Summer's over, summer's over!
See, the leaves are falling fast;
Flowers are dying, flowers are dying,
All their beauty's gone at last.
Now the thrush no longer cheers us;
Warbling birds forget to sing;
And the bees have ceased to wander,
Sipping sweets on airy wing.
Winter's coming, winter's coming!
Now his hoary head draws near;
Winds are blowing, winds are blowing;
All around looks cold and drear.
Hope of spring must now support us;
Winter's reign will pass away;
Flowers will bloom, and birds will warble,
Making glad the livelong day.
T. C.
A BAD BLOW.
Little David came running home from school one winter afternoon. As he passed through the yard, he saw the door of the cellar-kitchen standing open, and heard some one down in the cellar, pounding, thump, thump, thump.
Little David ran down the steps to see who it was.
He saw a great blazing fire in the wide fireplace, and three big pots hanging on the crane over it; and his mamma, Leah, Jane, and Aunt Jinny, making sausages; and John Bigbee, the colored boy, with a wooden mortar between his knees, and an iron-pestle in his hand, pounding, thump, thump, thump, in the mortar.
Little David ran to John, and asked, "What's in there?" but did not wait for an answer. He drew in his breath as hard as he could, and blew into the mortar with all his might.