I know ’tis whispered far and near,
  That Charlie loves his way,
But I can tell of grown up men,
  Who do the same to-day.

Who never yield or quit the field,
  Can you blame Charlie then? 
For most small boys will imitate
  What’s seen in grown up men.

And now good friends, I give you leave
  To find him if you can,
Another boy, more glad with joy,
  Than this brave little man.

Heigh ho!  I still am in a maze,
  To think he’s six to-day,
Some other time I’ll tell you more,
  If—­Charlie says I may.

MURMURINGS.

Falling, falling—­gently falling,
  Pattering on the window pane,
Like a weird spirit calling
  Come the heavy drops of rain.

Sweeping by the crazy casement,
  Where the creeping ivy clings,
Sounds the wind in gustful musings
  Loudly speaking bitter things.

Hush! the tones are sinking lower,
  Sweetest strains of music roll;
Like Aeolian harps in Heaven,
  Pouring incense o’er the soul.

But ’tis gone! a wilder wailing
  Fills the air where music reigned,
Hoarsely groans the wild storm-demon,
  Drowning all those sweeter strains.

And the tall pines shake and quiver
  As the monarch rideth by;
Onward where the troubled river
  Dashes spray-drops towards the sky.

But he pauses not to listen,
  Onward with demoniac will;
Till Aeolian harps in Heaven
  Softly whisper, “Peace, be still.”

THE OLD OAK TREE.

    Woodman, spare that tree! 
      Touch not a single bough: 
    In youth it sheltered me,
      And I’d protect it now.

    —­George P. Morris.

’Tis living yet!  Time has not dared
  To mark it, as his own,
Nor claimed one bough, but kindly spared
  This giant, firm and lone. 
It stands, as stood in years gone by,
  The chieftain in its shade,
And breathed the warning, ere the cry
  Of war went through the glade.

The Council tires then brightly burned
  Beneath its spreading bough,
But oh, alas! the scene has turned,
  Where burn those fires now? 
The old oak stands where it did then,
  The same fresh violets bloom,
But far down in the narrow glen,
  They deck the Indian’s tomb.

Life then seemed bright and free from care;
  When this old tree was young
The Indian maiden twined her hair,
  And to her chieftain sung
A song, low, gentle, and sincere,
  In pathos rich and rare;
The warrior-lover brushed a tear,
  For thought was busy there.

Yes, busy was the fertile brain,
  That bid him onward flee,
The Indian moon was on the wane
  And drooped the hawthorne tree. 
The light canoe of rounded bark
  Scarce dared to skim the flood,
For they had come with meaning dark
  To ravage lake and wood.