sponsibilities of wedded life. Away fly the happy pair to seek some grassy tussock, where, safe from the eye of the hawk and the nose of the fox, they may rear their expectant brood in peace.

5. Oats harvest arrives, and the fields are waving with yellow grain. Now be wary, O kind-hearted cradler, and tread not into those pure white eggs ready to burst with life! Soon there is a peeping sound heard, and lo! a proud mother walketh magnificently in the midst of her children, scratching and picking, and teaching them how to swallow. Happy she, if she may be permitted to bring them up to maturity, and uncompelled to renew her joys in another nest.

6. The assiduities of a mother have a beauty and a sacredness about them that command respect and reverence in all animal nature, human or inhuman-what a lie does that word carry-except, perhaps, in monsters, insects, and fish. I never yet heard of the parental tenderness of a trout, eating up his little baby, nor of the filial gratitude of a spider, nipping the life out of his gray-headed father, and usurping his web.

7. But if you would see the purest, the sincerest, the most affecting piety of a parent's love, startle a young family of quails, and watch the conduct of the mother. She will not leave you. No, not she. But she will fall at your feet, uttering a noise which none but a distressed mother can make, and she will run, and flutter, and seem to try to be caught, and cheat your outstretched hand, and affect to be wing-broken and wounded, and yet have just strength to tumble along, until she has drawn you, fatigued, a safe distance from her threatened children and the young hopes of her heart; and then will she mount, whirring with glad strength, and away through the maze of trees you have not seen before, like a close-shot bullet, fly to her skulking infants.

8. Listen now. Do you hear those three half-plaintive notes, quickly and clearly poured out? She is calling the boys and girls together. She sings not now "Bob White!" nor "Ah! Bob White!" That is her husband's love-call, or his trumpet-blast of defiance. But she calls sweetly and

softly for her lost children. Hear them "Peep! peep! peep!" at the welcome voice of their mother's love! They are coming together. Soon the whole family will meet again.

9. It is a foul sin to disturb them; but retread your devious way, and let her hear your coming footsteps, breaking down the briers, as you renew the danger. She is quiet. Not a word is passed between the fearful fugitives. Now, if you have the heart to do it, lie low, keep still, and imitate the call of the hen-quail. O mother! mother! how your heart would die if you could witness the deception! The little ones raise up their trembling heads, and catch comfort and imagined safety from the sound. "Peep! peep!" They come to you, straining their little eyes, and, clustering together and answering, seem to say, "Where is she? Mother! mother! we are here!"

DEFINITIONS.-1. A-quat'ie, frequenting the water. 2. Vō'eal, having a voice. 3. I-děn'ti-fied, united. Cu-pĭd'i-ty, eager desire to possess something. 4. Tus'sock, a tuft of grass or twigs. 5. Cra'dler, one who uses a cradle, which is an instrument attached to a scythe in cutting grain. 6. U-şûrp'ing, seizing and holding in possession by force. 7. Af-feet', to pretend. 9. De'vi-oŭs, winding. NOTE.-1. Boreas is the name which the ancient Greeks gave to the north wind.

LVIII. THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.

1. By the flow of the inland river,
Whence the fleets of iron have fled,
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,
Asleep are the ranks of the dead;-
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

Under the one, the Blue;

Under the other, the Gray.

2. These, in the robings of glory,
Those, in the gloom of defeat,
All, with the battle-blood gory,
In the dusk of eternity meet;-
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the laurel, the Blue;

Under the willow, the Gray.

3. From the silence of sorrowful hours, The desolate mourners go,

Lovingly laden with flowers,

Alike for the friend and the foe;-
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the roses, the Blue;
Under the lilies, the Gray.

4. So, with an equal splendor,
The morning sun-rays fall,
With a touch, impartially tender,
On the blossoms blooming for all;-
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;
Broidered with gold, the Blue;
Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

5. So, when the summer calleth,
On forest and field of grain,
With an equal murmur falleth
The cooling drip of the rain;-
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Wet with the rain, the Blue;

Wet with the rain, the Gray.

6. Sadly, but not with upbraiding,
The generous deed was done;

In the storm of the years that are fading,
No braver battle was won;—

Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the blossoms, the Blue;
Under the garlands, the Gray.

7. No more shall the war-cry sever,
Or the winding rivers be red;
They banish our anger forever,

When they laurel the graves of our dead;-
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day;

Love and tears, for the Blue;
Tears and love, for the Gray.

-F. M. Finch.

NOTE. The above touching little poem first appeared in the "Atlantic Monthly" in September, 1867. It commemorates the noble action on the part of the women at Columbus, Mississippi, who in decorating the graves strewed flowers impartially on those of the Confederate and of the National soldiers.

LIX. THE MACHINIST'S RETURN.

[Adapted from a letter written by a correspondent of the Washington "Capital."]

1. On our way from Springfield to Boston, a stout, black-whiskered man sat immediately in front of me, in the drawing-room car, whose maneuvers were a source of constant amusement. He would get up every five minutes, hurry away to the narrow passage leading to the