silence falls upon them all,
So paralyzed with fear that no one strives
To make escape, to move, to call!

"A weapon! Shoot him!" comes from far outside;
The shout wakes men again to conscious life;
But as the aim is taken, the ranks divide
To make a passage for the keeper's wife.

Alone she came, a woman tall and fair,
And hurried on, and near the lion stood;
"Oh, do not fire!" she cried; "let no one dare
To shoot my lion--he is tame and good.

"My son? my son?" she called; and to her ran
A little child, that scarce had seen nine years.
"Play! play!" she said. Quickly the boy began.
His little flute was heard by awe-struck ears.

"Fetch me a cage," she cried. The men obeyed.
"Now go, my son, and bring the lion here."
Slowly the child advanced, and piped, and played,
While men and women held their breaths in fear.

Sweetly he played, as though no horrid fate
Could ever harm his sunny little head.
He never paused, nor seemed to hesitate,
But went to do the thing his mother said.

The lion hearkened to the sweet clear sound;
The anger vanished from his threatening eyes;
All motionless he crouched upon the ground
And listened to the silver melodies.

[Illustration: The Little Lion Charmer.]

The boy thus reached his side. The beast stirred not.
The child then backward walked, and played again,
Till, moving softly, slowly from the spot,
The lion followed the familiar strain.

The cage is waiting--wide its opened door--
And toward it, cautiously, the child retreats.
But see! The lion, restless grown once more,
Is lashing with his tail in angry beats.

The boy, advancing, plays again the lay.
Again the beast, remembering the refrain,
Follows him on, until in this dread way
The cage is reached, and in it go the twain.

At once the boy springs out, the door makes fast,
Then leaps with joy to reach his mother's side;
Her praise alone, of all that crowd so vast,
Has power to thrill his little heart with pride.

HARRIET S. FLEMING.

THE BOY TO THE SCHOOLMASTER.

You've quizzed me often and puzzled me long,
You've asked me to cipher and spell,
You've called me a dunce if I answered wrong,
Or a dolt if I failed to tell
Just when to say _lie_ and when to say _lay_,
Or what nine sevens may make,
Or the longitude of Kamschatka Bay,
Or the I-forget-wha