"Yes, dear, I like some poetry very much."

"I wonder whether you would like what I have been learning this week. May I repeat it to you?"

"Yes, dear, do."

Minnie laid down her pencil, and in a clear, sweet voice, repeated these lines by Doane :

"What is that, mother?

The lark, my child.

The morn has just look'd out, and smil'd,
When he starts from his humble, grassy nest,

And is up and away with the dew on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart to yon pure bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker's ear

Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays

Tun'd like the lark's to thy Maker's praise.

"What is that, mother?

The dove, my son,

And that low sweet voice, like the widow's moan,

Is flowing out from her gentle breast,

Constant and pure by that lonely nest,

As the wave is pour'd from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return.
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,

In friendship as faithful, as constant in love,

"What is that mother?

The eagle, boy,

Proudly careering his course of joy ;
Firm in his own mountain vigour relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying;
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward and upward, true to the line.

"What is that, mother?

The swan, my love;

He is floating down from his native grove.

No lov'd one now, no nestling nigh,

He is floating down by himself to die.
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings.
Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet it may waft thee home."

"Do you like them?" said she, when she had finished.

"Yes, dear, very much; I know them well, and learnt them when I was about your age."

"And which of all these birds would you be like, Miss Wilson? At least, which did you choose when you were a little girl, like me, for perhaps you have changed since then?"

"No, I have not changed, Minnie; I chose

the lark then, and I love it best now.

Oh, I think those are so blest who give themselves to God in early childhood. All life is happy then. It is the secret of true joy, you know, and some people go toiling on all through their lives, and trying everything but the right thing, and thus, perhaps, in old age they discover what a loss they have had. What would you be, Ellen ?"

"I would be the dove; but then my 'distant dear one' must make haste home, for I am very unhappy when those I love are away from me?"

"And what would you be, Minnie?"

"The eagle, proudly careering his course of joy.' Oh! I do like that verse, and when I say it, I feel strong to do right-onward and upward'―it almost gives me wings!"

"Dear child! that is just what poetry ought to do. It ought to lift us up into a higher atmosphere, and give us a glimpse of the bright glory beyond,"

"But all poetry does not do that," said Ellen:

"No, dear, indeed, it does not; but I think it ought, do not you? I remember a few beautiful lines from Trench about this, which I will repeat to you. He is describing what a true poet's aim should be

"To make men feel the presence by his skill
Of an Eternal loveliness, until

All souls are faint with longing for their home,
Yet the same while are strengthened to fulfil
Their work on earth, that they may surely come
Unto the land of Life, who here as exiles roam."

"Oh, I like that very much," said Ellen, "and mama would like it, too. If you will be so kind as to repeat it again, I will write it down."

Miss Wilson did so, and Ellen put the little scrap into her portfolio.

There were several drawings lying on the table, and as Minnie was looking them over she suddenly exclaimed, while a glow of pleasure overspread her countenance, "Oh! I am