esolate fields of thistle;
Thou comest to bless in beauty's ways,
With memories of summer days,
When at the touch of gentle showers,
Decked were the fields in myriad flowers;
Yet more than all I praise to-day
This blossom bright,
Since on her breast it lay
Only last night.

JOHN ANGUS THOMPSON.
_Wesleyan Literary Monthly_

~My Treasures.~

My jewels are the drops of dew
That sparkle on the grass,
Or break into a thousand bits
When ruthless footsteps pass.

My gold bedecks the sunlit cloud,
Untouched by human hand;
My silver is the sleeping sea,
Unshadowed by the land.

My friend is every wooded hill,
And every singing brook;
For they are always true to me,
And wear a kindly look

And yet how few would ever think
To count these treasures o'er;
But, dreaming oft of Satan's gold,
Would ask kind Heaven for more.

Co-heirs of Nature all may be,
Although of humble birth;
And yet, the miser hugs his gold,
While poor men own the earth.

WILBUR DANIEL SPENCER.
_Dartmouth Literary Monthly,_

~A Pasture.~

Rough pasture where the blackberries grow!--
It bears upon its churlish face
No sign of beauty, art or grace;
Not here the silvery coverts glow
That April and the angler know.

There sleeps no brooklet in this wild,
Smooth-resting on its mosses sleek,
Like loving lips upon a cheek
Soft as the face of maid or child--
Just boulders, helter-skelter piled.

Ungenerous nature but endows
These acres with the stumps and stocks
Which should be trees, with rude, gray rocks;
Over these humps and hollows browse,
Daily, the awkward, shambling cows.

Here on the right, a straggling wall
Of crazy, granite stones, and there
A rotten pine-trunk, brown and bare,
A mass of huge brakes, rank and tall--
The burning blue sky over all.

And yet these blackberries! shy and chaste!
The noisy markets know no such--
So ripe they tumble when you touch;
Long, taper--rarer wines they waste
Than ever town-bred topers taste.

And tell me! have you looked o'erhead
From lawns where lazy hammocks swing
And seen such bird-throats lent a wing?
Such flames of song that flashed and fled?
Well, maybe--_I'm_ not city-bred.

FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES.
_Wesleyan Literary Monthly._

~Skating Song.~

Moon so bright,
Stars alight,
Clouds adance, adance;
Snow of night,
Fleecy white,
Silver ice agleam, aglance.
High, hey, high, hey,
Skimming t