TO A HUMMING-BIRD.

The green and spangled dell,

For thee diffuses its sweet scent and hue:
Thou drinkest, from the tulip's ample bell,
The late and early dew.

125

SHE was, indeed, a pretty little creature,
So meek, so modest: what a pity, madam,
That one so young and innocent, should fall
A prey to the ravenous wolf.

-The wolf, indeed!

You've left the nursery to but little purpose,
If you believe a wolf could ever speak,
Though, in the time of Esop, or before.

-Was 't not a wolf, then? I have read the story
A hundred times; and heard it told: nay, told it
Myself, to my younger sisters, when we've shrank

LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD.

Together in the sheets, from very terror,

And, with protecting arms, each round the other,
E'en sobbed ourselves to sleep. But I remember,
I saw the story acted on the stage,

Last winter in the city, I and my school-mates,
With our most kind preceptress, Mrs. Bazely,
And so it was a robber, not a wolf

That met poor little Riding Hood i' the wood?
-Nor wolf nor robber, child: this nursery tale
Contains a hidden moral.

-Hidden: nay,

I'm not so young, but I can spell it out,
And thus it is: children, when sent on errands,
Must never stop by the way to talk with wolves.
-Tut! wolves again: wilt listen to me, child?
—Say on, dear grandma.

-Thus then, dear my daughter:
In this young person, culling idle flowers,

You see the peril that attends the maiden

Who in her walk through life, yields to temptation,
And quits the onward path to stray aside,

Allured by gaudy weeds.

Nay, none but children

Could gather butter-cups, and May-weed, mother.

But violets, dear violets-methinks

I could live ever on a bank of violets,

Or die most happy there.

- You die, indeed,

127

128

LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD.

At your years die!

Then sleep, ma'am, if you please,

As you did yesterday in that sweet spot

Down by the fountain; where you seated you

To read the last new novel-what d'ye call 't—
The Prairie, was it not?

It was, my love,

And there, as I remember, your kind arm
Pillowed my aged head: 'twas irksome, sure,
To your young limbs and spirit.

-No, believe me,

To keep the insects from disturbing you

Was sweet employment, or to fan your cheek
When the breeze lull'd.

-You're a dear child!

-And then,

To gaze on such a scene! the grassy bank,

So gently sloping to the rivulet,

All purple with my own dear violet,

And sprinkled o'er with spring flowers of each tint. There was that pale and humble little blossom, Looking so like its namesake Innocence;

The fairy-formed, flesh-hued anemone,

With its fair sisters, called by country people

Fair maids o' the spring. The lowly cinquefoil, too, And statelier marigold. The violet sorrel,

Blushing so rosy red in bashfulness,

And her companion of the season, dressed