Once, too, just as they were starting back from the grocer's he suddenly lay down flat, and threw Mike over his head, scattering basket and bundles.
Poor Mike was half an hour late; but, when he told good Mrs. Smith all his troubles, she excused him. She laughed hard, too, when Mike said, like a true-born Irish boy, "Sure, marm, I never want to ride Jack again till I've learned how."
IDA FAY.
OFF FOR THE WINTER.
"O swallows! what can be the matter?
And what do you mean by your chatter?
You sit on the barn-roof by dozens,—
Aunts, grandmothers, uncles, and cousins;
You circle and wheel, then you twitter away:
Oh, what are you saying? Do tell me, I pray."
"My little one, cold winds are blowing;
We swallows to South-land are going:
We meet in the clear autumn weather,
And plan our long journey together.
When spring-time returns, with its green dancing leaves,
We'll come back to our little nests under the eaves."
"Sweet wild flowers, oh, where are you hiding?
In what hidden nook are you biding?
I've wandered the meadows all over,—
There's no breath of wild rose or clover;
No violets peeping through grass-blades I see,
No daisies or buttercups nodding to me."
Then up spake a gentian, late comer,
The last blue-eyed darling of summer,—
"To our long winter rest we betake us:
Good-night, till May breezes awake us."
Then her soft downy cap she drew over her head,
And joined her sweet sisters asleep in their bed.
RUTH REVERE.
