We have determined that, taking our chance about a place in my
uncle's will, we will never again have anything to do with any
foreign birds, however much he may ask and desire it.
AN UNMUSICAL NEIGHBOUR.
BY WILLIAM THOMSON.
I once knew a man who was musical mad--
A hundred years old was the fiddle he had;
I never complained, but whenever he played
I wished I had lived when that fiddle was made.
THE CHALICE.
BY DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY.
Swift, storm-scud, raced the morning sky,
As light along the road I fared;
Stern was the way, yet glad was I,
Though feet and breast and brow were bared;
For fancy, like a happy child,
Ran on before and turned and smiled.
The track grew fair with turf and tree,
The air was blithe with bird and flower.
Boon nature's gentlest wizardry
Was potent with the bounteous hour:
A raptured languor o'er me crept;
I laid me down at noon and slept.
I woke, and there, as in a dream,
Which holds some boding fear of wrong,
By fog-bound fen and sluggard stream
I dragged my leaden steps along.
My blood ran ice; I turned and spied
A shrouded figure at my side.
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