rs the eyes fill,
The old spring-house at the foot of the hill!

There we children, bare-footed, would wander to play,
And wade in the branch that flowed on its way
Through the meadows and fields with current so fleet,
And a gurgle and ripple that sounded so sweet!
And the water that helped turn the wheel at the mill
Was from the spring-house at the foot of the hill!

And, oh! I remember a pair of blue eyes,
With glances as tender and soft as the skies,
And a little brown head that was covered with curls,
And the laughter that rippled between rows of pearls,
Which was changed to a cry of despair and of woe
When the craw-fish was clinging to a little pink toe!

Distilled by the heart into memory's wine,
'Tis thus that we drink a draught that's divine,
And lighten the burdens which after years bear,
And banish with dreaming the demon of Care!
O in fond recollection I linger there still,
By the old spring-house at the foot of the hill!

Though vanished forever the faces that smiled,
And hushed is the laughter I heard when a child--
Yet often when musing they float back to me,
And I see them and hear it as clear as can be!
And I'm playing again, while the heart strings all thrill,
By the old spring house at the foot of the hill!

CAMPING ON THE CUMBERLAND.

Where the Cumberland flows on its way to the South,
From its source in the hills half-way to its mouth--
When Autumn has come and tempered the rays
Of the hot blazing sun with its soft mellow haze,
Is an Eden of bliss and a place of delight,
When the minnows are good and the "jumpers" will bite,
And a fellow's well fixed with a reel and a pole,
And other "equipments"--(of which I've been told)!

To camp there and fish for a week at a time,
And have the four-pounders just tug at your line,
Is a feeling akin to sweet visions we see
When we dream of that home where we all hope to be;
And no king in the world who sits on a throne
E'er felt the rare joy that thrills to the bone
When you throw out your line and it whizzes away,
Just cutting the water to foamy white spray!

He darts here and there, dead game to the last,
When he feels the barbed hook and finds that he's fast,
And plunges and struggles, disdaining to yield,
Till exhausted at last to the bank he is reeled,
And carefully lifted from out the old stream,
While he flounders and gasps and his scaly sides gleam,
And you measure his length and guess at his weight--
(Five inches too long and