THE SCOTTISH SHEPHERD IN WINTER.

When red hath set the beamless sun,
Through heavy vapors dank and dun ;
When the tired plowman, dry and warm,
Hears, half asleep, the rising storm,
Hurling the hail and sleeted rain
Against the casement's tinkling pane;
The sounds that drive wild deer and fox
To shelter in the brake and rocks
Are warnings which the shepherd ask
To dismal and to dangerous task.

Oft he looks forth, and hopes, in vain,
The blast may sink in mellowing rain;
Till, dark above and white below,
Decided drives the flaky snow,
And forth the hardy swain must go.

Long, with dejected look and whine,
To leave the hearth the dogs repine;
Whistling and cheering them to aid,
Around his back he wreathes the plaid :
His flock he gathers and he guides,
To open downs and mountain sides,
Where fiercest though the tempest blow,
Least deeply lies the drift below.

The blast that whistles o'er the fells
Stiffens his locks to icicles;

Oft he looks back while, streaming far,
His cottage window seems a star,
Loses its feeble gleam, and then

Turns patient to the blast again,
And, facing to the tempest's sweep,
Drives through the gloom his lagging sheep.

If fails his heart, if his limbs fail,

Benumbing death is in the gale:
His paths, his landmarks, all unknown,
Close to the hut, no more his own,
Close to the aid he sought in vain,
The morn may find the stiffened swain:
The widow sees, at dawning pale,
His orphans raise their feeble wail;
And, close beside him in the snow,
Poor Yarrow, partner of their woe,
Couches upon his master's breast,
And licks his cheek to break his rest.

WALTER SCOTT.

I slept, and dreamed that life was Beauty;
I woke, and found that life was Duty.
Was my dream, then, a shadowy lie?
Toil on, poor heart, unceasingly;
And thou shalt find thy dream to be
A truth and noonday light to thee.

ELLEN STURGIS HOOPER.

Tom and Maggie were on their way to the Round Pool, that wonderful pool, which the floods had made a long while ago. No one knew how deep it was; and it was mysterious, too, that it should be almost a perfect round, framed in with willows and tall reeds, so that the water was only to be seen when you got close to the brink.

The sight of the old favorite spot always heightened Tom's good-humor, and he spoke to Maggie in the most amicable of whispers, as he opened the precious basket and prepared their tackle. He threw her line for her, and put the rod into her hand.

་

Maggie thought it probable that the small fish would come to her hook, and the larger ones to Tom's. But she had forgotten all about the fish, and was looking dreamily at the glassy water, when Tom said, in a loud whisper, "Look, look, Maggie!" and came running to prevent her from snatching her line away.

Maggie was frightened lest she had been doing something wrong, as usual; but presently Tom drew

out her line and brought a large tench bouncing on

the grass.

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Tom was excited. "O Magsie, you little duck! Empty the basket." Maggie was not conscious of unusual merit, but it was enough that Tom called her Magsie, and was pleased with her.

There was nothing to mar her delight in the whispers and the dreamy silences, when she listened to the light dipping sounds of the rising fish, and the gentle rustling, as if the willows and the reeds and the water had their happy whisperings also.

It was one of their happy mornings. They trotted along and sat down together, with no thought that life would ever change much for them; for they would only get bigger and not go to school, and it would always be like the holidays; they would always live together and be fond of each other. . . .

Tom thought people were at a disadvantage who lived on any other spot of the globe; and Maggie, when she read about Christiana passing "the river over which there is no bridge," always saw the Floss between the green pastures by the Great Ash. Life did not change for Tom and Maggie; and yet they were not wrong in believing that the thoughts and loves of those first years would always make part of their lives.

[Abridgment.]

GEORGE ELIOT.