My lot to see, I think you'll own your wife As good or better than the generality. "An interest in your case I really take, Also my five best horses with my cart; And be particular, I beg; But where the wives, an egg. I'll ease you of your wife,-I will-I fegs!" Away the married man departed, Not doubting that, of course, The first five houses each would take a horse. At the first house he knocked, He felt a little shocked To hear a female voice, with angry roar, Scream out,-Hullo! Who's there below? See who it is, I beg." But first laid at the door an egg. I will not, all his journey through, The discontented traveler pursue; Suffice it here to say That when his first day's task was nearly done, He'd seen an hundred husbands, minus one, And eggs just ninety-nine had given away. "Ha, here's a house where he I seek must dwell," At length cried John; "I'll go and ring the bell." The servant came,-John asked him, "Pray, Friend, is your master in the way?" "No," said the man, with smiling phiz, My master is not, but my mistress is; Walk in that parlor, sir, my lady's in it: Master will be himself there in a minute." The lady said her husband then was dressing, And, if his business was not very pressing, She would prefer that he should wait until His toilet was completed; Adding, "Pray, sir, be seated." 'Madam, I will," Why, husband, are you deaf? Go to the "Sir," said the husband "it is most true; Said John, and, as the case is something And only leave the black." more than common, Allow me to present you with a beast "There's Smiler, Sir, a beauty, you must own, There's Prince that handsome black, Ball the gray mare, and Saladin the roan, Come, Sir, choose one; But take advice from me, Why, Sir, you'll look the hero on his back." OW beautiful is youth,-early manhood, early womanhood,-how wonderfully fair! What freshness of life, cleanness of blood, purity of breath! What hopes! There is nothing too much for the young maid or man to put into their dream, and in their prayer to hope to put in their day. O young men and women! there is no picture of ideal excellence of manhood and womanhood that I ever draw that seems too high, too beautiful for young hearts. I love to look on these young faces, and see the firstlings of a young man's beard, and the maidenly bloom blushing over the girl's fair cheek. I love to see the pure eyes beaming with joy and goodness, to see the unconscious joy of such young souls, impatient of restraint, and longing for the heaven which we fashion here. So have I seen in early May, among the New England hills, the morning springing in the sky, and gradually thinning out the stars that hedge about the cradle of day; and all cool and fresh and lustrous came the morning light, and a few birds commenced their songs, prophets of very many more; and ere the sun was fairly up, you saw the pinky buds upon the apple trees, and scented the violets in the morning air, and thought of what a fresh and lordly day was coming up the eastern sky. THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN 699 THE MAPLE-TREE. HEN on the world's first harvest- The forest trees before the Lord The Maple only, of them all, Before the world's great harvest With empty hands and silent stood, For in the early summer time, While other trees laid by their board, The Maple winged her fruit with love, And sent it daily to the Lord. There ran through all the leafy wood And looked unmoved to God the while. And then, while fell on earth a hush At that swift kiss there sudden thrilled In every nerve, through every vein An ecstasy of joy so great It seemed almost akin to pain. And there before the forest trees, Blushing and pale by turns she stood; In every leaf, now red and gold, Transfigured by the kiss of God. And still when comes the autumn time, THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. O ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,— And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, The young birds are chirping in the nest, The young fawns are playing with the shadows, The young flowers are blowing toward the west But the young, young children, O my brothers, They are weeping bitterly! They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free. Do you question the young children in their sorrow, Why their tears are falling so?The old man may weep for his to-morrow, Which is lost in Long AgoThe old tree is leafless in the forest The old year is ending in the frostThe old wound, if stricken, is the sorestThe old hope is hardest to be lost: But the young, young children, O my brothers, Do you ask them why they stand Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers, In our happy Fatherland? They look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their looks are sad to see, |