ushes and sparrows, in
a grand hallelujah chorus, salute the sun on his flaming way. The howl
of the wolf ceases; the voice of the water-fowl swells softly and sadly
from the lake; and the cowbell's chime, and house-dog's bark, make
harmony in the general song of Nature. Foxes are home from their felon
excursions; squirrels are astir; deer are on the upland, feeding.
Mother Fabens abandons her pillow, and is out from the door, enjoying
her usual draught of sweet morning air. The home of her son looks good
to her as any that the round world can show; and her heart warms with
joy as she gazes on all the signs of thrift around.

But what object is that which attracts her attention, just bursting
from the distant thicket? The meadow is between them, enclosed on
three sides. It moves toward her. It enters the meadow from the
woods. It is lithe as a fox; and the sun, just peering above the
tree-tops, reveals more and more of its beauty. A felon fox it cannot
be, out at this bold hour in quest of poultry; nor a panther, nor a
wolf. O! We see now; it is a fairy fawn, looking innocent as a baby;
and its round sides are dappled as the trout and pickerel in the lake.
What a sight of the lovely!

She hastens into the house and calls to Matthew, now rising, and he is
out in a twinkling, back side of the meadow. The gentle creature
observes him, and still is not afraid. He approaches nearer, and the
fawn makes slowly for a corner, then, fearing captivity, it tries to
escape between the rails. "Attempt that again, my beauty," says
Fabens, "and I'll have you in my arms." Again goes its head between
the rails, and Fabens clasps it, struggling and panting like a captive
bird, to his breast, and bears it in triumph to Julia in the house.

"Beautiful creature!" "lovely lamb of the greenwood!" are the
exclamations that go round, as the family stand and view it.

"It has strayed from its dam," says one; and, "How it must feel at this
moment!" "How soft and sleek its speckled coat!" adds another. "And
how mild are its little eyes, and gentle as a sperit's," exclaims
Mother Fabens.

"Will they kill it?" do you inquire. Kill it? No! How could they lay
a knife on that delicate throat? Its tender looks would soften a heart
of stone, and insure its safety. But what will they do with the
panting prisoner? Not let it go! Little Clinton would put in his
decided "No, no!" if they motioned to do such a thing. See how he
da