eader. We shall not string names
together, but take a few of them. First, the "Sisters of Scio," a true
story, by the author of "Constantinople in 1828," of two little Greek
girls being saved from the Turks, by a good Christian. Next is "The
Recall," by Mrs. Hemans:--

Music is sorrowful
Since thou wert gone;
Sisters are mourning thee--
Come to thine own
Hark! the home voices call,
Back to thy rest!
Come to thy father's hall,
Thy mother's breast!
O'er the far blue mountains,
O'er the white sea-foam,
Come, thou long parted one!
Back to thy home!

--How appropriate is the story and its sequel; nay, almost as good as
two of Mr. Farley's pantomime scenes at Christmas. "The Miller's
Daughter," a tale of the French Revolution, which follows, is hardly so
fit: even the mention of Robespierre and the Reign of Terror chills
one's blood. "The Sights of London," is a string of "City Scenes" in
verse; and "May Maxwell," and "The Broken Pitcher," are pretty ballads,
by the Howitts. We are not half through the book, and can only mention
"the Young Governess," a school story--"the Birds and the Beggar of
Bagdad," a fairy tale--"Lady Lucy's Petition," an historiette--"the
Restless Boy," by Mrs. Opie, and the "Passionate Little Girl," by Mrs.
Hofland--all sparkling trifles in prose. Among the poetry is "the
African Mier-Vark," or Ant-eater, by Mr. Pringle, and "the Deadly
Nightshade," a sweetly touching ballad, dated from Florence; "the
Vulture of the Alps" is of similar character; and we are much pleased
with some lines on Birds, by Barry Cornwall, one set of which we copy,
the best prose papers being too long for extract:

TO A WOUNDED SINGING BIRD.

Poor singer! hath the fowler's gun,
Or the sharp winter, done thee harm?
We'll lay thee gently in the sun,
And breathe on thee, and keep thee warm;
Perhaps some human kindness still
May make amends for human ill.

We'll take thee in, and nurse thee well,
And save thee from the winter wild,
Till summer fall on field and fell,
And thou shalt be our feathered child,
And tell us all thy pain and wrong
When thou again canst speak in song.

Fear not, nor tremble, little bird,--
We'll use thee kindly now,
And sure there's in a friendly word
An accent even _thou_ shouldst know;
For kindness which the heart doth teach,
Disdaineth all peculiar speech.

'Tis common to the bird, and brute