available part of his person. A hooded crow, in his handsome gentlemanly uniform of black and gray, accompanied the procession, taking notes, while some ducks would join at intervals, though these not unfrequently quarrelled with the cats."

When quite a child Mrs Saxby took to writing poetry, and studying the animal creation. Both parents nursed her imagination-the mother leading it towards domestic and heavenly subjects, the father training it to keep within the bounds of reason and wisdom. When she was about fifteen, a friend sent some of her short sketches and poems to the late Dr Robert Chambers, and asked his opinion of them. He replied, in words that have been her watchword all along—“There is a good quarry to dig from, but the stones are yet rough. Don't let her be discouraged because the public may not admire the roughcut stones, but let her go on quarrying and polishing, and she will succeed." Until she was twenty she had published only occasional pieces in newspapers. Afterwards she tried the magazines, and although not always successful, with Dr Chambers's words in her mind, she never got discouraged, and every rebuff became a stimulus to go on and conquer. She married early a medical gentleman of much promise, who, like her father, was also a naturalist, but who died and left her with a family-the youngest being only one day old. Since then she has made literature her profession, and now, after great struggles and much labour, she has earned a name both at home and abroad, and the productions of her pen are warmly welcomed.

Besides contributions of " Popular Science Notes " to periodicals, Mrs Saxby has written folk-lore articles and reviews in several of our leading newspapers. Amongst the volumes she has published we note

"The One Wee Lassie," a memoir of an only daughter, and who died shortly before her

husband; "Daalamist," stories of Shetland; "Rockbound," a Shetland novel; "Geordie Roye, or a Waif from the Greyfriar's Wynd; 66 Breakers Ahead;" a beautifully-illustrated and deeply interesting and instructive Christmas volume entitled "Snow Dreams;" and "A Self-Taught Shetlander." In addition to essays and serial tales for magazines, she writes an annual series of verses for publishers of New Year and other presentation cards; but, she tells us, "these are not poetry-only little thoughts put into musical words." Indeed she forms a very humble estimate of her literary and poetical powers. In a note she says:-"If there is any good thing in me, or in what I have written, it belongs to Home, Father, Husband. I wish I felt that the very smallest bit of the spirit of Burns had lighted on me. But, alas! the power to rhyme comes easily enough, and the Thought that Burns stirs wakes to life very readily, but the art of blending thought and speech into a poem is an art that I am not satisfied that I have yet attained. The writing of verse has had to be put aside, with all the tenderer thoughts and feelings, and it is only occasionally that I can permit myself to speak in rhyme."

In 1868, Mrs Saxby published a volume of poems entitled "Lichens from the Old Rock" (W. P. Nimmo), while another volume, dedicated to Princess Louise," Glamour from Argyllshire," was issued in 1874. "Leaves from the Psalmist's Life " was а series of very thoughtful poems. These originally appeared in the Christian Treasury, and from time to time we find in the pages of Chambers's Journal, Quiver, Leisure Hour, and other periodicals, poems giving evidence of their being the product of a thoughtful mind, and a facile and melodious style. In these, and more especially in "Glamour from Argyllshire," there are many short word-pictures of natural scenery, drawn with artistic feeling, and

with a keen appreciation of the spiritual significance underlying Nature's beauty.

TAKEN TO THE INFIRMARY.

Well, you see, Lady, I work on the road,
Breaking up stones, and laying them neat,
That the carriage may glide with its elegant load,
And nothing come rough for the horses' trim feet.
And while's I was working in heat of day,

They'd send little Nell with her basket and tin.
Ah! how gladly she tripped on her venturesome way,
Unawed by the sound of the cityful din;

No thought in her bonnie bright head, but a care
Offather's bit sup' that was held on her arm-
And I felt as if angels, who knew she was fair,

Would keep the poor lammie forever from harm.
She never was thinking of danger - dear Nell-
She turned to the cross-road so crowded and light;
The glare of the sun on her timid face fell,
And left there the darkness of night!

