THE MILL.STREAM. LONG trails of cistus-flowers Creep on the rocky hill; Though schooled and counselled truly, In merriment away, And keeps the miller and his son Into the mad mill-stream The mountain-roses fall; And fern and adder's tongue Grow on the old mill-wall. The tarn is on the upland moor, Where not a leaf doth grow; And through the mountain-gashes, The merry mill-stream dashes Down to the sea below: But, in the quiet hollows, The red trout groweth prime, For the miller and the miller's son To angle when they've time. Then fair befall the stream That turns the mountain-mill; That windeth up the hill! And to the miller's son; And ever may the mill-wheel turn To see the red squirrel frisk hither and thither, Calls forth to rejoice on the bountiful earth! Then the mountains, how fair! to the blue vault of heaven Towering up in the sunshine, and drinking the light, While adown their deep chasms, all splintered and riven, Fall the far-gleaming cataracts silvery white! And where are the flowers that in beauty are glowing In the garden and fields of the young, merry spring, Like the mountain-side wilds of the yellow broom blowing, And the old forest pride, the red wastes of the ling? Then the garden, no longer 'tis leafless and chilly, But warm with the sunshine and bright with the sheen Of rich flowers, the moss rose and the bright tiger-lily, Barbaric in pomp as an Ethiop Queen. Oh, the beautiful flowers, all colours combining, The larkspur, the pink, and the sweet mignionette, And the blue fleur-de-lis, in the warm sunlight shining, As if grains of gold in its petals were set! Yes, the summer,-the radiant summer's the fairest, For green-woods and mountains, for meadows and bowers, For waters, and fruits, and for flowers the rarest, THE FALCON. HARK! hark! the merry warden's horn For 'tis a merry day! With braided hair, of gold or jet, With waiting-woman by; And presently they are arrayed, That showered down like rain; And down the stately stairs they go, And then into the castle-hall, For they will hawk to-day. And then outbreaks a general din In such a bright array! The kennelled hounds' long bark is heard; But soon the bustle is dismissed; - A hooded hawk, that's stroked and kissed And sitting in their saddles free, Each with a bird on hand; Fall in and join the band. And merrily thus in shine and shade, To moorlands wild and grey; A moment and the quarry's ta'en; Oh gay goshawk and tercel bold, And kings were your compeers! Oh gay goshawk, your days were when Came down at night the ruffian men, To slay the sleeping children then Lying in London Tower; Yours were the days of civil feud; Of Woodstock's bloody bower! Oh, gay goshawk, you but belong To moat and castle-wall; To serf and baron, page and dame; Times are not now as they were then; No more, as then, the ladies bright Like learned clerks of old! Oh, Falcon proud, and goshawk gay, The craggy rock your castle-tower; Yet, noble bird, old fame is thine; Of high and pure degree; THE CHILD AND THE FLOWERS. PUT up thy work, dear mother; And rows of stately hollyhocks And bending on their stalks, mother, And come out, mother dear! Oh, mother! little Amy Would have loved these flowers to see;Dost remember how we tried to get For her a pink sweet-pea? Dost remember how she loved Those rose-leaves pale and sere? I wish she had but lived to see Put up thy work, dear mother, And come into the garden Before 'tis set of day! THE FLAX-FLOWER. O the little flax-flower, It groweth on the hill, And, be the breeze awake or sleep, It groweth, and it groweth fast; Scarce better than a weed. Ah, 'tis a goodly little thing, It groweth for the poor, He thinketh how those slender stems Oh, the little flax-flower! The mother, then says she, "Go pull the thyme, the heath, the fern But let the flax-flower be! It groweth for the children's sake, There are flowers enough upon the hill, That we have tilled with care. "Our squire he hath the holt and hill, Great halls and noble rent; We only have the flax-field, Yet therewith are content. We watch it morn, we watch it night, And when the stars are out, The good man and the little ones, They pace it round about; For it we wish the sun to shine, For it the rain to fall; Good lack! for who is poor doth make Great count of what is small!” Oh, the goodly flax-flower! It groweth on the hill, And, be the breeze awake or sleep, It seemeth all astir with life, And may the kindly showers, Give seed unto its flowers! It is so rare a thing now-a-days to see flax grown in any quantity, that my English readers will not feel Ithe full force of the above little poem. The English cottager has not often ground which he can use for this purpose; and, besides, he can purchase calico for the wear of his family at a much cheaper cost than he could grow flax. Nor is the