leans I placed a looking-glass beside the place where she usually sat, and the instant she perceived her image all her former fondness seemed to return, so that she could scarcely absent herself from it a moment. It was evident she was completely deceived. Always when evening drew on, and often during the day, she laid her head close to that of the image in the glass, and began to doze with great composure and satisfaction.

9. In this short space she had learned to know her name, to answer when called on, to climb up my clothes, sit on my shoulder, and eat from my mouth. I took her with me to sea, determined to persevere in her education; but, destined to another fate, poor Poll, having one morning about daybreak wrought her way through the cage while I was asleep, instantly flew overboard and perished in the Gulf of Mexico.

ALEXANDER WILSON.

86.

-THE PARROT: A True Story.

THE deep affections of the breast
That Heaven to living things imparts,
Are not exclusively possessed

By human hearts.

A parrot, from the Spanish main,

Full young and early caged, came o'er,
With bright wings, to the bleak domain.
Of Mulla's shore.

To spicy groves where he had won
His plumage of resplendent hue,
His native fruits, and skies, and sun,
He bade adieu.

For these he changed the smoke of turf,
A heathery land and misty sky,
And turned on rocks and raging surf
His golden eye.

But petted in our climate cold,

He lived and chattered many a day;
Until with age, from green and gold
His wings grew gray.

At last, when blind, and seeming dumb,
He scolded, laughed, and spoke no more,
A Spanish stranger chanced to come
To Mulla's shore;

He hailed the bird in Spanish speech;
The bird in Spanish speech replied,
Flapped round the cage with joyous screech,
Dropped down, and died.

T. CAMPBELL.

Thrice welcome, darling of the spring!

Even yet thou art to me

No bird, but an invisible thing,

A voice, a mystery;

The same that in my school-boy days.

I listened to; that cry

Which made me look a thousand ways,
In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love,-
Still longed for, never seen!

And I can listen to thee yet,

Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again.

O blessed bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be

An unsubstantial, fairy place,

That is fit home for thee!

WORDSWORTH.

WHITHER, midst falling dew,

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.

Seekest thou the plashy brink

Of weedy lake, or marge1 of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink.
On the chafed ocean side?

1 marge, margin,