The tiny feet just paused a space
As swept a carriage by,

And no one saw the upturned face,
Or heard the warning cry.

With quickened tread the horses sped along the busy street,
And some one lifted what had made my home so warm and sweet:
Lifted it up, and running, laid his burden near-my feet!

I cast the blame on no one now

I think I felt her pain

1 tried to clear my anguished brow,
And be a man again.

I bare her-light, my bonnie bird,
The crushed and quivering form;
And angry words I never heard,

Nor heeded friendly storm.

Nor thought if man, or horse, or fiend

Were most to blame. Nor thought, nor cared,

If only my sweet Nell were spared;

If only her sweet soul would come

Back to its maimed and shattered home.

If only-with impatient hand,

I sought relief within the gate

Where men, the foremost in our land,
Forever on the suffering wait.

They took the child from my helpless hold,
Tenderly bound each broken limb,
Brought fluttering life to the lips so cold,
And eyes so faint and dim.

Heaven bless them for that tenderness,
I am but rought and rude,

And had not learned that things like this
Can do a power of good.

And then I had been always taught
To think that rich and poor
Were seldom to each other brought
Through sympathy's wide door;

But when I met the surgeon's eye
I knew a pitying heart,
With feelings like my own, was nigh,
And in my grief had part.

I am but a rugged man at the best,

Whose hard-seained features can tell the rest.
In his graceful bearing you well might trace
That he came of a pure and noble race;
Yet his hand was able and brown as mine,
Though so small, and gentle as lady's fine
Was the touch of that hand when it deftly fell
On the wounded form of my little Nell.

When he told me her suffering was almost past,
And the pain-closed eyelids were raised at last,
I saw her smile in that gracious face
Which stooped to give her its winning gaze.
She had always been shy of a stranger too,
And I wondered to hear her speak

So frank and pleasant, as if she knew
That he loved the young and weak.

Perhaps he was thinking of kiss and smile,
The greeting of children dear;

Perhaps the laughter he heard awhile
Still lingered in his ear.

Perhaps in wonder cemet'ry where rolls the dark Leith water, A portion of his love lay hid beside a daisied daughter,

For souls whose soft regretful part to coffin mould is given,

Bestow the kindliest deeds on Earth, the dearest thoughts on Heaven.

Perhaps ah me! I cannot tell

Which chord had drawn together
The noble heart-the simple Nell-
The son of roughest weather.

I only know that loving care
Was given my cherished child,
And that the face which was my prayer
Looked last on his and smiled.

I only know that when I see
His happy face go by,

My little lass comes nearer me,

And Heaven is not so high.

LEAL HEART LO'ES LANG.

Oh, the saft winds sighed o'er the gorsy knowe,
And the wee birds warbled sweet;

The roses bloomed upon ilka bough,
And the days were fair as fleet;

And the laddie lilted a dream-taught sang—
Leal heart lo'es lang.

Under the roots o' the wild rose tree

They laid the puir lad to rest;

And the low winds moaned frae the scenting lea,

And the birdies built a nest;

And the birds and the breeze and the blossoms sangLeal heart lo'es lang!

Nae dreains had he there; but when years were gane She cam' by that quiet place;

Her steps they were slow, and she gaed her lane,

And pale was her faded face;

And the teardrops fell as she sadly sang—

Leal heart lo'es lang!

PARTED BUT NOT SEVERED.

Round her love like a chain did his heartstrings close, Ere he went on his busy way!

Like a sunbeam held in the breast of a rose

In her bosom his image lay!

And he cried as they parted, no more to meet,

"Oh, life may be lonely, but love is sweet,

And love has no ending, though life be fleet,
Sweet and fleet, fleet and sweet."

He went forth to his place, on the world's wide field,
Where he won for himself its prize;

And she passed to the goal with her treasure sealed
From all questioning callous eyes;

For she knew they had parted no more to meet,
And life it was lonely, though love was sweet;
But love could not end with a lifetime fleet-
Sweet and fleet, fleet and sweet!