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“ Little Jack HORNER

Sat in a corner,
Eating a Christmas Pie :

He put in his thumb,

And pulled out a plum,
And said, “What a great boy am I!”

AH, the world hath many a Horner,

Who, seated in his corner, Finds a Christmas Pie provided for his thumb:

And cries out with exultation,

When successful exploration
Doth discover the predestinated plum!

Little Jack outgrows his tire,

And becometh John, Esquire ;
And he finds a monstrous pasty ready made,

Stuffed with notes and bonds and bales

With invoices and sales,
And all the mixed ingredients of Trade.

And again it is his luck

To be just in time to pluck,
By a clever “operation,” from the pie

An unexpected “plum ;"

So he glorifies his thumb, And says, proudly, “ What a mighty man am I!”

Or perchance, to Science turning,

And with weary labour learning All the formulas and phrases that oppress her,—

For the fruit of others' baking,

So a fresh diploma taking,
Comes he forth, a full accredited Professor !

Or he's not too nice to mix

In the dish of politics;
And the dignity of office he puts on:

And he feels as big again

As a dozen nobler men, While he writes himself the “Honourable John !”

Nay, he need not quite despair

Of the Presidential chair:
The thing is not unlikely to be done;

Since a party puppet now

May wear boldly on its brow
The glory that a WEBSTER never won !

Not to hint at female HORNERS,

Who, in their exclusive corners,
Think the world is only made of upper crust;

And in the funny pie

That we call Society,
Their dainty fingers delicately thrust-

Till it sometimes comes to pass,

In the spiced and sugared mass,
One may compass (don't they call it so ?) a catch;

And the gratulation given
Seems as if the


heaven Had outdone itself in making such a match!

Oh, the World keeps Christmas Day

In a queer, perpetual way; Shouting always, “What a great, big Boy am I!”

Yet how many of the crowd,

Thus vociferating loud,
And its accidental honours lifting high,

Have really, more than Jack,

With all their lucky knack,
Had a finger in the making of the Pie?

Edith May.




Y heart is full of prayer and praise to-day,

So beautiful the whole world seems to me! I know the morn has dawned as is its wont, I know the breeze comes on no lighter wing, I know the brook chimed yesterday that same Melodious call to my unanswering thought; But I look forth with new-created eyes, And soul and sense seem linked and thrill alike, And things familiar have unusual grown, Taking my spirit with a fair surprise ! But yesterday, and life seemed tented round With idle sadness. Not a bird sang out But with a mournful meaning; not a cloudAnd there were many—but in flitting past Trailed somewhat of its darkness o'er my heart, And loitering, half becalmed, unfreighted all, Went by the Heaven-bound hours.

But, oh! to-day Lie all harmonious and lovely things

Close to my spirit, and a while it seems
As if the blue sky were enough of heaven!
My thoughts are like tense chords that give their music
At a chance breath; a thousand delicate hands
Are harping on my soul! no sight, no sound,
But stirs me to the keenest sense of pleasure,-
Be it no more than the wind's cautious tread,
The swaying of a shadow, or a bough,
Or a dove's flight across the silent sky.

Oh, in this sun-bright Sabbath of the heart,
How many a prayer puts on the guise of thought,
An angel unconfessed ! Its rapid feet,
That leave no print on Memory's sands, tread not
Less surely their bright path than choral hymns
And litanies. I know the praise of worlds,
And the soul's unvoiced homage, both arise
Distinctly to His ear who holds all Nature
Pavilioned by His presence; who has fashioned
With an impartial care, alike the star
That keeps unpiloted its airy circle,
And the sun-quickened germ, or the poor moss
The building swallow plucks to line her nest.


HE early Spring hath gone; I see her stand

Afar off on the hills—white clouds, like doves,
Yoked by the South-wind to her opal car,
And at her a lion and a lamb
Couched, side by side. Irresolute Spring hath gone!

And Summer comes like Psyche, zephyr-borne
To her sweet land of pleasures.

She is here!
Amid the distant vales she tarried long,
But she hath come, oh joy !—for I have heard
Her many-chorded harp the livelong day,
Sounding from plains and meadows, where, of late,
Rattled the hail's sharp arrows, and where came
The wild North-wind, careering like a steed
Unconscious of the rein. She hath

forth Into the forest, and its poised leaves Are platformed for the Zephyr's dancing feet. Under its green pavilions she hath reared Most beautiful things; the Spring's pale orphans lie Sheltered upon her breast; the bird's loud song At morn outsoars his pinion; and when waves Put on Night's silver harness, the still air Is musical with soft tones. She hath baptized Earth with her joyful weeping. She hath blessed All that do rest beneath the wing of Heaven, And all that hail its smile. Her ministry Is typical of love. She hath disdained No gentle office, but doth bend to twine The grape's light tendrils, and to pluck apart The heart-leaves of the rose. She doth not pass Unmindful the bruised vine, nor scorn to lift The trodden weed; and when her lowlier children Faint by the wayside like worn passengers, She is a gentle mother, all night long Bathing their pale brows with her healing dews. The Hours are spendthrifts of her wealth; the Days Are dowered with her beauty.


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