exhaustless in her invention of new insects
hostile to vegetation, perhaps we may reckon that he does more good
than harm. For my own part, I would rather have his cheerfulness and
kind neighborhood than many berries.

FOOTNOTES:

[P] The screech-owl, whose cry, despite his ill name, is one of the
sweetest sounds in nature, softens his voice in the same way with the
most beguiling mockery of distance.--AUTHOR'S NOTE.

LXXXIX. THE OLD CRADLE.

FREDERICK LOCKER.--1821-

And this was your Cradle? Why, surely, my Jenny,
Such cosy dimensions go clearly to show
You were an exceedingly small pickaninny
Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago.

Your baby-days flow'd in a much-troubled channel;
I see you, as then, in your impotent strife,
A tight little bundle of wailing and flannel,
Perplex'd with the newly-found fardel of Life.

To hint at an infantile frailty's a scandal;
Let bygones be bygones, for somebody knows
It was bliss such a Baby to dance and to dandle,--
Your cheeks were so dimpled, so rosy your toes.

Ay, here is your Cradle; and Hope, a bright spirit,
With Love now is watching beside it, I know.
They guard the wee nest it was yours to inherit
Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago.

It is Hope gilds the future, Love welcomes it smiling,
Thus wags this old world, therefore stay not to ask,
"My future bids fair, is my future beguiling?"
If mask'd, still it pleases--then raise not its mask.

Is Life a poor coil some would gladly be doffing?
He is riding post-haste who their wrongs will adjust;
For at most 'tis a footstep from cradle to coffin--
From a spoonful of pap to a mouthful of dust.

Then smile as your future is smiling, my Jenny;
I see you, except for those infantine woes,
Little changed since you were but a small pickaninny--
Your cheeks were so dimpled, so rosy your toes!

Ay, here is your Cradle, much, much to my liking,
Though nineteen or twenty long winters have sped.
Hark! As I'm talking there's six o'clock striking,--
It is time JENNY'S BABY should be in its bed.

XC. RUGBY CHAPEL.

NOVEMBER, 1857.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.--1822-

Coldly, sadly descends
The autumn-evening. The field
Strewn with its dank yellow drifts
Of wither'd leaves, and the elms,
Fade into dimness apace,
Sile