Of his southern bowers,
With a dream in his heart of the coming flowers;

When the earth is full of delicious smells
From the ferny dells,
And the scent of the breeze quite plainly tells

He has been with the apple-blooms! They fly
From his kisses sly
Like feathery snow-flakes scurrying by!

O the saucy pranks of the madcap breeze
In the blossoming trees!
O the sounds that thrill, and the sights that please,

And the nameless joys that the May days bring
On their glad, glad wing!
O the dear delights of the sweet, sweet spring!

SAM'S BIRTHDAY.

BY IRWIN RUSSELL.

On the nineteenth day of last month, Sam could and would have
testified, from information and belief, that he was "eight yeahs ol',
gwine on nine;" but on the morning of the twentieth, that interesting
infant of color was informed by his mother, as soon as he awoke, that
he was "nine yeahs ol', gwine on ten." When Aunt Phillis imparted this
surprising intelligence to her son, he was greatly amazed and
confounded; and he immediately began to speculate as to what
extraordinary combination of circumstances could have so suddenly
wrought this remarkable change.

"Hoo-_ee_!" he cried, "whut a pow'ful while I mus' ha' slep'! Or else I
grows wuss an' dat ar Jonus's gourd you tol' me 'bout, whut wuz only a
_teenchy_ leetle simblin at night, and got big as de hen-house afore
mornin'--early sun-up. Hm! hey! look heah, mammy, is I skipped any
Christmusses?"

"No, chile," replied his mother; "you aint skipped nuffin. Dis is yo'
buff-day: de 'fects ob which is, dat it's des so many yeahs sence you
wuz fust borned. I don't know how 't 'll be, Sam,--folks is sim'lar to
de cocoa-grass, whut grows up mighty peart, tell 'long come somebody
wid a hoe to slosh it down,--but ef you libs long enough, an' nuffin
happens, you'll keep on habbin a buff-day ebry yeah wunst a yeah till
you dies. An' ebry time you has one, son, you'll be one yeah older."

"Fine way to git gray-headed," said Sam.

At this moment a mighty crash resounded from the kitchen, down-stairs,
and Aunt Phillis descended the steps with great precipitation. Then Sam
heard her shouting, angrily:

"You, Bose! Oh, you _bettah_ git, you mean ole no-'count rascal! I do
'_spise_ a houn'-dog!"

Sam went on with his toilet, musing, the while, upon the probability of
his ever getting to be as old as Uncle "Afrikin Tommy," who was the
patriar