English woman "handy" at such matters. She would think it a great hardship to till, perhaps, the very ground upon which it was grown; to pull it with the help of her children only, and, to her other household cares and occupations, to add those of preparing, spinning, and it might be, to help even to weave it into good homespun cloth. Seventy or eighty years ago, however, this was not uncommon in England; and it is still common, and in some districts even general in Scotland. Burns alludes to the growth of flax in many of his poems; and in the "Cottar's Saturday Night," the mother reckons the age of the cheese from the time of the flax flowering. The household interest which is taken in the flaxfield presented itself strongly to us in many a wild glen, and in many a desolate mountain-side in the Highlands of Scotland, in the summer of 1836. You came, in the midst of those stony and heathy wildernesses, upon a few turf-erections, without windows and without chimneys; the wild grasses of the moor and the heath itself grew often upon the roof, for all had originally been cut from the mountain-side; and, but for the smoke which issued from the door, or the children that played about it, you might have doubted of its being a human dwelling. Miserable, however, as such homes may appear at first sight, they are, as it were, the natural growth of the mountain-moorland, and the eye soon finds in them much that is picturesque and characteristic. About such places as these are frequently, too, patches of cultivated ground; the one of potatoes, and perhaps oats or barley, the other of flax. Thus grow, at the very door of this humble human tenement, the food and clothing of the family. How essential this growth is to them, may be seen from the nature of the ground. It is frequently the most difficult that can be conceived to bring into cultivation; one mass, as it seems, of stones, with the scantiest The owl in hollow oak, the man in den, intermixture of soil. These stones, many of which Chamber, or office, dusky and obscure, are of immense size, are with infinite toil and pa- Are creatures very heavy and demure; tience gathered from the earth, and piled into walls But soon their turn comes round, and then, round the little fields, otherwise the mountain sheep, Oh, what sharp claws and pitiless beak have they and perhaps the wild roes, would soon lay the whole To feather, fleece, and worry up their prey! waste. Here the mother, as well as the father, la bours, and indeed the flax seems especially to belong to her, for she must spin it before she can convert it into family use. In the same way is the household provided with woollen garments; they are all home-spun and homemade, even to many a goodly tartan. The "tarry woo" of Scotland, like the "lint flower," is a national thing; the affections, as well as the fire-side interests of that country are connected with them. THE HOUSE-SPARROW. IN birds, as men, there is a strange variety, Your clowns, your grooms, in feathered legs or gaiters; "T is hard to bear, and yet it must be borne, "A fellow feeling makes us wondrous kind," So sang the noble bard, who, like the swallow, Flew through far climes and soared where few can follow. "T is true; and therefore still we find Pecks at your window; sits upon your spade, That pert, conceited good-for-nothing Sparrow, Will be away, Though hooted, shot at, nor once coaxed or beckoned? Of monstrous London - in the loneliest valley — On church or chapel-farm or shop, The Sparrow's still "the bird on the house-top." Extends itself far up into antiquity. Yes, through all countries and all ages While other birds have sung in woods or cages, The conquerors fierce; those thievish chaps, the Though neither noble, rich, nor clad in scarlet, lawyers, That chirp and gabble, wheedle and bamboozle ; Who filch your fruit, and pocket up your guineas; Nurse cuckoo-imps, that out of doors Would have the highest place without the asking. Have turned their children, and they never know it! Up in the leaden gutter burning hot, I walk in cities, 'mong the human herds, And then I think of birds: I walk in woods among the birds, and then I think of men! "Tis quite impossible in one or other To walk and see not-man and bird are brother. The owl can't see in day-light; Oh no! he's blind and stupid A very fool,-a blockhead plain to see! But just step out and look at him at night, When all the world is slumbering, save he My word! you'll find him then as brisk as Cupid! Every low scape-grace of the Sparrow-clan, To see the slaughter;-not a bird is slain- In come your man — and there they are again! Of all the creatures, that were ever set Save some congeners in our own sweet race, As are these Sparrows! Would that some magician, Of certain men in town, who drive, or row us, Men made to