THE KING OF THE MOUNTAINS.
HAT is that, mother?” “The eagle, boy,
Proudly careering his course with joy,
Firm on his own mountain vigor relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying;
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world he stands;
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls,
He watches from his mountain walls.
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward and upward, and true to the line.”
THE BEE.
H! busy bee,
On wing so free,
Yet all in order true;
Each seems to know,
Both where to go,
And what it has to do.
'Mid summer heat,
The honey sweet,
It gathers while it may;
In tiny drops,
And never stops
To waste its time in play.
I hear it come,
I know its hum;
It flies from flower to flower;
And to its store,
A little more
It adds, each day and hour.