In that aspect sad and wrinkled,
Could not see your heart of passion,
Could not see your youth immortal;
Only Oweenee, the faithful,

Saw your naked heart and loved you.
Many years in peace and quiet,
On the peaceful Star of Evening
Dwelt Osseo with his father;
Many years, in song and flutter,
At the doorway of the wigwam,
Hung the
cage with rods of silver,
And fair Oweenee, the faithful,
Bore a son unto Osseo,

With the beauty of his mother,

With the courage of his father.

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And the boy grew up and prospered,
And Osseo, to delight him,

Made him little bows and arrows,
Opened the great cage of silver,
And let loose his aunts and uncles,

All those birds with glossy feathers,

For his little son to shoot at.

Round and round they wheeled and darted,

Filled the Evening Star with music,

With their songs of joy and freedom;
Filled the Evening Star with splendor,

With the fluttering of their plumage;

Till the boy, the little hunter,
Bent his bow and shot an arrow,
Shot a swift and fatal arrow,
And a bird with shining feathers,

At his feet fell wounded sorely.

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But, O wondrous transformation ! 'Twas no bird he saw before him, 'Twas a beautiful young woman, With the arrow in her bosom !

"When her blood tell on the planet.
On the sacred Star of Evening,
Broken was the spell of magic,

Powerless was the strange enchantment,
And the youth, the fearless bowman,
Suddenly felt himself descending,
Held by unseen hands, but sinking
Downward through the empty spaces,
Downward through the clouds and vapors,
Till he rested on an island,

On an island, green and grassy,
Yonder in the Big Sea-Water.

After him he saw descending
All the birds with shining feathers
Fluttering, falling, wafted downward,
Like the painted leaves of Autumn
And the lodge with poles of silver,
With its roof like wings of beetles,
By the winds of heaven uplifted,
Slowly sank upon the island,
Bringing back the good Osseo,
Bringing Oweenee, the faithful.

Then the birds, again transfigured,
Re-assumed the shape of mortals,

Took their shape, but not their stature ;
They remained as Little People,
Like the pigmies, the Puk-Wudijes,
And on pleasant nights of Summer,
When the Evening Star was shining,
Hand in hand they danced together
On the island's craggy headlands,
On the sand-beach low and level.

"Still their glittering lodge is seen there, On the tranquil Summer evenings, And upon the shore the fisher

Sometimes hears their happy voices,

Sees them dancing in the star-light."

THE WOLVES.

TROWBRIDGE.

YE who listen to stories told,

When hearths are cheery and nights are cold,

Of the lone wood-side, and the hungry pack That howls on the fainting traveler's track,—

Flame-red eye balls that way lay,

By the wint'ry moon, the belated sleigh,

The lost child sought in the dismal wood,
The little shoes and the stains of blood

On the trampled snow,--O ye that hear,
With thrills of pity, or chills of fear,

Wishing some angel had been sent
To shield the hapless and innocent,—

Know ye the fiend that is crueller far
Than the gaunt gray herds of the forest are ?

Swiftly vanish the wild fleet tracks
Before the rifle and woodman's axe:

But hark to the coming of unseen feet,
Pattering by night through the city street!

Each wolf that dies in the woodland brown
Lives a spectre, and haunts the town.

By square and market they slink and prowl,
In lane and alley they leap and howl.

All night they snuff and snarl, before
The poor patched window and broken door.

They paw the clapboards and claw the latch, At every crevice they whine and scratch.

Their tongues are subtle and long and thin, And they lap the living blood within.

Icy keen are the teeth that tear,
Red as ruin the eyes that glare.

Children crouched in corners cold
Shiver in tattered garments old,

And start from sleep with bitter pangs
At the touch of the phantom's viewless fangs

Weary the mother and worn with strife,
Still she watches and fights for life.

But her hand is feeble, and weapon small:
One little needle against them all!

In evil hour the daughter fled

From her poor shelter and wretched bed.

Through the city's pitiless solitude
To the door of sin the wolves pursued.

Fierce the father and grim with want,
His heart is gnawed by the spectres gaunt.

Frenzied stealing forth by night,
With whetted knife to the desperate fight,

He thought to smite the spectres dead,
But he smites his brother man instead.

you

that listen to stories told,

When hearths are cheery and nights are cold,

Weep no more at the tales you hear,

The danger is close, and the wolves are near.

Shudder not at the murderer's name,
Marvel not at the maiden's shame.

Pass not by with averted eye

The door where the stricken children cry.

But when the beat of the phantom feet
Sounds by night through the stormy street,

Follow thou where the spectres glide;
Stand like Hope by the mother's side;

And be thyself the angel sent
To shield the hapless and innocent.

He giveth little who gives but tears,
He giveth his best who aids and cheers.

He does well in the forest wild

Who slays the monster and saves the child;

But he does better, and merits more,
Who drives the wolf from the poor man's door.

THE BIRTHDAY OF WASHINGTON.

CHOATE.

THE birthday of the "Father of his Country!" May it ever be freshly remembered by American hearts! May it ever re-awaken in them a filial veneration for his memory; ever re-kindle the fires of patriotic regard to the country which he loved so well; to which he gave his youthful vigor and his youthful energy, during the perilous period of the early Indian warfare; to which, he