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There's Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, And Maud with her mantle of silver-green, And Kate with her scarlet feather.

Under my window, under my window,
Leaning stealthily over,

Merry and clear, the voice I hear,

Of each glad-hearted rover.

Ah! sly little Kate, she steals my roses;
And Maud and Bell twine wreaths and posies,
As merry as bees in clover.

Under my window, under my window,
In the blue Midsummer weather,
Stealing slow, on a hushed tiptoe,

I catch them all together :-
Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen,
And Maud with her mantle of silver-green,
And Kate with the scarlet feather.

(Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled),
Would throw away, and straight take up again,
Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the lawn
Bound with so playful and so light a foot,
That the pressed daisy scarce declined her head.

be but narrow,"

My birthday lessons are done.

“And where are they? I pray you tell.” She answered, "Seven are we ; And two of us at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea;

"Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother;

They are only one times one.

O Moon! in the night I have seen you sailing And shining so round and low.

Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea,

is failing;

You are nothing now but a bow.

I pray you tell, Sweet maid, how this may be."

Then did the little maid reply,

"Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the churchyard lie Beneath the churchyard tree."

"You run about, my little maid;
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little maid replied:

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"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit,

My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,

And sing a song to them.

"And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was Sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her of her pain ;

And then she went away.

Thy sidelong pillowed meekness;
Thy thanks to all that aid;
Thy heart, in pain and weakness,
Of fancied faults afraid;

The little trembling hand
That wipes thy quiet tears,
These, these are things that may demand
Dread memories for years.

Sorrows I've had, severe ones,
I will not think of now;
And calmly, midst my dear ones,
Have wasted with dry brow;

But when thy fingers press
And pat my stooping head,
I cannot bear the gentleness,
The tears are in their bed.

Ah, first-born of thy mother,
When life and hope were new;
Kind playmate of thy brother,
Thy sister, father too;

My light, where'er I go ;
My bird, when prison-bound;
My hand-in-hand companion -- No,
My prayers shall hold thee round.

LITTLE BELL.

PIPED the Blackbird, on the beechwood spray, "Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, What's your name?" quoth he, "What's your name? O, stop and straight un

fold,

Pretty maid with showery curls of gold.".

"Little Bell," said she.

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks, Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks, —

"Bonny bird," quoth she,

'Sing me your best song before I go." "Here's the very finest song I know,

Little Bell," said he.

Little Bell looked up and down the glade:
"Squirrel, Squirrel, from the nut-tree shade,
Bonny Blackbird, if you 're not afraid,

Come and share with me!"
Down came Squirrel, eager for his fare,
Down came bonny Blackbird, I declare;
Little Bell gave each his honest share,
Ah! the merry three !

And the while those frolic playmates twain
Piped and frisked from bough to bough again,

'Neath the morning skies,

In the little childish heart below

All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, And shine out in happy overflow

From her brown, bright eyes.

PICTURES OF MEMORY.

AMONG the beautiful pictures

That hang on Memory's wall Is one of a dim old forest,

That seemeth best of all; Not for its gnarled oaks olden, Dark with the mistletoe; Not for the violets golden

That sprinkle the vale below; Not for the milk-white lilies

That lean from the fragrant ledge, Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, And stealing their golden edge; Not for the vines on the upland,

Where the bright red berries rest, Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip, It seemeth to me the best.

I once had a little brother,

With eyes that were dark and deep; In the lap of that old dim forest He lieth in peace asleep :

Light as the down of the thistle,

Free as the winds that blow, We roved there the beautiful summers, The summers of long ago; But his feet on the hills grew weary,

And, one of the autumn eves,

I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves.
Sweetly his pale arms folded

My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face;
And when the arrows of sunset

Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light.
Therefore, of all the pictures

That hang on Memory's wall, The one of the dim old forest Seemeth the best of all.

ALICE CARY.