In France, the Parentalia of the ancient Romans is annually observed under the name of “Le Jour des Morts.”  All Paris flock to the cemeteries, bearing bouquets, crosses, and garlands to decorate the tombs of departed ancestors, relatives, and friends.  The gay population is, for that day, sobered by tender and solemn memories.  Many a tear glistens on the wreaths, and the passing traveller notices many a one whose trembling lips and swollen eyelids indicate that the soul is immersed in recollections of departed loved ones.  The “cities of the dead” bloom with fresh flowers, in multifarious forms of crosses, crowns, and hearts.  From all the churches prayers ascend for those who have dropped their earthly garment of flesh, and who live henceforth in the “spiritual body,” which becomes more and more beautiful with the progress of the soul,—­it being, as the ancients called it, “the soul’s image.”

THE TITMOUSE.

  You shall not be over-bold
  When you deal with arctic cold,
  As late I found my lukewarm blood
  Chilled wading in the snow-choked wood. 
  How should I fight? my foeman fine
  Has million arms to one of mine. 
  East, west, for aid I looked in vain;
  East, west, north, south, are his domain. 
  Miles off, three dangerous miles, is home;
  Must borrow his winds who there would come. 
  Up and away for life! be fleet! 
  The frost-king ties my fumbling feet,
  Sings in my ears, my hands are stones,
  Curdles the blood to the marble bones,
  Tugs at the heartstrings, numbs the sense,
  Hems in the life with narrowing fence.

Well, in this broad bed lie and sleep, The punctual stars will vigil keep, Embalmed by purifying cold, The winds shall sing their dead-march old, The snow is no ignoble shroud, The moon thy mourner, and the cloud.  Softly,—­but this way fate was pointing, ’Twas coming fast to such anointing, When piped a tiny voice hard by, Gay and polite, a cheerful cry, “Chic-chic-a-dee-dee!” saucy note, Out of sound heart and merry throat, As if it said, “Good day, good Sir!  Fine afternoon, old passenger!  Happy to meet you in these places, Where January brings few men’s faces.”

  This poet, though he live apart,
  Moved by a hospitable heart,
  Sped, when I passed his sylvan fort,
  To do the honors of his court,
  As fits a feathered lord of land,
  Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand,
  Hopped on the bough, then, darting low,
  Prints his small impress on the snow,
  Shows feats of his gymnastic play,
  Head downward, clinging to the spray. 
  Here was this atom in full breath
  Hurling defiance at vast death,
  This scrap of valor just for play
  Fronts the north-wind in waistcoat gray,
  As if to shame my weak behavior. 
  I greeted loud my little saviour: 
  “Thou pet! what dost here? and what