You caught up the poker, and ran round the room, And at last knocked the rat, and so sealed its doom. Our shadows, my love, must have played on the blind; And this is the mystery solved, you will find."

MORAL.

Don't believe every tale that is handed about;
We have all enough faults and real failings, without
Being burdened with those of which there's a doubt.
If you study this tale, I think, too, you will find
That a light should be placed in the front, not behind:
For often strange shadows are seen on the blind.

TIRED MOTHERS.-MRS. ALBERT SMITH.

A little elbow leans upon your knee,—
Your tired knee that has so much to bear;
A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly

From underneath a thatch of tangled hair.
Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch
Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight;
You do not prize this blessing overmuch,—
You almost are too tired to pray to-night.

But it is blessedness! A year ago

I did not see it as I do to-day

We are so dull and thankless; and too slow
To catch the sunshine till it slips away.
And now it seems surpassing strange to me,
That, while I wore the badge of motherhood,
I did not kiss more oft and tenderly.

The little child that brought me only good.

And if, some night when you sit down to rest,
You miss this elbow from your tired knee,-
This restless curling head from off your breast,-
This lisping tongue that chatters constantly;
If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped,
And ne'er would nestle in your palm again;
If the white feet into their grave had tripped,
I could not blame you for your heartache then.

I wonder so that mothers ever fret

At little children clinging to their gown;
Or that the footprints, when the days are wet,
Are ever black enough to make them frown.
If I could find a little muddy boot,

Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber-floor,—
If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot,

And hear it patter in my house once more,

If I could mend a broken cart to-day,
To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky,
There is no woman in God's world could say
She was more blissfully content than I.
But ah! the dainty pillow next my own
Is never rumpled by a shining head;
My singing birdling from its nest is flown,-
The little boy I used to kiss is dead!

THE EAGLE'S ROCK.

"Twas the Golden Eagle's Rock,

Craggy and wild and lone,

Where he sat in state, with his royal mate,

On his undisputed throne.

High on the dizzy steep

Did their blood-stained eyrie lie,

Where the white bones told who had robb'd the fold When the shepherd was not by.

Well might the spoilers gloat

At ease in their fortress gray,

For never had man, since the world began,
Clambered its height half-way!

And the Golden Eagle stood

Eyeing the noon-day sun,

Till the clamoring cry of his nestlings nigh,
Charged him with work undone;

And his mighty wings are spread,

And he sweepeth down chasms wide;

And his fierce eyes gleam by the mountain stream, And he scours the hill's green side.

Then o'er a shady glen

Doth the bold marauder sail,

Where villagers gay hold a festal day
Down in their verdant vale.

Apart from a joyous group

A mother her darling bears;
With happy smiles at his baby wiles,
His innocent mirth she shares.

Then she sits on the velvet sward,
Shaded by trees at noon,

And rocks him to rest on her loving breast,
Singing a low, sweet tune.

Now on the soft green turf

That mother her babe doth lie,

While over its head is a watcher dread,
In that dark spot in the sky.

She kisses its cherub cheek,

And leaves it awhile; ah, woe!
For broader above, o'er her gentle dove,
That terrible spot doth grow.

Hushed was the peasants' mirth,

And the stoutest they stood aghast;

And the wail of despair, it rent the air,
As the eagle o'er them passed.

He has stolen the pretty child,

All in its rosy sleep;

And bears it in might, with ponderous flight,

Straight towards his castle-keep!

Whose is that up-turned face,

White as the mountain snow? Horror is there, and blank despair, Speechless and tearless woe;—

Pale are those bloodless lips;

But lo! in that mother's eye

There flasheth the light of love's great might,
Stronger than agony.

She darts from the wailing throng,
Her coming is like the wind;
The weeping loud of the noisy crowd
Dieth away behind.

She rusheth o'er field and fell,

Her footsteps at hindrance mock ;
She startles the snake in the rustling brake,
And reacheth the Eagle's rock!

Mother, go home and weep!
What canst thou farther do?
Over thy head, immense and dread,
Frowneth the mountain blue.

Sorrow hath made her mad;

She scaleth the rough rock's side,
Now passing the edge of a shelving ledge,
And now on a platform wide.

Onward and upward still,

Scarce doth she pause for breath; Woman, beware! thou hast not there "A step between thee and death!"

Scrambling up fearful crags,

Still doth she higher go;

Close let her cling! the loose stones ring
Clatt'ring to depths below.

First of the breathless crowds,
Flocking in haste beneath,

A son of the wave, high-souled and brave,
Dasheth across the heath.

He follows her upward flight,

Yes, till his eyes grow dim;

In the fierce storm-blast he has topped the mast,
But this is no place for him.

So he must softly creep

Down from the heights above;

His heart it is true, but he never knew

The might of a mother's love.

Higher she mounts! she climbs

Where the wild goat fears to stand;

Death follows behind, fleet, fleet as the wind,

Still she eludes his hand!

She reacheth the fearful wall

Under the great rock's brow,

Where the ivy has clung, and has swayed and swung From earliest time till now.

Clamb'ring the net-work old

Which its twining stems have wrought,

She wrestles in prayer with her Maker there;
Doth she "fear God for nought?"

Niagara's awful flood

Is spanned by a radiant bow;

And joy, she springs, on her sunny wings,
From the blackest tide of woe.

And the cry of that mother's heart

Is heard, and her faith is blest;

For, with rapture wild, she hath snatched her child Unharmed from the eagle's nest!

Flapping their dusky wings,

Fiercely the spoilers came;

And she heard their screams, and she saw the gleams, That shot from their eyes of flame.

Like spirits of evil foul,

They circled around her head;

Then yelling aloud, amazed and cowed,

Down the steep rock they fled.

Close to her throbbing heart

She bindeth her weeping child;

She wipeth its tears, and she quells its fears,
Up in that region wild;

And she blesses the Mighty Hand

That carried her there, and knows

That aid shall be lent through the dread descent,
To that perilous journey's close.

Hush! down the rifted rock

She beareth her burden sweet;

No might of her own maketh fast each stone
Firmly beneath her feet.

She trusts, and her bleeding hands

Safely the ivy grasp,

For a spirit of love from her God above

Is strengthening it in her clasp.

Lower she comes, and sees

Beneath her a mountain lamb,

That, cautious and slow, to the vale below,
Follows its careful dam;