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Oh, mother! little Amy

Would have loved these flowers to see;

Dost remember how we tried to get

For her a pink sweet-pea?

Dost remember how she loved

Those rose-leaves pale and sere?

I wish she had but lived to see
The lovely roses here!

Put up thy work, dear mother,
And wipe those tears away!

And come into the garden

Before 'tis set of day!

THE FLAX-FLOWER.

O the little flax-flower,

It groweth on the hill,
And, be the breeze awake or sleep,
It never standeth still.

It groweth, and it groweth fast;
One day it is a seed.
And then a little grassy blade,

Scarce better than a weed.
But then out comes the flax-flower,
As blue as is the sky;
And 'tis a dainty little thing!"
We say, as we go by.

Ah, 'tis a goodly little thing,

It groweth for the poor,

And many a peasant blesseth it,
Beside his cottage-door.

He thinketh how those slender stems
That shimmer in the sun,
Are rich for him in web and woof,
And shortly shall be spun.
He thinketh how those tender flowers,
Of seed will yield him store;
And sees in thought his next year's crop
Blue shining round his door.

Oh, the little flax-flower!

The mother, then says she, "Go pull the thyme, the heath, the fern But let the flax-flower be!

It groweth for the children's sake,
It groweth for our own;

There are flowers enough upon the hill,
But leave the flax alone!
The farmer hath his fields of wheat,
Much cometh to his share;
We have this little plot of flax,

That we have tilled with care. "Our squire he hath the holt and hill, Great halls and noble rent;

We only have the flax-field,

Yet therewith are content.

We watch it morn, we watch it night,
And when the stars are out,

The good man and the little ones,

They pace it round about;

For it we wish the sun to shine,

For it the rain to fall;

Good lack! for who is poor doth make Great count of what is small!"

Oh, the goodly flax-flower!

It groweth on the hill,
And, be the breeze awake or sleep,
It never standeth still!

It seemeth all astir with life,
As if it loved to thrive;
As if it had a merry heart
Within its stem alive!
Then fair befall the flax-field,

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And may the kindly showers, Give strength unto its shining stem,

Give seed unto its flowers!

It is so rare a thing now-a-days to see flax grown in any quantity, that my English readers will not feel the full force of the above little poem. The English cottager has not often ground which he can use for this purpose; and, besides, he can purchase calico for the wear of his family at a much cheaper cost than he could grow flax. Nor is the English woman "handy" at such matters. She would think it a great hardship to till, perhaps, the very ground upon which it was grown; to pull it with the help of her children only, and, to her other household cares and occupations, to add those of preparing, spinning, and it might be, to help even to weave it into good homespun cloth. Seventy or eighty years ago, however, this was not uncommon in England; and it is still common, and in some districts even general in Scotland. Burns alludes to the growth of flax in many of his poems; and in the "Cottar's Saturday Night," the mother reckons the age of the cheese from the time of the flax flowering.

The household interest which is taken in the flaxfield presented itself strongly to us in many a wild glen, and in many a desolate mountain-side in the Highlands of Scotland, in the summer of 1836. You came, in the midst of those stony and heathy wildernesses, upon a few turf-erections, without windows and without chimneys; the wild grasses of the moor and the heath itself grew often upon the roof, for all had originally been cut from the mountain-side; and, but for the smoke which issued from the door, or the children that played about it, you might have doubted of its being a human dwelling. Miserable, however, as such homes may appear at first sight, they are, as it were, the natural growth of the mountain-moorland, and the eye soon finds in them much that is picturesque and characteristic.

