stained;
While others their size had not yet gained.
In passing she cried, "Oh! who can insure
The fruits of _Summer_ to get mature?
For, fast as the waters beneath me flowing,
Beyond recall, I'm going! I'm going!"

I turned my eye, and beheld another,
That seemed as she might be Summer's mother.
She looked more grave; while her cheek was tinged
With a deeper brown; and her bark was fringed
With the tasselled heads of the wheaten sheaves
Along its sides; and the yellow leaves,
That had covered the deck concealed a throng
Of _Crickets!_--I knew by their choral song.
And at _Autumn's_ feet lay the golden corn,
While her hands were raised, to invert a horn
That was filled with a sweet and mellow store,
And the purple clusters were hanging o'er.
She bade me seize on the fruit that should last
When the harvest was gone, and Autumn had past.
But, when I had paused to make the choice,
I saw no bark! and I heard no voice!

Then I looked on a sight that chilled my blood!
'Twas a mass of ice, where an old man stood
On his frozen float; while his shrivelled hand
Had clenched, as a staff by which to stand,
A whitened branch that the blast had broke
From the lifeless trunk of an aged oak.
The icicles hung from the naked limb,
And the old man's eye was sunken and dim.
But his scattering locks were silver bright,
His beard with gathering frost was white;
The tears congealed on his furrowed cheek,
His garb was thin, and the winds were bleak.
He faintly uttered, while drawing near,
"_Winter_, the death of the short-lived year,
Can yield thee nought, as I downward tend
To the boundless sea, where the Seasons end!
But I trust from others, who've gone before,
Thou'st clothed thy form, and supplied thy store
And now, what tidings am I to bear
Of thee--for I shall be questioned there?"

I asked my mother, who o'er me bent,
What all this show of the Seasons meant?
She said 'twas a picture of Life, I saw;
And the useful moral myself must draw!

I woke, and found that thy song was stilled,
And the sun's bright beams my room had filled!
But I think, my Cricket, I long shall keep
In mind the dream of my morning sleep!

=Fanny Spy=

Lucy, Lucy, come away!
Never climb for things so high.
Don't you know, the other day,
What fell out with Fanny Spy?

Fanny spied, a loaf of cake,
Wisely set above her reach;
Yet did Fanny think to make
In its tempting side a breach.

When she thought the family
Out of sigh