Returned to keep my foolish vow;
    I only longed for freedom then,
    Nor thought to want my wings again. 
    Better with life itself to part,
    Than, living, have a faithless heart;
    Do with me, therefore, as you will,
    An honest bird I will be still.”

    His heart seemed full, no more he said,
    He drooped his wings and hung his head. 
    The mouse, though very pert and smart,
    Had yet a very tender heart;
    She minced a little, twirled about,
    Then thus her sentiments threw out:—­
    “I don’t care much about your wings,—­
    Apples and cakes are better things;
    You love the clouds, I choose the house;
    Wings would look queer upon a mouse. 
    My nice long tail is better far,
    So keep your wings just where they are.”

    She munched some apple, gave a smack,
    And ran into her little crack. 
    The bird spread out his wings and flew,
    And vanished in the sky’s deep blue;
    Far up his joyful song he poured,
    And sang of freedom as he soared.

SOLILOQUY

Of Ellen’s squirrel, on receiving his liberty;—­overheard by A Lover
of nature and A friend of Ellen.

    Was that the music of the wind,
      That whispered in my trembling ear? 
    And can I, free and unconfined,
      Taste of the joys that still are dear?

    And can I skip from tree to tree,
      And fly along the flowery plain,
    Light as the wind, as fleet, as free,
      And make my winter’s nest again?

    O, yes! my joyful, trembling heart,
      The song you heard from yonder tree,
    Which made awakening memory start,
      Was the sweet sound of Liberty!

    Dear Ellen, many thanks I owe
      For tenderest care bestowed on me;
    But most my gratitude will flow
      For your best gift,—­sweet Liberty!

    Oft in your gayest, happiest hour,
      When all your youthful heart beats high,
    And, hastening on from flower to flower,
      You taste the sweets of Liberty,

    The thought that you have set me free,
      That I can skip and dance like you,
    To your kind, tender heart shall be
      As pure a joy as e’er you knew.

    Scarce can my wakening sense believe
      The sounds I hear, the sights I see;
    Dear Ellen, once again receive
      Your Squirrel’s thanks for Liberty.

THE PIN, NEEDLE, AND SCISSORS.

    ’Tis true, although ’tis sad to say,
    Disputes are rising every day. 
    You’d think, if no one did deny it,
    A little work-box might be quiet;
    But ’tis not so, for I did hear,
    Or else I dreamed it, ’tis so queer,
    A Pin and Needle in the cushion
    Maintain the following discussion.