MARY N. PRESCOTT.
WHERE?
Where is the honey-bee? Where has the swallow flown? Only the chickadee Chirrups his song alone. Where is the bobolink, Bubbling with merriment? What was the road, think, The gadding fire-fly went? Whither flew the little wings Grown in green forest aisles? Where are the pretty things That blossomed miles on miles? MARY N. PRESCOTT. |
A GOAT IN TROUBLE.
A few weeks ago, as I was crossing a railroad track just outside of the city, a little goat stepped before me. With a sad cry, she seemed to ask me to stop. I turned aside to pass on, but she kept brushing against me, until I finally decided to find out what she wanted.