W
ELL,” said little Herbert Joyce, as he looked over the books of drawings which his cousin had just brought home from Australia, “I never saw anything so extraordinary before in all my life; why here is an animal with three heads, and two of them are very low down, and much smaller than the others.” “What do you mean, Herbert?” asked his cousin, who just then came into the room. “There are no three-headed animals—let me see the picture. Oh! no wonder you were puzzled; it does look like a queer creature. That is a kangaroo, and the small heads belong to her children, whom she carries about in a bag formed by a hole in her skin, until they are old enough to walk; and the little things seem very happy there; and sometimes, as their mother moves along over the grass, you may see them nibbling it.”
THE PEACOCK.
ROUD bird! I watched thee stalking by,
With stately step and slow,
As though thou fain would'st charm each eye
With glittering pomp and show:
And truly thou art brave to see,
In heaven's hues arrayed,
And plainer birds at sight of thee
Might shrink and be dismayed:
Yet, pampered bird! there still are those
I value higher far,
Albeit their garb nor glints nor glows
With many a jeweled star.
I love them for their gentle ways,
Their voices soft and sweet
In summer chorus, that repays
Right well their winter's meat.
For what is outward form at best
But accident of birth?
That form in splendid raiment drest
Is still but common earth.
And yet 'tis he whose painted plumes
Shine fairest in the sun,
Who haughtiest look of pride assumes,
As though by him 'twere done.
We smile to see yon bird strut by,
Thus proud of his array;
But human friends we may espy
As foolish every day.
Not beauty's form nor grand attire
Upon the wise will tell,
But acts of those who e'er aspire
To do their DUTY well.
