goes!"

It chanced, that, in passing on way,
She came near a pool, and a green
With fence close and high;
And, as Vivy drew nigh,
A donkey stood near it unseen.

He put his mouth over its top,
The moment she came by his place;
And gave a loud bray
In her ear, when, away
She sprang, shrieked, and fell on her face.

She thought she was swallowed alive,
Awhile upon earth lying flat;
And the terrible sound
Seemed to furrow the ground
She embraced in her fine gown and hat.

She gathered herself up, and ran,
Yet heeded not whither or whence,
To flee from the roar,
That continued to pour
Behind her, from over the fence.

In passing a slope near the pool,
She slipped and rolled down to its brim;
The geese gave a shout,
And at length hissed her out
Of the bounds, where they'd gathered to swim.

In turning a corner, she met
Abruptly, the horns of a cow
That mooed, while the cur,
At her heels, turned from her,
And aimed at Miss Vain his "bow-wow."

Then Vivy's bright ribbons and skirt,
As she flew, flirted high on the wind;
The children at play,
Paused to see one so gay,
And all in a flutter behind.

A group of glad schoolboys came by:
Said they, "So it seems, that to-day,
Miss Vain carries marks
At which the dog barks,
And that make sober Long-Ears to bray."

And when, all bedraggled and pale,
Poor Vivy approached her own door,
She went, swift and straight
As a dart, through the gate,
Abhorring the gay gear she wore.

She sat down, and thought of the scene
With humiliation and tears:
The words, and the noise
Of the brutes and the boys
Were echoing still in her ears.

She reasoned, and came at the cause,
Resolving that cause to remove;
And thence, her desire
Was for modest attire,
And her heart and her mind to improve.

And soon, all who knew her before
Remarked on the change and the gain
In mind, and in mien,
And in dress, that were seen
In the once flashy Miss Vivy Vain.

The Lost Kite

"My kite! my kite! I've lost my kite!
Oh! when I saw the steady flight,
With which she gained her lofty height,
How could I know, that letting go
That naughty string, would bring so low
My pretty, buoyant, darling kite,
To pass for ever out of sight?

"A purple cloud was sailing by,
With silver fringes, o'er the sky;
And then I thought, it seemed so nigh,
I'd make my kite go up and light
Upon its edge, so soft and bright;
To see how noble, high and proud
She'd look, while riding on a cloud!

"As near her shining mark she drew
I clapped my hands; the line slipped through
My silly fingers; and she flew,
Away! away! in airy play,
Right over where the water lay!
She veered and fluttered, swung and gave
A plunge, then vanished with the wave!

"I never more shall want to look
On that false cloud, or babbling brook;
Nor e'er to feel the breeze that took
My dearest joy, to thus destroy
The pastime of your happy boy.
My kite! my kite! how sad to think
She flew so high, so soon to sink!"

"Be this," the mother said, and smiled,
"A lesson to thee, simple child!
And when by fancies vain and wild,
As that which cost the kite that's lost,
The busy brain again is crossed,
Of shining vapor then beware,
Nor trust thy joys to fickle air.

"I have a darling treasure, too,
That sometimes would, by slipping through
My guardian hands, the way pursue,
From which, more tight than thou thy kite,
I hold my jewel, new and bright,
Lest he should stray without a guide,
To drown my hopes in sorrow's tide!"

A Summer-Morning Rumble

Oh! the happy Summer hours.
With their butterflies and flowers,
And the birds among the bowers
Sweetly singing;—
With the spices from the trees,
Vines, and lilies, while the bees
Come floating on the breeze,
Honey bringing!

All the East was rosy red,
When we woke and left our bed;
And to gather flowers we sped,
Gay and early.
Every clover-top was wet,
And the spider's silken net
With a thousand dew-drops set,
Pure and pearly.

With their modest eyes of blue
Were the violets peeping through
Tufts of grasses, where they grew,
Full of beauty,
At the lamb in snowy white,
O'er the meadow bounding light,
And the crow just taking flight,
Grave and sooty.

On our floral search intent,
Still away, away we went,—
Up and down the rugged bent,—
Through the wicket,—
Where the rock with water drops,—
Through the bushes and the copse,—
Where the greenwood pathway stops
In the thicket.

We heard the fountain gush,
And the singing of the thrush;
And we saw the squirrel's brush
In the hedges,
As along his back 't was thrown,
Like a glory of his own.
While the sun behind it, shone
Through its edges.

All the world appeared so fair,
And so fresh and free the air,—
Oh! it seemed that all the care
In creation
Belonged to God alone;
And that none beneath his throne,
Need to murmur or to groan
At his station.

Dear little brother Will!
He has leaped the hedge and rill,—
He has clambered up the hill,
Ere the beaming
Of the rising sun, to sweep
With its golden rays the steep,
Till he's tired, and dropped asleep,
Sweetly dreaming.

See, he threw aside his cap,
And the roses from his lap,
When his eyes were, for the nap,
Slowly closing:
Wit his sunny curls outspread,
On its fragrant mossy bed,
Now his precious infant head
Is reposing.

He is dreaming of his play—
How he rose at break of day,
And he frolicked all the way
On his ramble.
And before his fancy's eye,
He has still the butterfly
Mocking him, where not so high
He could scramble.

In his cheek the dimples dip,
And a smile is on his lip,
While his tender finger-tip
Seems as aiming
At some wild and lovely thing
That is out upon the wing,
Which he longs to catch and bring
Home for taming.

While he thus at rest is laid
In the old oak's quiet shade,
Let's cull our flowers to braid,
Or unite them
In bunches trim and neat,
That for every friend we meet,
We may have a token sweet