And whistling down the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill,

While mother from the kitchen-door is calling with a will,

“Polly !—Polly !—The cows are in the corn!

Oh, where's Polly ?"

From all the misty morning air there comes a summer sound,

A murmur as of waters from skies, and trees and

ground.

The birds they sing upon the wing, the pigeons bill and coo,

And over hill and hollow rings again the loud halloo:

"Polly!-Polly!--The cows are in the corn! Oh, where's Polly ?"

Above the trees the honey-bees swarm by with buzz and boom,

And in the field and garden a thousand blossoms

bloom.

Within the farmer's meadow a brown-eyed daisy

blows,

And down at the edge of the hollow a red and thorny rose.

But Polly!-Polly!-The cows are in the corn! Oh, where's Polly?

How strange at such a time of day the mill should stop its clatter!

The farmer's wife is listening now and wonders what's the matter.

Oh, wild the birds are singing in the wood and on the hill,

While whistling up the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill.

But Polly!-Polly!-The cows are in the corn! Oh, where's Polly?

R. W. GILDer.

THE INDIAN WEED.

THIS Indian weed, now withered quite,
Though green at noon, cut down at night,
Shows thy decay—

All flesh is hay :

Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

The pipe, so lily-like and weak,
Does thus thy mortal state bespeak ;
Thou art e'en such-

Gone with a touch:

Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

And when the smoke ascends on high,
Thou then behold'st the vanity
Of worldly stuff-

Gone with a puff:

Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

And when the pipe grows foul within,

Think on thy soul defiled with sin :

For then the fire

It does require :

Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

And seest the ashes cast away,

Thou, to thyself thou mayest say
That to the dust

Return thou must:

Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

MY FRIEND AND PITCHER.
THE wealthy fool, with gold in store,
Is still desirous to grow richer;
Give me but health, I'll ask no more,

With my sweet girl, my friend, and pitcher.

at eve,

I might enjoy my friend I MIGHT ENJOY MY FRIEND AND PITCHER."

and pitcher.

My friend so rare,

My girl so fair,

With such what mortal can be richer?

Possessed of these, a fig for care,
My own sweet girl, my friend, and pitcher.

Though fortune ever shuns my door,

I know not what can thus bewitch her:

With all my heart I can be poor,

With my sweet girl, my friend, and pitcher.
My friend so rare,

My girl so fair,

With such what mortal can be richer?
Possessed of these, a fig for care,

My own sweet girl, my friend, and pitcher.

O'KEEFE.

WITHOUT AND WITHIN.

My coachman, in the moonlight there,
Looks through the side-light of the door;
I hear him with his brethren swear,
As I could do,-but only more.

Flattening his nose against the pane,
He envies me my brilliant lot,
Breathes on his aching fists in vain,
And dooms me to a place more hot.

He sees me in to supper go,

A silken wonder by my side,

Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row
Of flounces, for the door too wide.

He thinks how happy is my arm

'Neath its white-gloved and jewell'd load; And wishes me some dreadful harm,

Hearing the merry corks explode.