THE MOTHER'S STORY.

That evening, when the feast of strawberries

Had been partaken, and the happy three

Sat down together, Linda asked: “And now,

May I not hear the rest?” — “To-morrow, Linda,

You shall hear all,” said Percival; “but now,

That brain of yours must tranquillize itself

Before you try to sleep; and so, to-night,

Let us have‘ Annie Laurie,’‘ Bonnie Doon,’

And songs that most affront the dainty ear

Of modern fashion.” Linda played and sang

A full half-hour; then, turning on her chair,

Said, “Now shall mother sing that cradle ditty

You made for me, an infant. Mother, mine,

Imagine you are rocking me to sleep,

As in those far-off days.”

Replied the mother:

“O the dear days! yet not more dear than these!

For frugal Linda brings along with her

All of her past; the infant's purity,

The child's confiding love, and now, at last,

The maiden's free and quick intelligence!

Be ever thus, my Linda; for the pure

In heart shall carry an immortal youth

Into the great to-come. That little song —

Well I remember the delightful time

When‘ twas extemporized; when, with my pen,

I noted down the words, while, by your crib,

Your father sat, and you, with little fists

Drawn tight, would spring and start, as infants will,

Crowing the while, and chuckling at the words

Not comprehended yet, save in the smiles

That with them went!‘ Twas at the mellow close

Of an autumnal day, and we were staying

In a secluded village, where a brook

Babbled beneath our window, and the hum

Of insects soothed us, while a louder note

From the hoarse frog's bassoon would, now and then,

Break on the cricket's sleepy monotone

And startle laughter.” Here the matron paused;

Then sweeping, with a firm, elastic touch,

The ivory keys, sang