declined joining in the diversion ever after the first attempt, which was nothing but a headlong plunge from top to bottom.  But though I heroically stood aloof while the girls were enjoying the sport, and making the air ring with their laughter, I was sure, afterwards, to come upon the slippery places unintentionally, and take a slide whether I would or not.  I had, I remember, a most unfortunate propensity for climbing and scrambling, choosing the worst paths, and daring the others to follow my lead on precarious footholds.  It was unfortunate, because I seldom came forth from these trials unscathed.  I was always tearing my dresses in clambering over fences, or bumping my head in creeping under.  Where others cleared brooks with a light spring, I landed in the middle.  I was sure to pick out spongy, oozy, slippery grass to stand upon, in marshy land, or was yet more likely to slump through over shoes in black mud.  Banks always caved in beneath my feet, unexpectedly.  Brambles seemed to enter into a conspiracy to lay violent hands on me, and hidden boughs lay in wait to trip me up.  Moss and bark scaled off the trunks of fallen trees, bearing me with it when I was least on my guard, or the trunks themselves, solid enough to all appearance, crushed to powder beneath my unwary tread.  Even the stone walls deserted me.  I made use of one as a bridge, one day, to reach a golden cowslip that grew temptingly in a swamp; but a treacherous stone rolled off with me, and a perfect avalanche of huge rocks followed, splashing the muddy water all over me as I sat, helplessly, buoyed up by the tall grass.  I regret to say, I forgot the cowslip.

THE OSTRICH.

  Of the wild and wayward Ostrich, say, have ye never heard? 
  Of the poor, distracted, lonely, outcast, and wandering bird? 
  Which is not a bird of heaven, nor yet a beast of earth,
  But ever roveth, homeless,—­a creature of strange birth. 
  Wings hath it, but it flies not.  And yet within its breast
  Are strange and sleepless drivings, so that it may not rest;
  Half-formed, half-conscious impulses, with its half-formed pinions
        given,
  Too strong for rest on earth, too weak to bear to heaven;—­
  And madly it beats its wings, but vainly, against its side,
  For the light wind rusheth through them, mocking them in its pride. 
  Then, distraught, it hurries onward, the gates of heaven shut,
  Flying from what it knows not,—­seeking it knows not what. 
  While in the parching desert, amid the stones and sand,
  Its stone-like eggs are lying, here and there, on every hand,
  It wanders on, unheeding; and, with funereal gloom,
  Trembles in every breeze each torn, dishevelled plume. 
  And when, with startled terror, it sees its foes around,
  It strives to rise above them, but clingeth to the ground. 
  Then on it madly rusheth, with idly fluttering