pride of his instinct,
Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly
Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers;
Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector,
When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves
howled. 
Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes,
Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor,
Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their
fetlocks,
While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles,
Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson,
Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms. 
Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders
Unto the milkmaid’s hand; whilst loud and in regular cadence
Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended. 
Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard,
Echoed back by the barns.  Anon they sank into stillness;
Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors,
Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent.

H. W. LONGFELLOW:  Evangeline.

* * * * *

THE CATTLE OF A HUNDRED FARMS.

    And now, beset with many ills,
      A toilsome life I follow;
    Compelled to carry from the hills,
    These logs to the impatient mills,
      Below there in the hollow.

    Yet something ever cheers and charms
      The rudeness of my labors;
    Daily I water with these arms
    The cattle of a hundred farms,
      And have the birds for neighbors.

H. W. LONGFELLOW:  Mad River.

* * * * *

CAT-QUESTIONS.

    Dozing, and dozing, and dozing! 
      Pleasant enough,
    Dreaming of sweet cream and mouse-meat,—­
      Delicate stuff!

    Waked by a somerset, whirling
      From cushion to floor;
    Waked to a wild rush for safety
      From window to door.

    Waking to hands that first smooth us,
      And then pull our tails;
    Punished with slaps when we show them
      The length of our nails!

    These big mortal tyrants even grudge us
      A place on the mat. 
    Do they think we enjoy for our music
      Staccatoes of “scat”?

    To be treated, now, just as you treat us,—­
      The question is pat,—­
    To take just our chances in living,
      Would you be a cat?

LUCY LARCOM.

* * * * *

THE NEWSBOY’S CAT.

    Want any papers, Mister? 
      Wish you’d buy ’em of me—­
    Ten year old, an’ a fam’ly,
      An’ bizness dull, you see. 
    Fact, Boss!  There’s Tom, an’ Tibby,
      An’ Dad, an’ Mam, an Mam’s cat,
    None on ’em earning money—­
      What do you think of that?