Hoffman took Annie to her heart, and watched over her with truly maternal tenderness. And often during the years that followed, did her spirit rejoice in the ardent attachment of the grateful orphan; and as she listened to the sweet soft voice that now sent its music through her once desolate cottage, she ever inwardly blessed the hour that brought to her door the weary old man and his little guide.

THE POST-BOY'S SONG.

BY MISS FRANCES A. FULLER.

THE night is dark and the way is long,
And the clouds are flying fast,
The night wind sings a dreary song,
And the trees creak in the blast:
The moon is down in the tossing sea
And the stars shed not a ray,
The lightning flashes frightfully,
But I must on my way.

Full many a hundred time have I

Gone o'er it in the dark,

Till my faithful steeds can well descry
Each long familiar mark;
Withal should peril come to-night,

God have us in his care!

For without help and without light,

The boldest well beware.

Like a shuttle thrown by the hand of fate,

Forward and back I go,

Bearing a thread to the desolate

To darken their web of woe;

And a brighter thread to the glad of heart,
And a mingled one to all,

But the dark and the light I cannot part

Nor alter their hues at all.

On, on my steeds! the lightning's flash
An instant gilds our way,

But steady!--by that fearful crash
The heavens seemed rent away.
Soho!-now comes the blast anew,
And a pelting flood of rain;
Steady!-a sea seems bursting through
A rift in some upper main.

'Tis a terrible night, a dreary hour,

Yet who will remember to pray,
That the care of the storm controlling Power
May be over the post-boy's way?

The wayward wanderer from his home,

The sailor upon the sea,

Have prayers to bless them where they roam

Who thinketh to pray for me?

But the storm abates-uprides the moon
Like a ship upon the sea;

Now on, my steeds!-this glorious moon
Of a night so dark shall be

A scene for us. Toss high your heads,
And cheerily speed away,

We shall startle the sleepers in their beds
Before the dawn of day.

Like a shuttle thrown by the hand of fate,

Forward and back I go,

Bearing a thread to the desolate

To darken their web of woe;

And a brighter thread to the glad of heart, And a mingled one for all;

But the dark and the light I cannot part Nor alter their hues at all.

THE BIRD-TRAP.

BY THE EDITOR.

THE artist has brought these two little rogues into his foreground, more by way of adding the heightening effect of their figures to his landscape than because he expected us to approve of their operations. In the background stands a humble English cottage on one side of a wooded lane. The heavily shaded trees are clad in the rich foliage of summer. The brook runs swiftly by. All around looks sweet, peaceful, and rural. One would think the songsters of the woods must feel protected by the very loveliness of the spot, from any harm to themselves, especially if their delightful songs are remembered, and the beauty their bright plumage adds to the groves and hedges.

But see the countenance of that boy who is watching for the birds, while his brother arranges the trap! It does not look capable of a cruelty. It is innocent, kind, gentle, and child-like, even while looking out for the poor prisoner he hopes to shut up in the cage. Would he pursue his sport if he knew its true character? If he had been told of the helpless young fledglings whom he is perhaps about robbing of a mother—if he knew what imprisonment was, even to a bird-would he per