THE BOY ON THE GATE.

John Orton.

THE rosy-cheek'd urchin that swings on the gate Is a right merry monarch in all but estate; But treasure brings trouble; what title is free? Thus better without one, thus happy is he, For the ring of his laugh is a mirth-moving strain,

Which a choir of young creatures respond to again.

The birds are all singing, each heart is elate With the rosy-cheek'd urchin that hangs on the gate.

The rosy-cheek'd urchin that swings on the gate
Hath nature's own pages upon him to wait;
His joyous companions-a cherubim crew,
With posies of daisies and buttercups too.
He boasts not of jewels on forehead or breast;
But his heart is all gladness-his mind is at
rest.

Oh! what are the honors, the glories of state, To the rosy-cheek'd urchin that hangs on the gate?

The rosy-cheek'd urchin that swings on the gate Waves proudly on high his satchel and slate; The sky is all brightness-the fields are all gay, Green branches are waving-the lambs are at play.

And where is the bosom that pines not to be Thus bathed in the sunlight as happy as he? For the heart's purest pleasures we find when too late,

And sigh to be swinging again on the gate.

PRIDE AND THE POPPIES.
L. 1. Cwamley.

"WE little Red-caps are among the corn,
Merrily dancing at early morn;

We know that the farmer hates to see
Our saucy red faces; but here are we!

"We pay no price for our summer coats,
Like those slavish creatures, barley and oats;
We do not choose to be ground and eat,
Like our heavy-head neighbor, Gaffer Wheat.

"Who dare thrash us, we should like to know? Grind us and bag us and use us so?

Let meaner and shabbier things than we
So stupidly bend to utility!"

So said little Red-cap, and all the rout
Of the Poppy-clan set up a mighty shout;
Mighty for them, but if you had heard,
You had thought it the cry of a tiny bird.

So the Poppy-folk flaunted it over the field;
In pride of grandeur they nodded and reeled;
And shook out their jackets till nought was seen
But a wide, wide skimmer of scarlet and green.

The Blue-bottle sat on her downy stalk,
Quietly smiling at all their talk;

The Marigold still spread her rays to the sun,
And the purple Vetch climbed up to look at

the fun.

The homely Corn-cockle cared nothing, not she, For the arrogance, bluster, and poor vanity Of the proud Poppy-tribe, but she flourished and grew,

Content with herself and her plain purple hue.

The sun went down, and rose bright on the

morrow,

To some bringing joy, and to others e'en sorrow, But blithe was the rich rosy farmer that morn, When he went with his

reapers among

the corn.

He trotted along, and he cracked his joke, And chatted and laughed with the harvest folk: For the weather was settled, barometers high, And heavy crops gladden'd his practised eye

"We'll cut this barley to-day," quoth he, As he tied his white pony under a tree. "Next the upland wheat, and then the oats," How the Poppies shook in their scarlet coats!

Aye, shook with laughter, not fear, for they Never dreamed they too should be swept away. And their laughter was spite, to think that all Their "useful" neighbors were doomed to fall.

They swelled and bustled with such an air, The corn-fields quite in commotion were, And the farmer cried, glancing across the grain,

"How these rascally weeds have come up again."

"Ha! ha!" laughed the Red-caps, “ha! ha! what a fuss

Must the poor weeds be in! how they're envying us."

But their mirth was cut short by the sturdy strokes

They speedily met from the harvest folks.

And when low on earth each stem was laid,
And the round moon looked on the havoc made.
A Blue-bottle propped herself half erect,
And made a short speech-to this effect:

"My dying kins-flowers and fainting friends, The same dire fate alike attends

Those who in scarlet and blue are dressed, And how silly the pride that so late possessed

"Our friends the Red-caps! How low they lie, Who were lately so pert, and vain, and high! They sneered at us and our plain array;

Are we now a whit more humble than they?

They scorned our neighbors: the goodly corn Was the butt of their merriment eve and morn; They lived on its land, on its bounty fed, But a word of thanks they never have said.

"And which is the worthiest, now, I pray?
Have ye not learned enough to-day?
Is not the corn sheafed up with care,
And are not the Poppies left dying there?

"The corn will be carried and garnered up,
To gladden man's heart both with loaf and cup;
And some of the seed the land now yields
Will be brought again to its native fields;

"And grow and ripen and wave next year,
As richly as this hath ripened here;
And we, poor weeds, though needed not,
Perchance may spring up on this very spot.

"But let us be thankful and humble too,
Not proud and vain of a gaudy hue;
Ever remembering, though meanly drest,
That USEFULNESS is of all gifts the best."