Eddying round and round they sink
Softly, slowly one might think,
From the motions that are made,
Every little leaf conveyed
Sylph or faery hither tending,
To this lower world descending,
Each invisible and mute,

In his wavering parachute.

- But the Kitten, how she starts,
Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts!
First at one, and then its fellow
Just as light and just as yellow;
There are many now-now one--
Now they stop, and there are none :
What intenseness of desire

In her upward eye of fire!
With a tiger-leap half-way

Now she meets the coming prey,

Lets it go as fast, and then

Has it in her power again :

Now she works with three or four,
Like an Indian conjurer;
Quick as he in feats of art,
Far beyond in joy of heart.
Were her antics played in th' eye
Of a thousand standers-by,
Clapping hands with shout and stare,
What would little Tabby care
For the plaudits of the crowd?
Over happy to be proud,
Over wealthy in the treasure
Of her own exceeding pleasure!
'Tis a pretty baby-treat;
Nor, I deem, for me unmeet;
Here, for neither Babe nor me,
Other playmate can I see.

Of the countless living things,
That with stir of feet and wings
(In the sun or under shade,
Upon bough or grassy blade)
And with busy revelings,
Chirp and song, and murmurings,
Made this orchard's narrow space
And this vale so blithe a place, —
Multitudes are swept away
Nevermore to breathe the day:
Some are sleeping; some in bands
Traveled into distant lands;
Others slunk to moor and wood,
Far from human neighborhood;
And, among the kinds that keep
With us closer fellowship,
With us openly abide,

All have laid their mirth aside.

Where is he, that giddy sprite, Blue-cap, with his colors bright, Who was blest as bird could be, Feeding in the apple-tree;

Made such wanton spoil and rout,

Turning blossoms inside out;

Hung-head pointing towards the groundFluttered, perched, into a round

Bound himself, and then unbound;

Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin;

Prettiest Tumbler ever seen;

Light of heart and light of limb;
What is now become of him?

Lambs, that through the mountains went

Frisking, bleating merriment,
When the year was in its prime,

They are sobered by this time.

If you look to vale or hill,
If you listen, all is still,
Save a little neighboring rill,
That from out the rocky ground
Strikes a solitary sound.
Vainly glitter hill and plain,
And the air is calm in vain ;
Vainly Morning spreads the lure
Of a sky serene and pure;
Creature none can she decoy
Into open sign of joy :
Is it that they have a fear
Of the dreary season near?
Or that other pleasures be
Sweeter e'en than gayety?

Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell
In the impenetrable cell

Of the silent heart which Nature
Furnishes to every creature;
Whatsoe'er we feel and know
Too sedate for outward show,
Such a light of gladness breaks,
Pretty Kitten! from thy freaks, -
Spreads with such a living grace
O'er my little Dora's face;
Yes, the sight so stirs and charms
Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms,
That almost I could repine

That your transports are not mine,
That I do not wholly fare
Even as ye do, thoughtless pair!
And I will have my careless season,
Spite of melancholy reason;

Will walk through life in such a way
That, when time brings on decay,
Now and then I may possess
Hours of perfect gladsomeness.

- Pleased by any random toy;

By a kitten's busy joy,

Or an infant's laughing eye
Sharing in the ecstasy;

I would fare like that or this,
Find my wisdom in my bliss;
Keep the sprightly soul awake;
And have faculties to take,

Even from things by sorrow wrought,
Matter for a jocund thought;
Spite of care, and spite of grief,
To gambol with Life's falling Leaf.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

"COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON."

LITTLE Four Years, little Two Years,
Merry Christmas! Happy New-Year's!
That is what I wish for you;
Shall I tell you what to do
That will make my wish come true?

Cheerful looks and words are very
Sure to make the Christmas merry :
Tongues that speak the truth sincere,
Hearts that hold each other dear,
These will make a happy year.

Four Years is of Two the double,
Should be twice as brave in trouble,
Twice as gentle, twice as kind,
Always twice as much inclined
Mother's words to keep in mind;

So that Two Years, when she 's older,
May remember what is told her,
Just as Four Years did before,
Only think in two years more
Little Two Years will be Four!

ROSSITER W. RAYMOND.

Little epitome of man!

Sitting as good as gold in the gutter, a playing at making little dirt-pies.

(He's got a knife !)

Thou enviable being!

off than all the other young boys,

With two bricks, an old shoe, nine oyster-shells,

and a dead kitten, by way of toys.

My elfin John!

Toss the light ball, bestride the stick, —

(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk!

comes home as sure as ever the clock strikes one,

He'll be rampant, he will, at his child being lost; and the beef and the inguns not done! La bless you, good folks, mind your own consarns, and don't be making a mob in the street;

at me like a parcel of stupid stuck pigs; Saints forbid! but he's p'r'aps been inviggled away up a court for the sake of his clothes by the prigs;

He'd a very good jacket, for certain, for I bought it myself for a shilling one day in Rag Fair; And his trousers considering not very much patched, and red plush, they was once his Father's best pair.

His shirt, it's very lucky I'd got washing in the tub, or that might have gone with the rest; But he'd got on a very good pinafore with only two slits and a burn on the breast. He'd a goodish sort of hat, if the crown was sewed in, and not quite so much jagged at the brim;

With one shoe on, and the other shoe is a boot, and not a fit, and you'll know by that if it's him.

And then he has got such dear winning ways but O, I never, never shall see him no more!

O dear! to think of losing him just after nussing him back from death's door!

Only the very last month when the windfalls, hang 'em, was at twenty a penny;

go stick stark staring wild!

Has ever a one seen anything about the streets like a crying lost-looking child? Lawk help me, I don't know where to look, or to run, if I only knew which way

A Child as is lost about London streets, and especially Seven Dials, is a needle in a bottle of hay.

I am all in a quiver- get out of my sight, do, you wretch, you little Kitty M'Nab! You promised to have half an eye to him, you know you did, you dirty deceitful young drab!

The last time as ever I see him, poor thing, was with my own blessed Motherly eyes,

spent in plums, and sixty for a child is too many.

And the Cholera man came and whitewashed us

all, and, drat him! made a seize of our hog. It's no use to send the Crier to cry him about, he's such a blunderin' drunken old dog; The last time he was fetched to find a lost child

he was guzzling with his bell at the Crown, And went and cried a boy instead of a girl, for a

distracted Mother and Father about Town. Billy-where are you, Billy, I say? come, Billy, come home, to your best of Mothers! I'm scared when I think of them Cabroleys, they drive so, they'd run over their own Sisters and Brothers.