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Written for Burke’s Weekly
Bosette and the Whispering Fairy.
tOSETTE, dear little sister,
I will put my work away,
And to the fairy waterfall
I’ll go with thee to-day.
?“ Ilallie has gone into the wood
To gather chestnuts sweet,
And I will ramble forth with thee,
And guide thy little feet.
•’ And we will take a basket,
With bread that I have made,
And spread our leafy table
Beneath the pleasant shade.
“ And thou, my little child,
Shalt fresh, clear water bring
In thy own little bucket
From the cold mountain spring.”
Thus spoke the gentle Lillian
On a bright October day,
When Earth, in many-tinted robe
Os glorious beauty lay;
And spirits all too fine to breathe
Our common atmosphere,
Had come forth, wondering to find
This mortal earth so fair.
Rosette and Lillian wandered forth
With hearts as free and light
As the gaily fluttering Autumn leaves
That floated out of sight,—
The only’ specks upon the blue
Os the Autumn Heaven so bright.
And soon they reached their favorite spot,
Down in the shady dell,
Where, in a sheet of glittering foam,
The sparkling water fell.
Then Lillian said, “Rosette, I havo
Forgot our bird to feed;
Thou must stay here while I return
Unto our home with speed.
“ For he will wonder where I’m gone,
And cease his pretty song ;
And thou canst play until I come,
For I will not be long.
44 But do not touch the basket, dear,
Leave it upon this rock,
And do not climb the mountain side.
Or tear thy little frock.”
Thus Lillian said, and homeward ran
With steps so light and fleet,
Nor stopped to pick the chinquepin,
Or gather chestnuts sweet.
Rosette sat quietly awhile,
And watched the basket well,
And tried to count the sparkling drops
Os water as they fell.
But soon the little maiden grew
Weary of sitting still,
Os picking pebbles round and smooth,
Her apron neat to fill.
Then did her wistful, longing eyes
Upon the basket linger,
And in the basket warily
There crept her little finger.
But scarcely had she touched it when
She heard a voice say clearly,
“Rosette, oh think of Lillian,
Lillian, who loves thee dearly,
“ And wouldst thou grieve thy sister dear,
Who cares for thee so well —
Who teaches thee thy daily prayer,
And pretty tales doth tell ?”
Rosette then turned to see who spoke,
And plainly to be seen
Beside her was a tiny elf,
Dressed in rich robe of green.
* Rosette,” she said, “ dost thou not know
There is a fairy sprite
Who watches well the little folk.
To see that they do right ?
BXJRKE’S WEEKLY.
“ They call me 'Whispering Fairy,’
Because each one can hear
My voice, when they are doing wrong,
My voice so soft and clear.
" But only on such days as this,
So cloudless and serene,
Am I, within the shady wood,
Sometimes by children seen.
“ And yonder comes dear Lillian,
Adieu, I must not stay,”
And leaving then the wondering child,
She quickly sped away’.
Rosette then with her little arms
Did Lillian’s neck enfold,
And for forgiveness praying, she
All the strange story told;
And Lillian, with her gentle voice,
Did softly' kiss and scold.
Their leafy table then they spread,
And water fresh did bring,
And still the leaves came floating past
Like birds upon the Wing.
And merrily they sang and played
That pleasant Autumn day ;
And many a brightly-tinted leaf
They brought with them away,
With which to deck their cottage home,
And make it bright and gay.
Acoa , Habersham Cos., Ga. E. P. M.
Written for Burke’s Weekly.
THE 808-O-LINK.
IIIS merry little fellow
is well enough known at
•if ie h where he is
’IBI considered one of the
' happiest and blithest of
ItTi ie eat^ M’am. ma^es
My his appearance there about the
rek middle of May. “He comes,” says
Irving, “amid, the pomp and fra
grance of the season; his life seems all
sensibility and enjoyment, all song and
sunshine. He is to be iound in the soft
blossoms of the freshest and sweetest
meadows, and is most in song when the
clover is in blossom. lie perches on the
topmost twig of a tree, or on some long,
flaunting weed, and as he rises and sinks
with the breeze, pours foith a succession
of rich, tinkling notes, crowding one upon
another, like the outpouring melody of
the skylark, and possessing the same rap
turous character,”
The Yankee boys pretend that they can
understand his song, and say that these
are the words of it: “ Bob-o-link, Bob-o
link; Tom Denny, Tom Denny; come
pay me the two-and-six pence you owed
me more than a year and a half ago!
Tshe, tshe, tshe; tsh, tsh, tshe!”
Mrs. Bob-o-link is a very different sort
of bird. She has a modest, ash-colored
dress, while Bob has a gay white and
black coat, and she never sings any such
songs as Bob’s, but like a quiet, prudent
house-keeper as she is, stays at home and
takes good care of the little ones, giving
them worms to eat, and. trying to teach
them good manners.
But Bob is a sad fellow. As the season
advances at the North he gradually
changes his coat, from a black and white
to a dusty-looking russet, and prepares
to set off on a traveling expedition in
search of luxuries not to be had in his
Northern home. He is next heard of
“ banquetting among the reeds of Dela
ware, and grown corpulent with good
feeding.” Here he is known no longer as
Bob-o-link, but as the Reed Bird, and
thousands of his kind are killed and
spread upon the tables of those fond of
good eating.
“ Again he wings his flight. The rice
swamps of the South invite him. He
gorges himself among them almost to
bursting. He can scarcely fly, from his
corpulency. He has once more changed
his name, and is now the famous Rice
Bird of the Carolinas and Georgia.” This
is the last stage of his career, for he is
sought after as a great delicacy, and my
riads of his kind fall before the eager
sportsmen who are hunting them from
dawn to twilight.
Here is a pretty little poem, called
the soxg of the kice bird.
I see o’er the swamp the planter float,
As he scatters the seed from his little boat;
And circling in many an airy ring.
As I follow his progress, I sing, I sing.
When summer comes with her train of flowers,
And her glowing smile in the morning hours.
Where the bright green blades of the rice upspring
Through the rustling water, I sing, I sing.
When noon is enthroned in the burning sky,
Away to the dim, cool swamp I fly ;
On the grape-vine tendril I lightly swing,
While, in joyous measure, I sing, I sing.
Where the cane and black alder a thicket make,
A home for the turtle and crawling snake;
Where the cypress branches their shadows fling,
As I flit through the gloom, I sing, I sing.
But I dwell not there, for I love to be
Where the rice-plant waves in the breezes free;
And there, as I hover on restless wing,
In the joy of my life, I sing, I sing.
Benefit your friends, that they
may love you still more dearly ; benefit
your enemies that they may become j oui
friends.
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