lakes of fire._

The Painted Cup, _Euchroma coccinea,_ or _Bartsia coccinea, _ grows in
great abundance in the hazel prairies of the Western States, where its
scarlet tufts make a brilliant appearance in the midst of the verdure.
The Sangamon is a beautiful river, tributary to the Illinois, bordered
with rich prairies.

Page 204.

_The long wave rolling from the southern pole
To break upon Japan._

"Breaks the long wave that at the pole began."--TENNENT'S _Anster Fair._

Page 205.

_At noon the Hebrew bowed the knee
And worshipped._

"Evening and morning, and at noon, will I pray and cry aloud, and he
shall hear my voice."--_Psalm_ lv. 17.

Page 208.

THE WHITE-FOOTED DEER.

"During the stay of Long's Expedition at Engineer Cantonment, three
specimens of a variety of the common deer were brought in, having all
the feet white near the hoofs, and extending to those on the hind-feet
from a little above the spurious hoofs. This white extremity was
divided, upon the sides of the foot, by the general color of the leg,
which extends down near to the hoofs, leaving a white triangle in front,
of which the point was elevated rather higher than the spurious
hoofs."--GODMAN'S _Natural History_, vol. ii., p. 314.

Page 236.

THE LOST BIRD.

Readers who are acquainted with the Spanish language, may not be
displeased at seeing the original of this little poem:

EL PAJARO PERDIDO.

Huyo con vuelo incierto,
Y de mis ojos ha desparecido.
Mirad, si, a vuestro huerto,
Mi pajaro querido,
Ninas hermosas, por acaso ha huido.

Sus ojos relucientes
Son como los del aguila orgullosa;
Plumas resplandecientes,
En la cabeza airosa,
Lleva; y su voz es tierna y armoniosa.

Mirad, si cuidadoso
Junto a las flores se escondio en la grama.
Ese laurel frondoso
Mirad, rama por rama,
Que el los laureles y los flores ama.

Si le hallais, por ventura,
No os enamore su amoroso acento;
No os prende su hermosura;
Volvedmele al momento;
O dejadle, si no, libre en el viento.

Por que su pico de oro
Solo en mi mano toma la semilla;
Y no enjugare el lloro
Que veis en mi mejilla,
Hasta encontrar mi profugo avecilla.

Mi vista se oscurece,
Si sus ojos no ve, que son mi dia
Mi anima desfallece
Con la melancolia
De no escucharle ya su melodia.

The literature of Spain at the present day has this peculiarity, th