About such places as these are frequently, too, patches of cultivated ground; the one of potatoes, and perhaps oats or barley, the other of flax. Thus grow, at the very door of this humble human tenement, the food and clothing of the family. How essential this growth is to them, may be seen from the nature of the ground. It is frequently the most diffi. cult that can be conceived to bring into cultivation

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IN birds, as men, there is a strange variety,
In both your dandies and your petits maîtres ;

Your clowns, your grooms, in feathered legs or gaiters;
Your hawks, and gulls, and harpies to satiety.
On sea or land it matters not an ace --
You find the feathered or unfeathered race
Of bipeds, showing every form and figure,
But everywhere the sharp-clawed and the bigger-
Falcons that shoot, and men that pull the trigger -
Still pressing on the lesser and forlorn!
'Tis hard to bear, and yet it must be borne,
Although we walk about in wrath and scorn,
To see the hectoring, lording, and commotion
For ever going on in earth or ocean!

The owl in hollow oak, the man in den,
Chamber, or office, dusky and obscure,
Are creatures very heavy and demure;
But soon their turn comes round, and then,
Oh, what sharp claws and pitiless beak have they
To feather, fleece, and worry up their prey!

"A fellow feeling makes us wondrous kind,"

So sang the noble bard, who, like the swallow, Flew through far climes and soared where few can follow.

"T is true; and therefore still we find
That gentle spirits love the robin,
That comes, as Wordsworth says, “when winds are
sobbing;"

Pecks at your window; sits upon your spade,
And often thanks you in a serenade.
But what is it that brings about you

That pert, conceited good-for-nothing Sparrow,
Which seems to say-"I'd do as well without you,"
Yet, never for a second,

Night or day

Will be away,

Though hooted, shot at, nor once coaxed or beckoned?
In town or country in the densest alley

Of monstrous London - in the loneliest valley -
On palace-roof-on cottage-thatch,

On church or chapel-farm or shop,

The Sparrow's still "the bird on the house-top."

I think 'twas Solomon who said so,
And in the Bible having read so,
You find that this ubiquity

Extends itself far up into antiquity.

Yes, through all countries and all ages

While other birds have sung in woods or cages,
This noisy, impudent and shameless varlet

The conquerors fierce; those thievish chaps, the Though neither noble, rich, nor clad in scarlet,

lawyers,

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The silly creatures that by scores

Nurse cuckoo-imps, that out of doors

Would have the highest place without the asking
Upon your roof the lazy scamp is basking
Chirping, scuffling, screaming, fighting,
Flying and fluttering up and down
From peep of day to evening brown.
You may be sleeping, sick, or writing,
And needing silence—there's the Sparrow,
Just at your window and enough to harrow
The soul of Job in its severest season.
There, as it seemeth, for no other reason
But to confound you;- he has got,

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Have turned their children, and they never know it! Up in the leaden gutter burning hot,

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Every low scape-grace of the Sparrow-clan,
Loons of all ages,-grandsire, hoy and man,
Old beldame Sparrow, wenches bold,
All met to wrangle, raffle, rant, and scold.
Send out your man! shoot! blow to powder
The villanous company, that fiercer, louder
Drive you distracted. There! bang! goes the gun,
And all the little lads are on the run

To see the slaughter;-not a bird is slain-
There were some feathers flew - a leg was broke,
But all went off as if it were a joke –

In come your man- and there they are again! Of all the creatures, that were ever set

| Upon two legs, there's nothing to be met,

Save some congeners in our own sweet race,
Made of such matter, common, cocket, base,
As are these Sparrows! Would that some magician,
Philosopher or chemist would but show us
What 'tis that constitues the composition

Of certain men in town, who drive, or row us,
Cads, jarvies, porters of a low degree,
Haunters, of theatres, taverns, and coach-doors,
Men all alert in dust and misery;

Men made to elbow, bustle, cheat or steal,
Careless of scorn, incapable to feel
Indignity or shame- vulgar and vain,
Hunger and cold their only sense of pain.

