“We can't go way, it wouldn’t be fair,”
Said May, half crying; “I do declare.
I never should dare to tell!”
“] wish, I wish,” wept sorrowful Fay,
“We'd minded mamma, and kept away!
No use to talk!
Some terrible hawk
-Has carried her up in the air!”

But that was a great mistake of hers,
For, still as a mouse when Tabby stirs,
From the roof she peered below;
And a mother, as all the world avers,
Whether in satin, or feathers, or furs
Is a match for every foe.
But the very minute they came in sight
She pounced on May, like a flash of light;

Like the teeth of saws

Were the sharp, sharp claws,

And they clung to the child like burs.

Oh, the hen had whetted her horny beak!
‘And she pecked and pecked the pretty red
cheek

Till down the red blood rolled,
All the birds of the air heard little May
shriek!
Looked down and saw how a maiden meek,
Could fight like a soldier bold!
For Fay, with her little fat hands doubled
tight,
Went hitting old Swallow-tail, left and right,
Vet the hen stuck fast,
Till over at last
Fell May, all blinded and weak!

Away to her chickens, “eight, nine, ten,”
Went the terrible bird that scared the men,
And whipped disobedient girls;
And the children, safely at home again,
Owned all their naughtiness there and then,
While mamma smoothed the curls
And bathed the wounds all swollen and red;
But, though not an angry word she said,

To see her so sad,

Hurt ’most as bad

As the beak of the swallow-tailed hen!
—AMANDA T. JONES.

 

©hristmas ve.

ND ah! hark there!

41 On the midnight air

Comes the faintest tingle of fairy
bells.

They are coming near,

They are coming here,

And their sweet sound swelling of joy fore-

tells.

 

It is Santa Claus,

And he cannot pause;

But down the chimney he quickly slides;
Each stocking fills,

Till it almost spills,

Then gaily chuckles, and off he glides.

How happy he,

The saint to be

Of all the girls and all the boys!

He hears his praise

Thro’ the holidays,

As they eat their sweets, and break theiz
toys.

So still he smiles,

| And the time beguiles

Concocting schemes our hearts to cheer;

He loves us all,

And great and small

Regret that he comes but once a year.
—WILLIAM BARCLAY DUNHAM.