elbow, bustle, cheat or steal, Just of this class, amongst all feathered things, Is this Jack Sparrow. He's no bird that sings, He makes no grand pretences; has no fine Airs of high breeding-he but wants to dine. His dress is brown, his body stiff and stout, Coarse in his nature, made to prog about. What are his delicate fancies? Who e'er sees The Sparrow in his sensibilities? There are the nightingales, all soul and song, Moaning and warbling the green boughs among. There are the larks that on etherial wing, Sing to high Heaven as heavenly spirits sing; There are the merle, the mavis, birds whose lays Inspired the minstrel songs of other days; There are the wandering tribes, the cuckoo sweet; Swallows that singing on your chimneys meet, Through spring and summer, and anon are flown To lands and climes, to sages yet unknown. Those are your poets-hirds of genius- those That have their nerves and feel refined woes. But these Jack Sparrows; why they love far more Than all this singing nonsense, your barn-door! They love your cherry-tree- your rows of peas, Your ripening corn crop, and to live at ease! You find no Sparrow in the far-off-woodsNo-he's not fond of hungry solitudes. He better loves the meanest hamlet - where Aught's to be had, the Sparrow will be there, Sturdy and bold, and wrangling for his share. The tender linnet bathes her sides and wings In running brooks and purest forest-springs. The Sparrow rolls and scuffles in the dustThat is his washing or his proper rust. Before your carriage as you drive to town To his base meal the Sparrow settles down; He knows the safety-distance to an inch, Up to that point he will not move or flinch ;You think your horse will crush him—no such thing— That coachman's whip might clip his fluttering wing, Or take his head off in a twink- but he Knows better still and liveth blithe and free, At home he plagues the martins with his noiseThey build, he takes possession and enjoys; Or if he want it not, he takes it still, Just because teasing others is his will. From hour to hour, from tedious day to day He sits to drive the rightful one away. At home, abroad, wherever seen or heard, IT may be thought that I have here dealt hard measure to the Sparrow, but the character I have given of him will be recognised by those who know him, as true. Cowper calls them, a thievish race, that scared as often as you please, As oft return, a pert, voracious kind; and that every farmer knows them to be. What multitudes do you see dropping down upon, or rising from the wheat as it is ripening in the fields. Formerly a price was set upon their heads and eggs, by country parishes. In many places a penny was given for a Sparrow's head, and the same for three or four eggs; but this is now done away with, and the farmer must destroy them himself, or pay dearly for it in his corn. Nothing can exceed the self-complacence of this bird. You see him build his nest amongst the richest tracery of a church roof or window; within the very coronet or escutcheon set up over the gate of hall or palace. We saw this summer, the hay and litter of his nest hanging out from the richly-cut initial-letters of William and Mary over one of the principal windows of Hampton Court. Nay he would build in a span-new V. R. set up only yesterday, or in the queen's very crown itself though it were worth a kingdom, if it were only conveniently placed for his purpose. He thinks nothing too good for him. But the most provoking part of his character is, the pleasure which he takes in teasing, molesting and hectoring over birds of the most quiet and inoffensive nature. He builds about your houses, and thinks no other bird has any business to do the same. The martin, which loves to build under the eaves of our dwellings, after crossing the seas from some far country, has especially to bear his insolence and aggressions. There is a pretty story in the "Evenings at Home," of two of these interesting birds, who had their nest usurped by a Sparrow, getting together their fellows, and building him up in the nest, where he was left a prisoner amid his plunder. But the gentleness of the martin is so great, that such an intance of poetical justice is more curious, than likely to occur a second time. But every summer the sparrow lords it over the martin, and frequently drives it away by its impertinence. We watched his behaviour this year with a good deal of attention. Two pairs of martins came and built their nests beneath the eaves of the stable, near each other. Scarcely were the nests half finished, when several sparrows were seen watching on the tiles close to them, chirping loudly, and conceitedly, and every now and then flying at the martins. The nests, however, were completed; but no sooner was this this done, than the sparrows took possession of them, |