ow, Madge," cried Hal, and bent his bow,
"Just watch this famous shot;
See that old willow by the brook—
I'll hit the middle knot."
Swift flew the arrow through the air,
Madge watched it eager-eyed;
But, oh! for Harry's gallant vaunt,
The wayward dart flew wide.
Flew wide, and struck his cousin's dove
As, wheeling round and round,
It hovered near—the wounded bird
Fell fluttering to the ground.
And in a moment o'er her pet
Dear Madge is bending low.
Oh, how she blames the faithless dart,
The cruel, cruel bow!
The dove, soft folded in her hands,
She presses to her breast;
The bird that brought the olive spray
Was never more caressed.
Her tears upon its plumage fall,
They fall like soft warm rain—
Sure if the bird were dead such love
Would give it life again.
Poor Hal stands by, and tries to speak
His sorrow and regret;
Madge scarcely hears a word he says
For pity of her pet.
But time, the gentle healer, cures
The wounds of doves and men—
The days restore to faithful Madge
Her bonnie bird again.
Robert Richardson.
the wounded dove ([See p. 16.])
OUR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.
SOLOMON'S DREAM AT GIBEON.
I
t had been a great day at Gibeon. A thousand animals had been slaughtered, and laid upon the altar of burnt-offering; and, as the successive sacrifices were consumed, the flames had ascended, and the smoke, in curling clouds, had gone up towards heaven in token of acceptance.