"The n.o.ble Nature," by Ben Jonson (1574-1637), needs no plea. A small virtue well polished is better than none.

It is not growing like a tree In bulk doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night,-- It was the plant and flower of light.

In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures life may perfect be.

BEN JONSON.

THE FLYING SQUIRREL.

"The Flying Squirrel" is an honest account of a live creature that won his way into scores of hearts by his mad pranks and affectionate ways.

It is enough that John Burroughs has commended the poem.

Of all the woodland creatures, The quaintest little sprite Is the dainty flying squirrel In vest of shining white, In coat of silver gray, And vest of shining white.

His furry Quaker jacket Is trimmed with stripe of black; A furry plume to match it Is curling o'er his back; New curved with every motion, His plume curls o'er his back.

No little new-born baby Has pinker feet than he; Each tiny toe is cushioned With velvet cushions three; Three wee, pink, velvet cushions Almost too small to see.

Who said, "The foot of baby Might tempt an angel's kiss"?

I know a score of school-boys Who put their lips to this,-- This wee foot of the squirrel, And left a loving kiss.

The tiny thief has hidden My candy and my plum; Ah, there he comes unbidden To gently nip my thumb,-- Down in his home (my pocket) He gently nips my thumb.

How strange the food he covets, The restless, restless wight;-- Fred's old stuffed armadillo He found a tempting bite, Fred's old stuffed armadillo, With ears a perfect fright.

The Lady Ruth's great bureau, Each foot a dragon's paw!

The midget ate the nails from His famous antique claw.

Oh, what a cruel beastie To hurt a dragon's claw!

To autographic copies Upon my choicest shelf,-- To every dainty volume The rogue has helped himself.

My books! Oh dear! No matter!

The rogue has helped himself.

And yet, my little squirrel, Your taste is not so bad; You've swallowed Caird completely And psychologic Ladd.

Rosmini you've digested, And Kant in rags you've clad.

Gnaw on, my elfish rodent!

Lay all the sages low!

My pretty lace and ribbons, They're yours for weal or woe!

My pocket-book's in tatters Because you like it so.

MARY E. BURT.

WARREN'S ADDRESS TO THE AMERICAN SOLDIERS.

There is never a boy who objects to learning "Warren's Address," by John Pierpont (1785-1866). To stand by one's own rights is inherent in every true American. This poem is doubtless developed from Robert Burns's "Bannockburn." (1785-1866.)

Stand! the ground's your own, my braves!

Will ye give it up to slaves?

Will ye look for greener graves?

Hope ye mercy still?

What's the mercy despots feel?

Hear it in that battle-peal!

Read it on yon bristling steel!

Ask it,--ye who will.

Fear ye foes who kill for hire?

Will ye to your homes retire?

Look behind you! they're afire!

And, before you, see Who have done it!--From the vale On they come!--And will ye quail?-- Leaden rain and iron hail Let their welcome be!

In the G.o.d of battles trust!

Die we may,--and die we must; But, O, where can dust to dust Be consigned so well, As where Heaven its dews shall shed On the martyred patriot's bed, And the rocks shall raise their head, Of his deeds to tell!

JOHN PIERPONT.

THE SONG IN CAMP.

"The Song in Camp" is Bayard Taylor's best effort as far as young boys and girls are concerned. It is a most valuable poem. I once heard a clergyman in Chicago use it as a text for his sermon. Since then "Annie Laurie" has become the song of the Labour party. "The Song in Camp"

voices a universal feeling. (1825-78.)

"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff, Lay, grim and threatening, under; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said, "We storm the forts to-morrow; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow."

They lay along the battery's side, Below the smoking cannon: Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame; Forgot was Britain's glory: Each heart recalled a different name, But all sang "Annie Laurie."

Voice after voice caught up the song, Until its tender pa.s.sion Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,-- Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, But, as the song grew louder, Something upon the soldier's cheek Washed off the stains of powder.

Beyond the darkening ocean burned The b.l.o.o.d.y sunset's embers, While the Crimean valleys learned How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of h.e.l.l Rained on the Russian quarters, With scream of shot, and burst of sh.e.l.l, And bellowing of the mortars!

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim For a singer, dumb and gory; And English Mary mourns for him Who sang of "Annie Laurie."

Sleep, soldiers! still in honoured rest Your truth and valour wearing: The bravest are the tenderest,-- The loving are the daring.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

THE BUGLE SONG.