Just of this class, amongst all feathered things, Is this Jack Sparrow. He's no bird that sings, He makes no grand pretences; has no fine Airs of high breeding. he but wants to dine. His dress is brown, his body stiff and stout, Coarse in his nature, made to prog about. What are his delicate fancies? Who e'er sees The Sparrow in his sensibilities? There are the nightingales, all soul and song, Moaning and warbling the green boughs among. There are the larks that on etherial wing, Sing to high Heaven as heavenly spirits sing; There are the merle, the mavis, birds whose lays Inspired the minstrel songs of other days; There are the wandering tribes, the cuckoo sweet; Swallows that singing on your chimneys meet, Through spring and summer, and anon are flown To lands and climes, to sages yet unknown. Those are your poets;-birds of genius - those That have their nerves and feel refined woes. But these Jack Sparrows; why they love far more Than all this singing nonsense, your barn-door! They love your cherry-tree- your rows of peas, Your ripening corn crop, and to live at ease! You find no Sparrow in the far-off-woods No-he's not fond of hungry solitudes. He better loves the meanest hamlet-where Aught's to be had, the Sparrow will be there, Sturdy and bold, and wrangling for his share. The tender linnet bathes her sides and wings In running brooks and purest forest-springs. The Sparrow rolls and scuffles in the dustThat is his washing or his proper rust.

Before your carriage as you drive to town To his base meal the Sparrow settles down; He knows the safety-distance to an inch, Up to that point he will not move or flinch ;—

At home, abroad, wherever seen or heard,
Still is the Sparrow just the self-same bird;
Thievish and clamorous, hardy, bold, and base,
Unlike all others of the feathered race.
The bully of his tribe to all beyond
The gipsey, beggar, knave, and vagabond!

It may be thought that I have here dealt hard measure to the Sparrow, but the character I have given of him will be recognised by those who know him, as true. Cowper calls them, a thievish race, that scared as often as you please,

As oft return, a pert, voracious kind;

and that every farmer knows them to be. What multitudes do you see dropping down upon, or rising from the wheat as it is ripening in the fields. Formerly a price was set upon their heads and eggs, by country parishes. In many places a penny was given for a Sparrow's head, and the same for three or four eggs; but this is now done away with, and the farmer must destroy them himself, or pay dearly for it in his corn.

Nothing can exceed the self-complacence of this bird. You see him build his nest amongst the richest tracery of a church roof or window; within the very coronet or escutcheon set up over the gate of hall or palace. We saw this summer, the hay and litter of his nest hanging out from the richly-cut initial-letters of William and Mary over one of the principal windows of Hampton Court. Nay he would build in a span-new V. R. set up only yesterday, or in the queen's very crown itself though it were worth a kingdom, if it were only conveniently placed for his purpose. He thinks nothing too good for him.

But the most provoking part of his character is, the pleasure which he takes in teasing, molesting and hectoring over birds of the most quiet and inoffensive nature. He builds about your houses, and thinks no other bird has any business to do the same. The martin, which loves to build under the eaves of our dwellings, after crossing the seas from some far country, has especially to bear his insolence and aggressions. There is a pretty story in the "Evenings at Home," of two of these interesting birds, who had their nest usurped by a Sparrow, getting together their fellows, and building him up in the nest, where he was left a prisoner amid his plunder. But the gentleness of the martin is so great, that such an intance of poetical justice is more curious, than likely to occur a second time. But every summer the

You think your horse will crush him—no such thing-sparrow lords it over the martin, and frequently

That coachman's whip might clip his fluttering wing,
Or take his head off in a twink - but he
Knows better still and liveth blithe and free.

