While still the cow-boy, far away,
Goes seeking those that have gone astray,
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"

Now to her task the milkmaid goes;
The cattle come crowding through the gate,
Lowing, pushing, little and great;

About the trough, by the farm-yard pump,
The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump,

While the pleasant dews are falling: The new milch heifer is quick and shy, But the old cow waits with tranquil eye; And the white stream into the bright pail flows, When to her task the milkmaid goes, Soothingly calling,

"So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!" The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, And sits and milks in the twilight cool, Saying, "So, so, boss! so! so!"

To

supper at last the farmer goes:
The apples are pared, the paper read,
The stories are told, then all to bed:
Without, the cricket's ceaseless song
Makes shrill the silence all night long;
The heavy dews are falling:

The housewife's hand has turn'd the lock;
Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock;

The household sinks to deep repose;

But still in sleep the farm-boy goes

Singing, calling

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"

And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams,

Drums in the pail with the flashing streams,
Murmuring, "So, boss! so!"

THE LAST HYMN.

MRS. M. FARMINGHAM.

THE Sabbath day was ending in a village by the sea,

The utter'd benediction touch'd the people tenderly;

And they rose to face the sunset in the glowing, lighted west,
And then hasten'd to their dwellings for God's blessèd boon of rest.
But they look'd across the waters, and a storm was raging there;
A fierce spirit moved about them, the wild spirit of the air;
And it lash'd, and shook, and tore them, till they thunder'd, groan'd,
and boom'd:

And, alas! for any vessel in their yawning gulfs entomb'd.
Very anxious were the people on that rocky coast of Wales,
Lest the dawns of coming morrows should be telling awful tales,
When the sea had spent its passion, and should cast upon the shore
Bits of wreck, and swollen victims, as it had done heretofore.
With the rough winds blowing round her, a brave woman strain'd

her eyes,

As she saw along the billows a large vessel fall and rise.

O! it did not need a prophet to tell what the end must be,

For no ship could ride in safety near that shore on such a sea.

Then the pitying people hurried from their homes, and throng'd the beach.

O, for power to cross the waters, and the perishing to reach! Helpless hands were wrung in terror, tender hearts grew cold with

dread,

And the ship urged by the tempest to the fatal rock-shore sped.
She has parted in the middle! O, the half of her goes down!
God have mercy! Is His Heaven far to seek, for those who drown?
Lo! when next the white, shock'd faces look'd with terror on the

sea,

Only one last clinging figure on a spar was seen to be.

Nearer to the trembling watchers came the wreck toss'd by the

wave,

And the man still clung and floated, though no power on Earth could save.

"Could we send him a short message? Here's a trumpet, shout

away!

'Twas the preacher's hand that took it, and he wonder'd what to

say:

Any memory of his sermon? Firstly? Secondly? Ah, no!
There was but one thing to utter in that awful hour of woe.

So he shouted through the trumpet, "Look to Jesus! Can you hear?"

And "Ay, ay, sir!" rang the answer o'er the waters, faint and clear.

Then they listen'd: "He is singing, 'Jesus, lover of my soul,' And the winds brought back the echo, "While the nearer waters roll."

Strange indeed it was to hear him, "Till the storm of life is past," Singing bravely o'er the waters, "O, receive my soul at last." He could have no other refuge, "Hangs my helpless soul on Thee." "Leave, O! leave me not," — the singer dropp'd at last into the sea. And the watchers looking homeward, through their eyes by tears made dim,

Said, "He pass'd to be with Jesus in the singing of that hymn."

THE LITTLE TELLTALE.

ONCE, on a golden afternoon,

With radiant faces and hearts in tune,
Two fond lovers in dreaming mood

Threaded a rural solitude.

Wholly happy, they only knew

That the earth was bright and the sky was blue ;
That light and beauty and joy and song
Charm'd the way as they pass'd along :

The air was fragrant with woodland scents;

The squirrel frisk'd on the roadside fence;

And hovering near them, "chee, chee, chink?"
Queried the curious bobolink,

Pausing and peering with sidelong head,

As saucily questioning all they said;

While the ox-eye danced on its slender stem,

And all glad Nature rejoiced with them.

Over the odorous fields were strown

Wilting windrows of grass new-mown,

And rosy billows of clover bloom

Surged in the sunshine and breathed perfume. Swinging low on a slender limb,

The sparrow warbled his wedding hymn ;

And, balancing on a blackberry-brier,

The bobolink sang with his heart on fire,
"Chink! If you wish to kiss her, do!
Do it, do it! You coward, you!

Kiss her! Kiss, kiss her! Who will see?
Only we three! we three! we three!"

Under garlands of drooping vines,
Through dim vistas of sweet-breathed pines,
Past wide meadow-fields lately mow'd,
Wander'd the indolent country road.
The lovers follow'd it, listening still,
And, loitering slowly, as lovers will,

Enter'd a low-roof'd bridge, that lay,
Dusky and cool, in their pleasant way.
Under its arch a smooth, bright stream
Silently glided, with glint and gleam,

Shaded by graceful elms that spread
Their verdurous canopy overhead,
The stream so narrow, the boughs so wide,
They met and mingled across the tide.

Alders loved it, and seem'd to keep
Patient watch as it lay asleep,

Mirroring clearly the trees and sky
And the flitting form of the dragon-fly,

Save where the swift-wing'd swallow play'd
In and out in the sun and shade,

And, darting and circling in merry chase,
Dipp'd, and dimpled its clear dark face.

Fluttering lightly from brink to brink
Follow'd the garrulous bobolink,

Rallying loudly, with mirthful din,
The pair who linger'd unseen within.

And, when from the friendly bridge at last
Into the road beyond they pass'd,

Again beside them the tempter went,

Keeping the thread of his argument, "Kiss her! kiss her! chink-a-chee-chee! I'll not mention it! don't mind me!

I'll be sentinel, I can see

All around from this tall birch-tree!"

But, ah! they noted nor deemed it strangeIn his rollicking chorus a trifling change:

"Do it! do it!" with might and main Warbled the telltale, "Do it again!"

ROBERT OF LINCOLN.

W. C. BRYANT.

MERRILY Swinging on brier and weed,

Near to the nest of his little dame,

Over the mountain-side or mead,

Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Snug and safe is that nest of ours,
Hidden among the summer flowers,
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gaily dress'd,
Wearing a bright black wedding-coat;

White are his shoulders and white his crest.
Hear him call his merry note:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Look, what a nice new coat is mine,

Sure there never was a bird so fine.

Chee, chee, chee.