So Billy went up to the main-topgallant mast,
And down he fell on his bended knee.

He scarce had come to the Twelfth Commandment
When up he jumps, "There's land I see.

"Jerusalem and Madagascar,

And North and South Amerikee:
There's the British flag a-riding at anchor,
With Admiral Napier, K. C. B."

So when they got aboard of the Admiral's
He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee;
But as for little Bill, he made him

The Captain of a Seventy-three.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

The Butterfly and the Bee.

"The Butterfly and the Bee," by William Lisle Bowles (1762-1850), I recommended by some school-girls. It carries a lesson in favou of the worker.

METHOUGHT I heard a butterfly

Say to a labouring bee:

"Thou hast no colours of the sky
On painted wings like me."

"Poor child of vanity! those dyes,
And colours bright and rare,"
With mild reproof, the bee replies,
"Are all beneath my care.

“Content I toil from morn to eve,
And scorning idleness,

To tribes of gaudy sloth I leave

The vanity of dress."

WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES

An Incident of the French Camp.

"An Incident of the French Camp," by Robert Browning (1812-89). is included in this volume out of regard to a boy of eight years who did not care for many poems, but this one stirred his heart to its depths.

You know, we French storm'd Ratisbon: ben

A mile or so away

On a little mound, Napoleon

Stood on our storming-day;

With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,
Legs wide, arms lock'd behind,
As if to balance the prone brow
Oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mus'd "My plans

That soar, to earth may fall,
Let once my army leader Lannes

Waver at yonder wall,"

Out 'twixt the battery smokes there flew
A rider, bound on bound
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew

Until he reach'd the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect

By just his horse's mane, a boy:
You hardly could suspect-
(So tight he kept his lips compress'd,
Scarce any blood came through)

You look'd twice ere you saw his breast
Was all but shot in two..

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace We've got you Ratisbon!

The Marshal's in the market-place,

And you'll be there anon

To see your flag-bird flap his vans

Where I, to heart's desire,

Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his

plans

Soared up again like fire.

The chief's eye flashed; but presently

Softened itself, as sheathes

A film the mother-eagle's eye

When her bruised eaglet breathes; "You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's pride

Touched to the quick, he said:

"I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside,

Smiling the boy fell dead.

ROBERT BROWNING.

Robert of Lincoln.

"Robert of Lincoln," by William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878), is one of the finest bird poems ever written. It finds a place here because I have seen it used effectively as a memory gem in the Cook County Normal School (Colonel Parker's school), year after year, and because my own pupils invariably like to commit it to memory. With the child of six to the student of twenty years it stands a source of delight.

MERRILY Swinging on brier and weed,

Near to the nest of his little dame,

Over the mountain-side or mead,

Robert of Lincoln is telling his name.
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink,

Snug and safe is this nest of ours,
Hidden among the summer flowers.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed,
Wearing a bright, black wedding-coat;
White are his shoulders, and white his crest,
Hear him call in his merry note,
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink,

Look what a nice, new coat is mine;
Sure there was never a bird so fine.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life,

Broods in the grass while her husband sings, Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink,

Brood, kind creature, you need not fear
Thieves and robbers while I am here.
Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and shy as a nun is she;

One weak chirp is her only note; Braggart, and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat,

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink,

Never was I afraid of man,

Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can.
Chee, chee, chee.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay,

Flecked with purple, a pretty sight: There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might, Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink,

Nice good wife that never goes out,
Keeping house while I frolic about.
Chee, chee, chee.

Soon as the little ones chip the shell,
Six wide mouths are open for food;
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,
Gathering seeds for the hungry brood:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink,

This new life is likely to be

Hard for a gay young fellow like me.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care,

Off is his holiday garment laid,

Half forgotten that merry air,

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink,

Nobody knows but my mate and I,
Where our nest and our nestlings lie.
Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes; the children are grown Fun and frolic no more he knows,