At home he plagues the martins with his noise They build, he takes possession and enjoys; Or if he want it not, he takes it still, Just because teasing others is his will. From hour to hour, from tedious day to day He sits to drive the rightful one away.

drives it away by its impertinence. We watched his behaviour this year with a good deal of attention. Two pairs of martins came and built their nests beneath the eaves of the stable, near each other. Scarcely were the nests half finished, when several sparrows were seen watching on the tiles close to them, chirping loudly, and conceitedly, and every now and then flying at the martins. The nests, however, were completed; but no sooner was this this done, than the sparrows took possession of them,

and lined them with coarse hay, which is an abomination to the martin, which lines its nest with the softest feathers. Having witnessed this, we waited for about ten days, by which time we supposed the sparrows would have laid their full number of eggs; and a ladder was set up, in order to inflict just retribution on them, by taking the whole. But to our surprise there were none. The hay was therefore carefully removed, that the martins, if they pleased, might retake possession; but the very next day, the nests were again filled with hay, and long bents of it hung dangling from the entrance-hole. The sparrows had, with wonderful assiduity, and as it were, with a feeling of vindictive spite, relined the nests with as much hay as they ordinarily carry to their own nests in several days. Now it was supposed they would really lay in these nests, but no such thing, they never did. Their only object had been to dislodge the martins, for it was found that these very sparrows had nests of their own in the waterspouts of the house, with young ones in them, at the very time, and their purpose of ousting the martins from their own nests being accomplished, the hay remained in the nests quietly all summer.

But this was not all. The poor martins, driven from the stable, came now to the house; and, as if for special protection, began to build their nests under the roof, nearly over the front door. No sooner was this intention discovered by the sparrows, than they were all in arms again. They were seen watching for hours on the tiles just above, chirping, strutting to and fro, flying down upon the martins when they came to their nests with materials, and loudly calling upon their fellow sparrows to help them to be as offensive as possible. The martins, however, rendered now more determined, persisted in their building, and so far succeeded as to prevent the sparrows getting more than a few bents of hay into their nests when complete. The martins laid their eggs; but for several times successively, the sparrows entered in their absence, and hoisted out all the eggs, which of course fell to the ground and were dashed to pieces. Provoked at this mischievous propensity of the sparrows, we had them now shot at, which had the desired effect. One or two of them were killed, and the rest took the hint, and permitted the martins to hatch and rear their young in peace.

CHILDHOOD.

Он, when I was a little child,

My life was full of pleasure;

I had four-and-twenty living things, And many another treasure.

But chiefest was my sister dear,Oh, how I loved my sister!

I never played at all with joy,

If from my side I missed her.

I can remember many a time,

Up in the morning early,Up in the morn by break of day,

When summer dews hung pearly; Out in the fields what joy it was,

While the cowslip yet was bending, To see the large round moon grow dim, And the early lark ascending!

I can remember too, we rose

When the winter stars shone brightly;
"Twas an easy thing to shake off sleep,
From spirits strong and sprightly.
How beautiful were those winter skies,

All frosty-bright and unclouded,
And the garden-trees, like cypresses,

Looked black, in the darkness shrouded!
Then the deep, deep snows were beautiful,
That fell through the long night stilly,
When behold, at morn, like a silent plain,
Lay the country wild and hilly!
And the fir-trees down by the garden side,

In their blackness towered more stately,
And the lower trees were feathered with snow
That were bare and brown so lately.
And then, when the rare hoar-frost would come,
"Twas all like a dream of wonder,
Where over us grew the crystal trees,

And the crystal plants grew under!
The garden all was enchanted land;

All silent and without motion,
Like a sudden growth of the stalactite,
Or the corallines of ocean!
'Twas all like a fairy forest then,

Where the diamond trees were growing
And within each branch the emerald green
And the ruby red were glowing.

I remember many a day we spent

In the bright hay-harvest meadow;
The glimmering heat of the noonday ground,
And the hazy depth of shadow.

I can remember, as to-day,

The corn-field and the reaping,
The rustling of the harvest-sheaves,
And the harvest-wain's upheaping.
I can feel this hour as if I lay
Adown 'neath the hazel bushes,
And as if we wove, for pastime wild,
Our grenadier-caps of rushes.
And every flower within that field

To my memory's eye comes flitting,
The chiccory-flower, like a blue cockade,
For a fairy-knight befitting.

