THE MOTHER'S STORY.

That evening, when the feast of strawberries Had been partaken, and the happy three Sat down together, Linda asked: "And now, May I not hear the rest?"—"To-morrow, Linda, You shall hear all," said Percival; "but now, That brain of yours must tranquillize itself Before you try to sleep; and so, to-night, Let us have 'Annie Laurie,' 'Bonnie Doon,' And songs that most affront the dainty ear Of modern fashion." Linda played and sang A full half-hour; then, turning on her chair, Said, "Now shall mother sing that cradle ditty You made for me, an infant. Mother, mine, Imagine you are rocking me to sleep, As in those far-off days."

Replied the mother: "O the dear days! yet not more dear than these! For frugal Linda brings along with her All of her past; the infant's purity, The child's confiding love, and now, at last, The maiden's free and quick intelligence! Be ever thus, my Linda; for the pure In heart shall carry an immortal youth Into the great to-come. That little song— Well I remember the delightful time When 'twas extemporized; when, with my pen, I noted down the words, while, by your crib, Your father sat, and you, with little fists Drawn tight, would spring and start, as infants will, Crowing the while, and chuckling at the words Not comprehended yet, save in the smiles That with them went! 'Twas at the mellow close Of an autumnal day, and we were staying In a secluded village, where a brook Babbled beneath our window, and the hum Of insects soothed us, while a louder note From the hoarse frog's bassoon would, now and then, Break on the cricket's sleepy monotone And startle laughter." Here the matron paused; Then sweeping, with a firm, elastic touch, The ivory keys, sang