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tunity of ascertaining how far the notes had been digested, and for supplementing them if necessary. If difficulty be experienced in turning from the text to the notes to look for meanings, I would recommend that the notes relating to the verses under study be copied, and the copy used with the text. The copying of the notes would not only help to impress the meanings, &c., upon the child's memory, but would tend to improve spelling.
EDMUND ARTHUR HELPS. London.
Their little language the children
Have on the knee as they sit ;
And only those who love them
Can find the key to it.
The words thereof and the grammar
5 Perplex the logician's art; But the heart goes straight with the meaning,
And the meaning is clear to the heart.
So thou, my Love, hast a language
That, in little, says all to me :-
But the world cannot guess the sweetness
Which is hidden with Love and thee.
F. T. PALGRAVE.
'Tis eight o'clock,-a clear March night,
The moon is up—the sky is blue,
The owlet in the moonlight air
Shouts from nobody knows where ;
He lengthens out his lonely shout,
Halloo ! halloo ! a long halloo !
Why bustle thus about your door,
What means this bustle, Betty Foy?
Why are you in this mighty fret?
And why on horseback have you set
Him whom you love, your Idiot boy?
Scarcely a soul is out of bed ;
Good Betty, put him down again,
His lips with joy they burr at you ;
But, Betty! what has he to do
Wil.. stirrup, saddle, or with rein ?
But Betty's bent on her intent;
For her good neighbour, Susan Gale,
Old Susan, she who dwells alone,
Is sick, and makes a piteous moan,
As if her very life would fail.
There's not a house within a mile,
No hand to help them in distress :
Old Susan lies abed in pain,
And sorely puzzled are the twain,
For what she ails they cannot guess.
And Betty's husband's at the wood,
Where by the week he doth abide,
A woodman in the distant vale ;
There's none to help poor Susan Gale ;
What must be done? what will betide?
And Betty from the lane has fetch'd
Her pony, that is mild and good,
Whether he be in joy or pain,
Feeding at will along the lane,
Or bringing faggots from the wood.
And he is all in travelling trim-
And, by the moonlight, Betty Foy
Has on the well-girt saddle set
(The like was never heard of yet)
Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy.
And he must post without delay
Across the bridge and through the dale,
And by the church, and o'er the down,
To bring a doctor from the town,
Or she will die, old Susan Gale.
There is no need of boot or spur,
There is no need of whip or wand ;
For Johnny has his holly-bough,
And with a hurly-burly now
He shakes the green bough in his hand.
And Betty o'er and o'er has told
The boy, who is her best delight,
Both what to follow, what to shun,
What do, and what to leave undone,
How turn to left, and how to right.
And Betty's most especial charge
Was, “ Johnny! Johnny! mind that you
Come home again, nor stop at all,
Come home again, whate'er befall,
My Johnny, do, I pray you do.”
To this did Johnny answer make,
Both with his head and with his hand,
And proudly shook the bridle too ;
And then, his words were not a few,
Which Betty well could understand.
And now that Johnny is just going,
Though Betty's in a mighty flurry,
She gently pats the pony's side,
On which her Idiot Boy must ride,
And seems no longer in a hurry.
But when the pony moved his legs,
Oh! then for the poor Idiot Boy !
For joy he cannot hold the bridle,
For joy his head and heels are idle,
He's idle all for very joy.
And while the pony moves his legs,
In Johnny's left hand you may see
The green bough's motionless and dead :
The moon that shines above his head
Is not more still and mute than he.
His heart it was so full of glee,
That till full fifty yards were gone,
He quite forgot his holly whip,
And all his skill in horsemanship;
Oh, happy, happy, happy John !
And while the mother at the door
Stands fix'd, her face with joy o'erflows;
Proud of herself, and proud of him,
She sees him in his travelling trim ;
How quietly her Johnny goes.
The silence of her Idiot Boy,
What hopes it sends to Betty's heart !
He's at the guide-post-he turns right,
She watches till he's out of sight,
And Betty will not then depart.
Burr, burr-now Johnny's lips they burr
As loud as any mill, or near it ;
Meek as a lamb the pony moves,
And Johnny makes the noise he loves,
And Betty listens, glad to hear it.
Away she hies to Susan Gale :
Her messenger's in a merry tune ;
The owlets hoot, the owlets curr,
And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr,- 105
As on he goes beneath the moon.
His steed and he right well agree,
For of this pony there's a rumour,
That, should he lose his eyes and ears,
And should he live a thousand years,
He never will be out of humour.
But then he is a horse that thinks !
And when he thinks, his pace is slack ;
Now, though he knows poor Johnny well,
Yet, for his life, he cannot tell
What he has got upon his back.