THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOW-WORM.
A NIGHTINGALE, that all day long
Had cheered the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel as well he might –
The keen demands of appetite;
When, looking eagerly around,
He spied, far off, upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the glow-worm by his spark ;
So, stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.
The worn, aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus, quite eloquent,

"Did you admire my lamp," quoth he,
"As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor to do me wrong,
As much as I to spoil your song;
For 't was the self-same Power divine
Taught you to sing, and me to shine;
That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night."
The songster heard his short oration,
And, warbling out his approbation,
Released him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.

Some of these may be broken, and some may be rotten;

But if twenty for accident should be detached, It will leave me just sixty sound eggs to be hatched.

"Well, sixty sound eggs, I mean:

no, sound chickens,

Of these some may die, - -we 'll suppose seventeen, Seventeen! not so many, - say ten at the most, Which will leave fifty chickens to boil or to roast.

"But then there's their barley: how much will they need?

Why, they take but one grain at a time when they feed,

So that's a mere trifle; now then, let us see,
At a fair market price how much money there'll be.
"Six shillings a pair-five-four-three-and-six,
To prevent all mistakes, that low price I will fix ;
Now what will that make? fifty chickens, I said,-
Fifty times three-and-sixpence — I'll ask Brother
Ned.

This moral, I think, may be safely attached, "Reckon not on your chickens before they are hatched."

JEFFREYS TAYLOR.

THE TOAD'S JOURNAL

[It is said that Belzoni, the traveller in Egypt, discovered a living toad in a temple which had been for ages buried in the sand.]

IN a land for antiquities greatly renowned
A traveller had dug wide and deep under ground,

A temple for ages entombed, to disclose,
When, lo he disturbed, in its secret repose,
A toad, from whose journal it plainly appears
It had lodged in that mansion some thousands of
years.

The roll which this reptile's long history records, A treat to the sage antiquarian affords:

The sense by obscure hieroglyphics concealed,
Deep learning at length, with long labor, revealed.
The first thousand years as a specimen take,
The dates are omitted for brevity's sake:
"Crawled forth from some rubbish, and winked
with one eye;

Half opened the other, but could not tell why;
Stretched out my left leg, as it felt rather queer,
Then drew all together and slept for a year.
Awakened, felt chilly, crept under a stone;
Was vastly contented with living alone.
One toe became wedged in the stone like a peg,
Could not get it away, had the cramp in my leg;
Began half to wish for a neighbor at hand
To loosen the stone, which was fast in the sand;
Pulled harder, then dozed, as I found 't was no

In the pleasant moist shade of a strawberry-bed. There fine speckled creatures claimed kindred with

me,

And others that hopped, most enchanting to see.
Here long I regaled with emotion extreme;
Awoke, - disconcerted to find it a dream;
Grew pensive, discovered that life is a load;
Began to get weary of being a toad;

Was fretful at first, and then shed a few tears." Here ends the account of the first thousand years.

MORAL.

It seems that life is all a void,

On selfish thoughts alone employed; That length of days is not a good, Unless their use be understood.

JANE TAYLOR.

THE PHILOSOPHER TOAD.

Down deep in a hollow, so damp and so cold, Where oaks are by ivy o'ergrown,

Is heard by the toad in his spacious abode In the innermost heart of that ponderous stone, By the gray-haired moss and the lichen o'ergrown.

Down deep in that hollow the bees never

come,

The shade is too black for a flower; And jewel-winged birds, with their musical hum, Never flash in the night of that bower; But the cold-blooded snake, in the edge of the brake,

Lies amid the rank grass half asleep, halfawake; And the ashen-white snail, with the slime in its trail,

Moves wearily on like a life's tedious tale, Yet disturbs not the toad in his spacious abode, In the innermost heart of that flinty old stone, By the gray-haired moss and the lichen o'ergrown.

AIRY NOTHINGS.

FROM "THE TEMPEST."

OUR revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air;
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made of, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

SHAKESPEARE