The White Deer.

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.

THREE hunters, three hunters went out on the hill; They waited, the milk-white deer to kill.

They all fell asleep, 'neath a dark fir tree,
And they had a wonderful dream, all three.

The first said: "I dreamt I was beating the bush, When out sprang the milk-white deer, hush-hush.”

The next said: 66 The hounds followed as he ran off; Then I levelled my rifle and fired: piff-poff."

The third said: 66 The white deer I falling saw,
And I blew on my horn with a merry tra-la!"

But as they were telling their dreams so gay,
The deer dashed out, and he ran away :-
Hush, hush—piff, poff―tra-la!

Frisk.

AIR-" DUNCAN GRAY."

MERRY Frisk, my little dog,

Barks, barks, and wags his tail; Alike in sunshine, frost, or fog,

He barks, barks, and wags his tail. Trotting gaily at my heels,

Or running on, how glad he feels;
Then he stops, about he wheels :-
Barks, barks, and wags his tail.

Frisk is gay, and full of glee,

Barks, barks, and wags his tail; Poorly fed though he may be,

He barks, barks, and wags his tail. No fine clothes poor Frisk may wear, And his feet are always bare;

Yet, though only clad with hair,

He barks, barks, and wags his tail.

Merry Frisk's a dog of sense,
Barks, barks, and wags his tail;
Foe to show, and vain pretence,

He barks, barks, and wags his tail.
Generous, brave, though rough to see,
Few find friend so true as he,
Though but a little dog he be,

That barks, barks, and wags his tail!

The Butterfly.

FROM THE GERMAN.

ONCE flew, upon a summer's day,
With wings as bright as gold,

A little butterfly so gay,

Only a few hours old.

To all the flowers that he could see
Flew this vain butterfly,

And said to all: "Oh, look at me,

How lovely am not I !"

"Away," he cried, "you great brown bee,

The ugliest thing alive!”

66

"Ah! fool,” the bee said, come and see

What I have in my hive!"

In clever skill is real worth ;

Goodness is better far

Than all the beauties of the earth,

That vain and useless are.

The Song of the Bee.

FROM THE GERMAN.

WOULD'ST thou hear a pretty singer?
Listen to the little bee,
How she sings so merrily:
"Skill is good, with industry."

So the bee is singing gaily,
And I love to hear it daily.

Always is she brisk and busy,
Bringing stores her house to fill,
Growing rich by work and skill;
Idle drones, without good will,
From her house she drives away,
Suffers not with her to stay.

See her house, how clean and tidy,

All its little rooms so neat,

Stored with honey clear and sweet,

For her family to eat.

Order there must reign o'er all,

'Mong the great and 'mong the small.