The willow-herb by the water side,

With its fruit-like scent so mellow;
The gentian blue on the marly hill,

And the snap-dragon white and yellow.
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I know where the hawthorn groweth red;

Where pink grows the way-side yarrow; I remember the wastes of woad and broom, And the shrubs of the red rest-harrow.

I know where the blue geranium grows,

And the stork's-bill small and musky; Where the rich osmunda groweth brown,

And the wormwood white and dusky.

There was a forest a-nigh our home,

A forest so old and hoary,-
How we loved in its ancient glooms to be,
And remember its bygone story!

We sate in the shade of its mighty trees,

When the summer noon was glowing,
And heard in the depths of its undergrowth
The pebbly waters flowing.

We quenched our thirst at the forest-well;
We ate of the forest berry;

And the time we spent in the good green-wood,
Like the times of song, were merry.

We had no crosses then, no cares;

We were children like yourselves then ; And we danced and sang, and made us mirth, Like the dancing moonlight elves then!

Soon as is the dawning,

Wakes the mavis and the merle; Wakes the cuckoo on the bough; Wakes the jay with ruddy breast; Wakes the mother ring-dove

Brooding on her nest!

Oh, the sunny summer time!
Oh, the leafy summer time!
Merry is the bird's life

When the year is in its prime!
Some are strong and some are weak;

Some love day and some love night: But whate'er a bird is,

Whate'er loves- it has delight,
In the joyous song it sings;

In the liquid air it cleaves;
In the sunshine; in the shower,
In the nest it weaves!
Do we wake; or do we sleep;
Go our fancies in a crowd
After many a dull care,-

Birds are singing loud!
Sing then linnet; sing then wren;
Merle and mavis sing your fill;
And thou, rapturous skylark,

Sing and soar up from the hill!
Sing, oh, nightingale, and pour

Out for us sweet fancies new!.
Singing thus for us, birds,
We will sing of you!

BIRDS.

Он, the sunny summer time!

Oh, the leafy summer time!

Merry is the bird's life,

When the year is in its prime! Birds are by the water-falls

Dashing in the rain-bow spray; Everywhere, everywhere

Light and lovely there are they! Birds are in the forest old,

Building in each hoary tree;
Birds are on the green hills;
Birds are by the sea!

On the moor, and in the fen,
'Mong the whortle-berries green;
In the yellow-furze-bush

There the joyous bird is seen;
In the heather on the hill;

All among the mountain thyme. By the little brook-sides,

Where the sparkling waters chime; In the crag; and on the peak,

Splintered, savage, wild, and bare, There the bird with wild wing

Wheeleth through the air.

Wheeleth through the breezy air,
Singing, screaming in his flight,

Calling to his bird-mate,

In a troubleless delight!

In the green and leafy wood,

Where the branching ferns up-curl,

THE WOODPECKER.

THE Woodpecker green he has not his abiding Where the owls and the bats from the daylight are hiding;

Where the bright mountain-streams glide on rock

beds away,

The dark water-ousel may warble and play;
In the sedge of the river the reed-sparrow build;
And the peewit among the brown clods of the field;
The sea-gull may scream on the breast of the tide ;
On the foam-crested billows the peterel may ride;
But the woodpecker asketh nor river nor sea;
Give him but the old forest, and old forest-tree,
And he'll leave to the proud lonely eagle the height
Of the mist-shrouded precipice splintered and white;
And he'll leave to the gorcock the heather and fern,
And the lake of the valley to woodcock and hern;
To the sky-lark he 'll leave the wild fields of the air,
The sunshine and rainbow ne'er tempted him there.
The greenwood for him is the place of his rest,
And the broad-branching tree is the home he loves
best.

Let us go to the haunt of the woodpecker green,
In those depths of the wood there is much to be seen.
There the wild-rose and woodbine weave fairy
land bowers,

And the moth-mullein grow with its pale yellow flowers;

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