“The last load is coming.  We are all moved!” he exclaimed, and the little boys joined in a chorus, “We are moved, we are moved!”

Mrs. Peterkin looked sadly round; the kitchen utensils were lying on the parlor lounge, and an old family gun on Elizabeth Eliza’s hat-box.  The parlor clock stood on a barrel; some coal-scuttles had been placed on the parlor table, a bust of Washington stood in the door-way, and the looking-glasses leaned against the pillars of the piazza.  But they were moved!  Mrs. Peterkin felt indeed that they were very much moved.

[Illustration:  GET UP!]

[Illustration:  GOT DOWN!]

THE SING-AWAY BIRD.

BY LUCY LARCOM.

[Illustration]

  O Say, have you heard of the sing-away bird,
    That sings where the Runaway River
  Runs down with its rills from the bald-headed hills
    That stand in the sunshine and shiver? 
        “O sing! sing-away! sing-away!”
      How the pines and the birches are stirred
      By the trill of the sing-away bird!

  And the bald-headed hills, with their rocks and their rills,
    To the tune of his rapture are ringing. 
  And their faces grow young, all their gray mists among,
    While the forests break forth into singing,
        “O sing! sing-away! sing-away!”
      And the river runs singing along;
      And the flying winds catch up the song.

  It was nothing but—­hush! a wild white-throated thrush,
    That emptied his musical quiver
  With a charm and a spell over valley and dell
    On the banks of the Runaway River. 
        “O sing! sing-away! sing-away!”
      Yet the song of the wild singer had
      The sound of a soul that is glad.

  And, beneath the glad sun, may a glad-hearted one
   Set the world to the tune of his gladness. 
  The rivers shall sing it, the breezes shall wing it,
   Till life shall forget its long sadness. 
        “O sing! sing-away! sing-away!”
      Sing, spirit, who knowest joy’s Giver,—­
      Sing on, by time’s Runaway River!

OLD SOUP

BY MRS. E.W.  LATIMER.

The following curious anecdote is from a book about elephants, written by a French gentleman, named Jacolliot, and we will let the author tell his own story: 

In the autumn of 1876 I was living in the interior of Bengal, and I went to spend Christmas with my friend, Major Daly.  The major’s bungalow was on the banks of the Ganges near Cawnpore.  He had lived there a good many years, being chief of the quartermaster’s department at that station, and had a great many natives, elephants, bullock-carts, and soldiers under his command.

On the morning after my arrival, after a cup of early tea (often taken before daylight in India), I sat smoking with my friend in the veranda of his bungalow, looking out upon the windings of the sacred river.  And, directly, I asked the major about his children (a boy and a girl), whom I had not yet seen, and begged to know when I should see them.