

Oh be swift, my soul, to answer Him! Be jubilant, my feet!

Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born, across

the sea,

With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you

and me;

As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free!

While God is marching on.

Glory! glory, hallelujah!
Glory! glory, hallelujah!
Glory! glory, hallelujah!

His truth is marching on.

JULIA WARD HOWE.