Then she cheered the hearts of the suffering poor,

And an acre of land around each door,

And a cow and a couple of sheep, or more,

To her tenantry she granted.

So all of them had enough to eat,

And their love for her was so complete,

They would kiss the dust from her little feet,
Or do any thing she wanted.

THE

THE

Edmund B. Stedman.

STRAWBERRY-PICKERS.

(FROM "ALICE OF MONMOUTH.")

I.

HE strawberry-vines lie in the sun,
Their myriad tendrils twined in one;
Spread like a carpet of richest dyes,
The strawberry-field in sunshine lies.
Each timorous berry, blushing red,
Has folded the leaves above her head,

The dark, green curtains gemmed with dew;
But each blushful berry, peering through,

Shows like a flock of the underthread

The crimson woof of a downy cloth

Where the elves may kneel and plight their troth.

II.

Run through the rustling vines, to show

Each picker an even space to go,

Leaders of twinkling cord divide
The field in lanes from side to side;
And here and there, with patient care,
Lifting the leafage everywhere,
Rural maidens and mothers dot
The velvet of the strawberry-plot:
Fair and freckled, old and young,
With baskets at their girdles hung,
Searching the plants with no rude haste—
Lest berries should hang unpicked, and waste,
Of the pulpy, odorous, hidden quest,
First gift of the fruity months, and best.

III.

Crates of the laden baskets cool

Under the trees at the meadow's edge,
Covered with grass and dripping sedge,
And lily-leaves from the shaded pool;
Filled, and ready to be borne

To market before the morrow morn.
Beside them, gazing at the skies,
Hour after hour a young man lies.
From the hill-side, under the trees,
He looks across the field, and sees
The waves that ever beyond it climb
Whitening the rye-slope's early prime;
At times he listens, listlessly,

To the tree-toad singing in the tree,
Or sees the cat-bird peck his fill
With feathers adroop and roguish bill.
But often, with a pleased unrest,
He lifts his glances to the west,

Watching the kirtles, red and blue,
Which cross the meadow in his view;
And he hears anon the busy throng
Sing the Strawberry-Pickers' Song:

IV.

"Rifle the sweets our meadows bear,
Ere the day has reached its nooning:
While the skies are fair, and the morning air
Awakens the thrush's tuning.

Softly the rivulet's ripples flow;
Dark is the grove that lovers know;
Here, where the whitest blossoms blow,
The reddest and ripest berries grow.

"Bend to the crimson fruit, whose stain
Is glowing on lips and fingers;
The sun has lain in the leafy plain,
And the dust of his pinions lingers.

Softly the rivulet's ripples flow;
Dark is the grove that lovers know;
Here, where the whitest blossoms blow,
The reddest and ripest berries grow.

"Gather the cones which lie concealed,
With their vines your foreheads wreathing;
The strawberry-field its sweets shall yield
While the western winds are breathing.

Softly the rivulet's ripples flow;
Dark is the grove that lovers know:
Here, where the whitest blossoms blow,
The reddest and ripest berries grow."

From the far hill-side comes again
An echo of the pickers' strain.
Sweetly the group their cadence keep;
Swiftly their hands the trailers sweep;
The vines are stripped and the song
is sung,
A joyous labour for old and young-
For the blithe children, gleaning behind
The women, marvellous treasures find.

VI.

From the workers a maiden parts:

The baskets at her waistband shine With berries that look like bleeding hearts Of a hundred lovers at her shrine; No Eastern girl were girdled so well With silken belt and silvery bell. Her slender form is tall and strong; Her voice was the sweetest in the song; Her brown hair, fit to wear a crown, Loose from its bonnet ripples down. Toward the crates, that lie in the shade Of the chestnut-copse at the edge of the glade, She moves from her mates, through happy rows Of the children loving her as she goes.

66

ALICE, our ALICE !" one and all,

Striving to stay her footsteps, call

(For children, with skilful choice, dispense The largesse of their innocence);

But on, with a sister's smile, she moves

into the darkness of the groves,

And deftly, daintily, one by one,
Shelters her baskets from the sun,
Under the network, fresh and cool,
Of lily-leaves from the crystal pool.

Anonymous.

THE BIG SHOE.

(FROM "MOTHER GOOSE FOR GROWN FOLKS.")

"There was an old woman

Who lived in a shoe;

She had so many children,

She didn't know what to do:

To some she gave broth,

And to some she gave bread,
And some she whipped soundly,
And sent them to bed."

D°

you find out the likeness? A portly old Dame,

The mother of millions,—

BRITANNIA by name:

And-howe'er it

may strike you

In reading the song

Not stinted in space

For bestowing the throng;

Since the Sun can himself

Hardly manage to go,

In a day and a night,

From the heel to the toe.

On the arch of the instep

She builds up her throne,