fill under their bite and their tread, The swedes, and the wheat, and the barley Lay cankered, and trampled, and dead. Have wandered away in their shame ; If your misses had slept, squire, where they del Your misses might do the same. "Can your lady patch hearts that are breaking, | Bending beneath her load again, With handfuls of coals and rice, Or by dealing out flannel and sheeting A little below cost price? "You may tire of the jail and the workhouse, "In the season of shame and sadness, "When to kennels and liveried varlets "When your youngest, the mealy -mouthed rector, Lets your soul rot asleep to the grave, You will find in your God the protector Of the freeman you fancied your slave.' She looked at the tuft of clover, And wept till her heart grew light; And at last, when her passion was over, Went wandering into the night. But the merry brown hares came leaping Over the uplands still, Where the clover and corn lay sleeping On the side of the white chalk hill. CHARLES KINGSLEY. "THEY'RE DEAR FISH TO ME." THE farmer's wife sat at the door, When, bending 'neath her heavy creel, A poor fish-wife came by, And, turning from the toilsome road, Unto the door drew nigh. She laid her burden on the green, With trembling hands and pleading words But lightly laughed the young guidwife, "We're no sae scarce o' cheer; Tak' up your creel, and gang your ways, I'll buy nae fish sae dear." A weary sight to see; Right sorely sighed the poor fish-wife, "They're dear fish to me! "Our boat was oot ae fearfu' night, "I've been a wife for thirty years, I maun buy them now to sell again, The farmer's wife turned to the door, What was 't upon her cheek? What was there rising in her breast, That then she scarce could speak? "Come back," she cried, with quivering voice, And pity's gathering tear; "Come in, come in, my poor woman, Ye're kindly welcome here. "I kentna o' your aching heart, Your weary lot to dree; I'll ne'er forget your sad, sad words: 'They're dear fish to me!'' Ay, let the happy-hearted learn To pause ere they deny How much of manhood's wasted strength, What breaking hearts might swell the cry: ANONYMOUS. HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD. " HOME they brought her warrior dead : "She must weep or she will die." Then they praised him, soft and low, Called him worthy to be loved, Truest friend and noblest foe; Yet she neither spoke nor moved. |