And that a few brief months will bring

The bird, the bee, the blossom; Ah! these forests do not knowOr would less brightly wither—– The virgin that adores them so Will nevermore come hither!

THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS.

JUNE IN JANUARY.

I GLANCED through the curtain's fold,
Out in the chill-blue night,

On the orchard snugly rolled

In its coverlet of white.

I see no swaying nest

On the limb of any tree:

Not a leaf, as the wind from the west
Stirs the branches tremblingly.

O Sight's strange witchery!

I watch from my cosy room,

And see the moon sleep peacefully
On the apple-tree in bloom.

R. K. MUNKITTRICK.

THE SUMMER SHOWER.

BEFORE the stout harvesters falleth the grain, As when the strong storm-wind is reaping the plain,

And loiters the boy in the briery lane;

But yonder aslant comes the silvery rain,

Like a long line of spears brightly burnished and tall.

Adown the white highway like cavalry fleet,
It dashes the dust with its numberless feet.
Like a murmurless school in their leafy re-
treat,

The wild birds sit listening, the drops round
them beat;

And the boy crouches close to the blackberry wall.

The swallows alone take the storm on their wing,

And, taunting the tree-sheltered laborers, sing;

Like pebbles the rain breaks the face of the spring,

While a bubble darts up from each widening ring;

And the boy in dismay hears the loud shower fall.

But soon are the harvesters tossing their sheaves;

The robin darts out from his bower of leaves;

The wren peereth forth from the moss-covered

eaves;

And the rain-spattered urchin now gladly per

ceives

That the beautiful bow bendeth over them all.

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

IN JUNE.

So sweet, so sweet the roses in their blowing,
So sweet the daffodils, so fair to see;
So blithe and gay the humming-bird a-going
From flower to flower, a-hunting with the bee.

So sweet, so sweet the calling of the thrushes,
The calling, cooing, wooing, everywhere;
So sweet the water's song through reeds and
rushes,

The plover's piping note, now here, now there.

So sweet, so sweet from off the fields of clover,
The west wind blowing, blowing up the hill;
So sweet, so sweet with news of someone's lover
Fleet footsteps, ringing nearer, nearer still.

So near, so near, now listen, listen, thrushes;
Now plover, blackbird, cease, and let me hear;

And, water, hush your song through reeds and

rushes,

That I may know whose lover cometh near.

So loud, so loud the thrushes kept their calling,
Plover or blackbird never heeding me;

So loud the millstream too kept fretting, falling,
O'er bar and bank in brawling, boisterous glee.

So loud, so loud; yet blackbird, thrush, nor plover,
Nor noisy millstream, in its fret and fall,
Could drown the voice, the low voice of my lover,
My lover calling through the thrushes' call.

"Come down, come down!" he called, and straight the thrushes

From mate to mate sang all at once, "Come down!"

And while the water laughed through reeds and

rushes,

The blackbird chirped, the plover piped, "Come down!"

Then down and off, and through the fields of clover,

I followed, followed at my lover's call;

Listening no more to blackbird, thrush, or plover, The water's laugh, the millstream's fret and fall.

NORA PERRY.

BACCHUS.

LISTEN to the tawny thief,
Hid behind the waxen leaf,
Growling at his fairy host,
Bidding her with angry boast
Fill his cup with wine distilled
From the dews the dawn has spilled:
Stored away in golden casks
Is the precious draught he asks.

Who,-who makes this mimic din
In this mimic meadow inn,
Sings in such a drowsy note,
Wears a golden belted coat;
Loiters in the dainty room
Of this tavern of perfume;
Dares to linger at the cup
Till the yellow sun is up?

Bacchus, 'tis, come back again
To the busy haunts of men ;
Garlanded and gayly dressed,
Bands of gold about his breast;
Straying from his paradise,
Having pinons angel-wise,-
'Tis the honey-bee, who goes
Reveling within a rose !

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.