ented to be led away.

They reached the new house to find Mr. Peterkin sitting calmly in a
rocking-chair on the piazza, watching the oxen coming into the opposite
barn. He was waiting for the keys, which Solomon John had taken back
with him. The little boys were in a horse-chestnut tree, at the side of
the house.

Agamemnon opened the door. The passages were crowded with furniture,
the floors were strewn with books, the bureau was upstairs that was to
stand in a lower bedroom, there was not a place to lay a table, there
was nothing to lay upon it; for the knives and plates and spoons had
not come, and although the tables were there, they were covered with
chairs and boxes.

At this moment came a covered basket from the lady from Philadelphia.
It contained a choice supper, and forks and spoons, and at the same
moment appeared a pot of hot tea from an opposite neighbor. They placed
all this on the back of a book-case lying upset, and sat around it.
Solomon John came rushing from the gate:

"The last load is coming. We are all moved!" he exclaimed, and the
little boys joined in a chorus, "We are moved, we are moved!"

Mrs. Peterkin looked sadly round; the kitchen utensils were lying on
the parlor lounge, and an old family gun on Elizabeth Eliza's hat-box.
The parlor clock stood on a barrel; some coal-scuttles had been placed
on the parlor table, a bust of Washington stood in the door-way, and
the looking-glasses leaned against the pillars of the piazza. But they
were moved! Mrs. Peterkin felt indeed that they were very much moved.

[Illustration: GET UP!]

[Illustration: GOT DOWN!]

THE SING-AWAY BIRD.

BY LUCY LARCOM.

[Illustration]

O Say, have you heard of the sing-away bird,
That sings where the Runaway River
Runs down with its rills from the bald-headed hills
That stand in the sunshine and shiver?
"O sing! sing-away! sing-away!"
How the pines and the birches are stirred
By the trill of the sing-away bird!

And the bald-headed hills, with their rocks and their rills,
To the tune of his rapture are ringing.
And their faces grow young, all their gray mists among,
While the forests break forth into singing,
"O sing! sing-away! sing-away!"
And the river runs singing along;
And the flying winds catch up the song.

It was nothing but--hush! a wild white-throated thrush,
That emptied his musical quiver
With a charm a