a town-meeting was convened straightway

To set a price upon the guilty heads

And next the Deacon issued from his door,

In his voluminous neck-cloth, white

as snow;

A suit of sable bombazine he wore ; His form was ponderous, and his step was slow;

There never was so wise a man before; He seemed the incarnate "Well, I told you so!"

And to perpetuate his great renown There was a street named after him in town.

These came together in the new townhall,

With sundry farmers from the region round.

The Squire presided, dignified and tall, His air impressive and his reasoning sound;

[1 fared it with the birds, both great and small;

Hardly a friend in all that crowd they found,

But enemies enough, who every one Charged them with all the crimes beneath the sun.

When they had ended, from his place apart,

Rose the Preceptor, to redress the wrong,

And, trembling like a steed before the start,

Looked round bewildered on the expectant throng;

Then thought of fair Almira, and took heart

To speak out what was in him, clear

The birds, who make sweet music fo. us all

In our dark hours, as David did for Saul.

"The thrush that carols at the dawn of day

From the green steeples of the piny wood;

The oriole in the elm; the noisy jay, Jargoning like a foreigner at his food; The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray,

Flooding with melody the neighborhood;

Linnet and meadow-lark, and all the throng

That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song.

"You slay them all! and wherefore? for the gain

Of a scant handful more or less of wheat,

Or rye, or barley, or some other grain, Scratched up at random by industri

And when you think of this, remember

too

'Tis always morning somewhere, and above

The awakening continents, from shore to shore,

Somewhere the birds are singing ever

more.

"Think of your woods and orchards without birds!

Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams

As in an idiot's brain remembered words Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams!

Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds Make up for the lost music, when your

teams

Drag home the stingy harvest, and no

more

The feathered gleaners follow to your door?

"What! would you rather see the incessant stir

Of insects in the windrows of the hay, And hear the locust and the grasshopper

Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play? Is this more pleasant to you than the whir

Of meadow-lark, and her sweet roundelay,

Or twitter of little field-fares, as you take Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake?

"You call them thieves and pillagers; but know,

They are the winged wardens of your farms,

Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe,

And from your harvests keep a hundred harms;

Even the blackest of them all, the crow, Renders good service as your man

at-arms,

Crushing the beetle in his coat-of-mail, And crying havoc on the slug and snail.

How can I teach your children gentle

ness,

And mercy to the weak, and rever

ence

The Summer came, and all the birds were dead;

The days were like hot coals; the very ground

Was burned to ashes; in the orchards fed

Myriads of caterpillars, and around The cultivated fields and garden beds Hosts of devouring insects crawled, and found

No foe to check their march, till they had made

The land a desert without leaf or shade. Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the town,

Because, like Herod, it had ruthlessly Slaughtered the Innocents. From the trees spun down

The canker-worms upon the passersby,

Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. BETWEEN the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,

The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence :

Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall !
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret

O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me ; They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen

In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine! Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old mustache as I am

Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you forever,

Yes, forever and a day,

Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away!

ENCELADUS.

UNDER Mount Etna he lies,

It is slumber, it is not death; For he struggles at times to arise, And above him the lurid skies

Are hot with his fiery breath. The crags are piled on his breast,

The earth is heaped on his head;
But the groans of his wild unrest,
Though smothered and half suppressed,
Are heard, and he is not dead,
And the nations far away

Are watching with eager eyes;
They talk together and say,
"To-morrow, perhaps to-day,
Enceladus will arise !"

And the old gods, the austere
Oppressors in their strength,
Stand aghast and white with fear
At the ominous sounds they hear,
And tremble, and mutter,
length !"

Ah me for the land that is sown With the barvest of despair!

"At