Abstracted, contemplative air,
A sudden run and stop,
A glance indifferent round about,
Head poised—another hop.
A plunge well-aimed, a backward tug,
A well-resisted squirm,
Then calm indifference as before.
But oh, alack, the worm!
KATHERINE VAN D. HARKEE, Vassar Miscellany.
~A Mountain Brook.~
I come from the depths of the mountain,
The dark, hidden, head of the fountain,
I spring from a nook in the ledges,
And bathe the gray granite's rough edges,
I rush over wide mossy masses
To quench the hot thirst of the grasses.
I bathe the cleft hoofs of the cattle,
As o'er the rude ford-stones I rattle.
I glide through the glens deep in shadow;
I flow in the sun-bathed meadow,
And seek, with a shake and a quiver,
The still steady flow of the river,
Then on to the wild rhythmic motion
Of my mother, the sky-tinted ocean.
CHARLES OTIS JUDKINS. Wesleyan Literary Monthly.
~In the San Joaquin.~
Across the hills the screeching blue-jays fly
In countless flocks, and as they hasten by
The children look up from their merry play
To watch them slowly, slowly fade away;
And night steals up the corners of the sky.
No silent, trembling star shines there, on high:
The hollow rivers, that were still and dry,
Begin to murmur; falls a gentle spray
Across the hills.
The stubble colors through the fallen hay,
And infant grasses pin the moistened clay;
The drooping trees shake off their dust and sigh;
And waking nature, with a gladdened eye,
Beholds the summer lose its ending day,
Across the hills.