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UNDER MY WINDOW.

U

NDER my window, under my window,

All in midsummer weather,

Three little girls, with fluttering curls,
Flit to and fro together.
There's Bell, with her bonnet of satin sheen,
And Maud, with her mantle of silver green,

And Kate, with her scarlet feather.

Under my window, under my window,

Leaning stealthily over,
Merry and clear, the voice I hear

Of each glad-hearted rover.
Ah! sly little Kate, she steals my roses,
And Maud and Bell twine wreaths and posies,

As merry as bees in clover.

Under my window, under my window,

In the blue midsummer weather,
Stealing slow, on a hushed tiptoe,

I catch them all together;
Bell, with her bonnet of satin sheen,
And Maud, with her mantle of silver green,

And Kate, with the scarlet feather.

Under my window, under

my window, And off through the orchard closes ; While Maud she flouts, and Bell she pouts,

They scamper and drop their posies; But dear little Kate takes nought amiss, And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss, And I give her all my roses.

Westwood.

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D

OWN in a field, one day in June,

The flowers all bloomed together, Save one, who tried to hide herself, And drooped that pleasant weather.

A robin, who had soared too high,

And felt a little lazy,
Was resting near a buttercup

Who wished she were a daisy.

For daisies grow so trim and tall;

She always had a passion
For wearing frills about her neck,

In just the daisies' fashion.

And buttercups must always be

The same old tiresome colour,
While daisies dress in gold and white,

Although their gold is duller. “Dear Robin,” said the sad young flower,

Perhaps you'd not mind trying To find a nice white frill for me,

Some day when you are flying ?* You silly thing! the robin said ;

“I think you must be crazy! I'd rather be my honest self

Than any made-up daisy. " You're nicer in your own bright gown,

The little children love you ; Be the best buttercup you can,

And think no flower above you. “Though swallows leave me out of sight,

We'd better keep our places ; Perhaps the world would all go wrong

With one too many daisies. “Look bravely up into the sky,

And be content with knowing That God wished for a buttercup

Just here where you are growing."

THE MINUET.

G

RANDMA told me all about it,
Told me, so I couldn't doubt it,
How she danced-my grandma danced !

Long ago.
How she held her pretty head,
How her dainty skirt she spread,
How she turned her little toes,
Smiling little human rose !

Long ago.
Grandma's hair was bright and sunny;
Dimpled cheeks, too-ah, how funny!
Really quite a pretty girl,

Long ago.
Bless her! why, she wears a cap,
Grandma does, and takes a nap
Every single day, and yet
Grandma danced the minuet,

Long ago.
Grandma says our modern jumping,
Hopping, whirling, rushing, bumping,
Would have shocked the gentlefolk,

Long ago.
No; they moved with stately grace,
Everything in proper place,
Gliding slowly forward, then
Slowly curtseying back again,

Long ago.
Modern ways are quite alarming,
Grandma says; but boys were charming-
Girls and boys it means, of course-

Long ago.

Bravely modest, grandly shy,
What if all of us should try
Just to feel like those who met
În the graceful minuet,

Long ago.
With the minuet in fashion
Who could fly into a passion ?
All would wear the calm they wore,

Long ago.
In time to come if I, perchance,
Should tell my grandchild of our dance,
I should dearly like to say,
"We did it, dear, in some such way,

Long ago."

LUCY.

S

HE dwelt among the untrodden ways,

Beside the Springs of Dove,
A maid whom there were none to praise,

And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone,

Half hidden from the eye, Fair as a star when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and oh,
The difference to me!

Wordsworth.

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