My bird! I too would take my flight,
I long to soar away
To those far realms where all is bright,
Where beams an endless day.
I may not tread a holier sphere,
I may not upward move,
But bound like thee, I linger here
And trust a Father's love.
THE KNIGHTS OF THE RINGLET.
BY GIFTIE.
CHAPTER I.
If to be seated, on a bright winter's day, before a glowing fire of anthracite, with one's feet on the fender, and one's form half-buried in the depths of a cushioned easy-chair, holding the uncut pages of the last novel, be indeed the practical definition of happiness, then Emma Leslie was to be envied as she sat thus cosily, one afternoon, listening to an animated discussion going on between an elderly lady and gentleman on the opposite side of the fire-place. The discussion ran on a grave subject—a very grave subject—one which has puzzled the heads of wise men, and turned the wits of weak ones. But though the argument grew every moment more close and earnest, the fair listener had the audacity to laugh, in clear, silvery tones, that told there was not one serious thought in her mind, as she said,