brought him down to us, and he alighted in all love and faith on my uncle's fore-finger. It was a glad moment for us all. Dear Bobbie! how I loved him. I dread

to tell his fate.

After this he lived on happily enough, seeming as contented with his narrow wiry abode, as he did before he soared into the regions of freedom. Bessie was still a favorite, and allowed me my usual liberties with her ears and tail, without a murmur. One night I left Bobbie fast asleep, with

"His head under his wing,

Poor thing!"

and in the morning when I went to his cage, I found it empty. In alarm I hurried from the room, and in the passage leading to the garden I saw on the floor a bird's wing and several feathers scattered along; they were Bobbie's! I sat down and cried bitterly. Bessie came along and rubbed against me; "O Bessie, did you do this?" said I; she looked innocently in my face, and walked away.

During the night, by some unknown means, she had gained access to his cage, and had killed him. He was

dead. My beautiful bird, who had sung to me, and loved me, and made me happy. My uncle tried to console me, but he felt the loss of Bobbie nearly as much as myself. What remained of Bobbie I took to the garden, and under a cherry tree, from which I had often gathered cherries for him, I buried the wing and the feathers.

Bessie was punished by unkind words from all, and it was long before she found the house a pleasant home; but we forgave her, because we knew she was not aware of the extent of her offence. I never loved her quite so well again; how could I? She seemed to forget all about it, and lived on unconcerned for years, growing more and more stupid and dull every day, till at last she died comfortably and peacefully of old age.

THE SOUTH WIND.

South wind softly blowing,

Balmy is thy breath,

Gentle as a spirit,

Stealing o'er the earth.

Thou hast passed o'er flowers,

Blooming in the spring,

Bearing with thee odors

Of

On thy cloudy wing.

green fields thou mind'st me,

Of the forest tree;

Of all buds and blossoms,

Talkest thou to me.

Dim the stars are shining;

Softly o'er the air

Floats a misty vapor,

Telling thou art there,

Bathing all things living,
That thou breathest on ;
Making low, sweet music,
With thy gentle tone.

South wind! I do love thee,
For thou bring'st to me
Music, beauty, gladness;
And I welcome thee.

MARY'S DREAM.

I will sit by you, my mother,
And tell you of a dream,
That to your darling Mary,
Last night so sweetly came.

I was sitting by the rose-bush,
And thinking of its flowers;
And how with little Emma,

I had played by it for hours.

I was thinking of the day she died, And of the rose-bud fair,

I laid within her little hand,

And left it withering there.

And then there shone around me,
A pale and holy light;
I wondered why I was so glad,
And why it was so bright.