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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. 179