And the maid, she looked him over with her elfin eyes of

brown,

And the limpid water, giggled at his plight.

He reached the other side; he set down the dainty maid;
But he trembled so he could n't speak a word;

Then the dainty, dainty maid, "Thank you, sir! Good-day!" she said,

And the water-bubbles chuckled as they heard.

Oh, she tripped away so lightly, a-maying in the morn,
That dainty, dainty maiden of degree;

But she left the simple country lad a-sighing and forlorn,
Where the mocking water twinkled to the sea.

Charles G. D. Roberts.

TO A SKYLARK.

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart

In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher

From the earth thou springest,

Like a cloud of fire,

The blue deep thou wingest,

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning

Of the setting sun,

O'er which clouds are brightening,

Thou dost float and run,

Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even

Melts around thy flight;

Like a star of heaven,

In the broad daylight

Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.

Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows

In the white dawn clear,

Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

All the earth and air

With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,

From one lonely cloud

The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.

What thou art we know not;

What is most like thee?

From rainbow clouds there flow not

Drops so bright to see

As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

Teach us, sprite or bird,

What sweet thoughts are thine:

I have never heard

Praise of love or wine

That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus hymeneal,

Or triumphal chant,

Matched with thine, would be all

But an empty vaunt,

A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

What objects are the fountains

Of thy happy strain?

What fields, or waves, or mountains?

What shapes of sky or plain?

What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

Teach me half the gladness

That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness

From my lips would flow,

The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

RIDING DOWN.

Oh, did you see him riding down,
And riding down while all the town
Came out to see, came out to see,
And all the bells rang mad with glee?

Oh, did you hear those bells ring out,
The bells ring out, the people shout?
And did you hear that cheer on cheer
That over all the bells rang clear?

And did you see the waving flags,
The fluttering flags, the tattered flags?

Red, white, and blue, shot through and through,
Baptized with battle's deadly dew.

And did you hear the drums' gay beat,
The drums' gay beat, the bugles sweet,
The cymbals' clash, the cannons' crash
That rent the sky with sound and flash?

And did you see me waiting there,
Just waiting there and watching there?
One little lass amid the mass
That pressed to see the hero pass.

And did you see him smiling down?
And smiling down, as riding down
With slowest pace, with stately grace,
He caught the vision of a face,—

My face uplifted, red and white,-
Turned red and white with sheer delight
To meet the eyes, the smiling eyes,
Outflashing in their swift surprise?

Oh, did you see how swift it came,
How swift it came like sudden flame,-
That smile to me, to only me,

The little lass who blushed to see?

And at the windows all along,
Oh, all along, a lovely throng
Of faces fair beyond compare
Beamed out upon him riding there.

Each face was like a radiant gem,—
A sparkling gem, and yet for them
No swift smile came like sudden flame;
No arrowy glance took certain aim.

He turned away from all their grace,
From all that grace of perfect face;
He turned to me, to only me,-
The little lass who blushed to see.

Nora Perry.

HUMOR.

The upper tones of the voice are peculiarly those of Humor. A sudden flight on the musical scale, from a comparatively low note to a very high one, is usually provocative of mirth.

The greatest possible variety in intonation, united with an airiness of movement and an approach to a laughing utterance, are the principal requirements of Humorous Reading.

HUMOROUS SELECTIONS.

A SENATOR ENTANGLED.

The Countess di Nottinero was not exactly a Recamier, but she was a remarkably brilliant woman, and the acknowledged leader of the liberal part of Florentine society.

The good Senator had never before encountered a thorough woman of the world, and was as ignorant as a child of the innumerable little harmless arts by which the power of such a one is extended and secured. At last the Senator came to this conclusion,-La Cica was desperately in love with him.

She appeared to be a widow. At least she had no husband that he had ever seen. Now, if the poor Cica was hopelessly in love, it must be stopped at once. But let it be done delicately, not abruptly.

One evening they walked on the balcony of La Cica's noble residence. She was sentimental, devoted, charming.

The conversation of a fascinating woman does not sound so well when it is reported as it is when uttered. Her power is in her tone, her glance, her manner. Who can catch the evanescent beauty of her expression or the deep tenderness of her well modulated voice?-who indeed?

"Does ze scene please you, my Senator?"