Or when the winds the grasses shake,
They blend the films in snowy flake;
So, said some ancient rhymer,

The lovely lady of the sky,

In twilight floating, green earth nigh,
There dropped her silvery cymar.

Grace. A cymar—what's that?

C. M. YONGE.

Aunt C. A scarf. The name is really said to be gottes-sammar, the goddess's cymar; and as the flowers, wells, insects, and whatever else had been named after the old goddess Freya, were transferred in Christian times to the Blessed Virgin, the Gossamer is called in France "Les fils de la Vierge," and in Italy “I filamenti de la Madonna."

Grace. How very pretty! I have one Spider poem

more.

THE SPIDER.

Little Spider, 'tis not meet

Thou should'st climb my grassy seat;

Turn thy course another way,

Nor o'er my spreading garments stray.

Fragile creature, touch of mine

Could end this little life of thine;

Shall I press thee to the earth,
And check thy tiny insect mirth?

No, pass on; to thee and me

The churchyard sods alike are free;
I seek the sun, and gentle breeze
That whispers 'mid yon aspen trees.

And He who makes all things His care,
Of joys gives thee thy little share;
Go, speed thy way among the grass,
Busy struggler, thou shalt pass.

TEMPTATION AND FAITHFULNESS.

Alice. You made the Spider stand for the tempter last night. Now Grace and I have been finding another fable for you.

THE YOUNG TROUT.

In a stream bright and clear,

A young Trout cried, "O dear,

What a beautiful fly, mother; only look here."

"It may be a fly,"

Was the mother's reply;

"But be sure that it is ere to seize it you try."

Said the young one, "Do look,

'Tis like what you took,

Except that its tail is turned up like a hook.

"But my eyes are so strong,

And I've watched it so long,

I am sure it's a fly, and I cannot be wrong.

"Its eyes are so bright,

And its wings are so light,

Pish! mother dear, don't put yourself in a fright."

Said her mother, "O pray

Do not talk in that way;

'Tis affection that warns you, so mind what I say.

"'Tis quite rude to say, Pish!

When your safety I wish;

So be cautious, pray do, like a good little fish."

Said the young one, "I will,

Dear mother, be still;

I know by your side I shall come to no ill.

"Though the fly looks so nice,

Yet it shall not entice;

Look there! oh, how lucky I took your advice!

"A young fish has come by,

And has seized the mock fly,

And is dragg'd out of water! Poor thing! she will die.

"Dear mother, let me

Then constantly be

Protected and governed and guided by thee."

Grace. That was a good little fish. I like it better than the one in Original Poems, where the Trout would not mind her mother, and was caught.

Edmund. Those fables all tell the same storySpider and Fly, Fox and Crow, all sing the same note -all tell how foolish it is to let oneself be humbugged! Grace. My fish was not.

Alice. No, because she was obedient.

Aunt C. Exactly. Obedience and industry are good safeguards. And here is a bright little poem on that head, by Tom Moore.

Alice. The man who wrote the Irish Melodies?

Aunt C. The same. He was a clever Irishman, born in 1779, with a musical ear, a sweet voice, and great ease in composing flowing, harmonious poetry, not of a very high order. Some of it was, however, much admired, and he was a very agreeable, lively man, welcome in society; so he spent most of his life in the neighbourhood of London, continually going to parties, and staying at country houses, where his music, singing, and wit made him welcome. But his poor wife, Bessie, at home must have had a hard life, for his tastes were too expensive for his gains, and he was