Robert of Lincoln at length is made

Sober with work and silent with care.
Off is his holiday garment laid,

Half forgotten that merry air,

Bob o' link, bob o' link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Nobody knows but my mate and I
Where our nest and nestlings lie;
Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes, the children are grown;
Fun and frolic no more he knows;
Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone;
Off he flies, and we sing as he goes,
Bob o' link, bob o' link,

Spink, spank, spink;

When you can pipe that merry old strain,
Robert of Lincoln, come back again;

Chee, chee, chee.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

GETTING UNDER WAY.

LL day Sunday at anchor. The storm had gone

ALL

down a great deal, but the sea had not. It was till piling its frothy hills in air outside, as we could plainly see with the glass. We must lie still until Monday, and we did. The next morning we weighed anchor and went to sea. It was a great happiness to get away after the dragging, dispiriting delay. I thought there never was such gladness in the air before, such brightness in the sun, such beauty in the sea.

All my

malicious instincts were dead within me; and as America faded out of sight, I think a spirit of charity rose up in their place, that was boundless, for the time, as the broad ocean that was heaving its billows about us. I wished to express my feelings, I wished to lift up my voice and sing; but I did not know anything to sing, and so I was obliged to give up the idea. It was no loss to the ship, though, perhaps.

What

It was breezy and pleasant, but the sea was still very rough. One could not promenade without risking his neck; at one moment the bowsprit was taking a deadly aim at the sun in mid-heaven, at the next it was trying to harpoon a shark in the bottom of the ocean. a weird sensation it is to feel the stern of a ship sinking swiftly from under you, and see the bow climbing high away among the clouds! One's safest course, that day, was to clasp a railing and hang on; walking was too precarious a pastime.

Soon a remarkable fossil, shawled to the chin and bandaged like a mummy, appeared at the door of the after deck-house, and the next lurch of the ship shot him into my arms. I said:

Good-morning, sir. It is a fine day."

He put his hand on his stomach and said, "O my!" and then staggered away and fell over the coop of a skylight.

Presently another old gentleman was projected from the same door with great violence. I said:

"Calm yourself, sir. There is no hurry. It is a fine day, sir."

He, also, put his hand on his stomach, and said, “O my!" and reeled away.

In a little while another veteran was discharged abruptly from the same door, clawing at the air for a saving support. I said:

"Good-morning, sir. It is a fine day for pleasuring. You were about to say-"

"O my!"

I thought so. I anticipated him anyhow. I stayed there and was bombarded with old gentlemen for an hour, perhaps; and all I got out of them was "O my!"

I went away then, in a thoughtful mood. I said, This is a grand pleasure excursion. I like it. The passengers are not garrulous, but still they are sociable. I like these old people, but somehow they all seem to have the "O my!" rather bad.-MARK TWAIN.

THE BATTLE OF IVRY.

NOW glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all

glories are!

And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of

Navarre!

Now let there be the merry sound of music and the

dance,

Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vales, O pleasant land of France!

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,

Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters;

As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy.

Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war.

Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry and King Henry of Navarre!

Oh, how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of

day,

We saw the army of the League drawn out in long

array;

With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears!

There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our

land!

And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his

hand;

And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood,

And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his

blood;

And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of

war,

To fight for His own holy Name, and Henry of Navarre.

The King has come to marshal us, in all his armor drest,

And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant

crest.

He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.

Right graciously, he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing,

Down all our line, in deafening shout, "God save our lord, the King!"

"And if my standard-bearer fall,-as fall full well he

may,

For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,—

Press where ye see my white plume shine, amid the ranks

of war,

And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Navarre."

Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din

Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin!

The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint André's

plain,

With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Al

mayne.

Now, by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of

France,

Charge for the golden lilies now,-upon them with the

lance !

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in

rest,

A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snowwhite crest,

And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star,

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Na

varre.

Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned his rein,

D'Aumale hath cried for quarter-the Flemish Count is slain;

Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay

gale;

The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail.