“Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!”
      Up the oak-tree, close beside him,
    Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
    In and out among the branches,
    Coughed and chattered from the oak-tree,
    Laughed, and said between his laughing,
    “Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!”
      And the rabbit from his pathway
    Leaped aside, and at a distance
    Sat erect upon his haunches,
    Half in fear and half in frolic,
    Saying to the little hunter,
    “Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!”
      But he heeded not, nor heard them,
    For his thoughts were with the red deer;
    On their tracks his eyes were fastened,
    Leading downward to the river,
    To the ford across the river,
    And as one in slumber walked he.

H. W. LONGFELLOW:  Hiawatha.

* * * * *

UNOFFENDING CREATURES.

    The Being that is in the clouds and air,
    That is in the green leaves among the groves,
    Maintains a deep and reverential care
    For the unoffending creatures whom he loves.

    One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,
    Taught both by what He shows, and what conceals,
    Never to blend our pleasure or our pride
    With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

WORDSWORTH.

* * * * *

SEPTEMBER.

    And sooth to say, yon vocal grove
    Albeit uninspired by love,
    By love untaught to ring,
    May well afford to mortal ear
    An impulse more profoundly dear
    Than music of the spring.

    But list! though winter storms be nigh
    Unchecked is that soft harmony: 
    There lives Who can provide,
    For all his creatures:  and in Him,
    Even like the radiant Seraphim,
    These choristers confide.

WORDSWORTH.

* * * * *

THE LARK.

          Happy, happy liver,
    With a soul as strong as a mountain river,
    Pouring out praises to the Almighty Giver.

WORDSWORTH.

* * * * *

THE SWALLOW.

    When weary, weary winter
      Hath melted into air,
    And April leaf and blossom
      Hath clothed the branches bare,
    Came round our English dwelling
      A voice of summer cheer: 
    ’Twas thine, returning swallow,
      The welcome and the dear.

    Far on the billowy ocean
      A thousand leagues are we,
    Yet here, sad hovering o’er our bark,
      What is it that we see? 
    Dear old familiar swallow,
      What gladness dost thou bring: 
    Here rest upon our flowing sail
      Thy weary, wandering wing.

MRS. HOWITT.

* * * * *

RETURNING BIRDS.