The farmer well his field survey'd,
And sundry observations made;
At last, "I'll tell you what," said he,
"This corn is fit to cut, I see;

But we our neighbours' help must borrow,
So tell them we begin to-morrow."

Just after this the Lark return'd,

When from her brood this news she learn'd. "Ah! dearest mother," then said they, "Pray let us all be gone to-day.”

"My dears," said she, "you need not fret ; I shall not be uneasy yet;

For if he waits for neighbours' aid,
The business will be long delay'd."

At dawn she left her nest once more,
And charged her young ones as before.
At five the farmer came again,

And waited for his friends in vain.
"Well," said the man, "I fancy, son,
These friends we can't depend upon;
To-morrow, early, mind you go,
And let our own relations know."

Again the Lark approach'd her nest,
When round her all her young ones press'd,
And told their mother, word for word,
The fresh intelligence they'd heard.

"Ah! children, be at ease," said she;
"We're safe another day, I see;
For these relations, you will find,
Just like his friends, will stay behind."

At dawn again the Lark withdrew,
And did again her charge renew.
Once more the farmer early came,
And found the case was just the same;
The day advanc'd, the sun was high;
But not a single help drew nigh.
Then said the farmer, "Hark ye, son,
I see this job will not be done

While thus we wait for friends and neighbours ; and I'll commence our labours:

So
you
To-morrow, early, we'll begin,

Ourselves, and get our harvest in."

"Now," said the Lark, when this she'd heard, "Our movement must not be deferr'd; For if the farmer and his son

Themselves begin, 'twill soon be done."

The morrow prov'd the Lark was right;
For all was cut and housed by night.

Hence, while we wait for others' aid,
Our business needs must be delay'd;
Which might be done with half the labour
"Twould take to go and call a neighbour.

JEFFREYS TAYLOR.

STRAWBERRY BLOSSOMS.

STRAWBERRY blossoms, one and all,

We must spare them-here are many;

Look at it, the flower is small,

Small and low, though fair as any.

Pull the daisies, sister Anne,
Pull as many as you can,

Fill your lap, and fill your bosom,
Only spare the strawberry blossom.

Daisies leave no fruit behind,
When the pretty florets die;
Pluck them, and another year
As many will be growing here,

God has given a kindlier power
To the favour'd strawberry flower.
When the months of spring are fled,
Hither let us bend our walk,
Lurking berries, red and ripe,
Then will hang on every stalk;

Each within its leafy bower;

And, for that promise, spare the flower.

ANON.

TO MY FATHER.

eye,

On, how I love my father's
So tender and so kind!
Oh, how I love its azure dye,
The index of his mind!

Oh, how I love the silver hair
Which floats around his brow!
I love to press my father's form,
And feel his cheek's warm glow.