the following song:--

CONTENT.

"There are times when the troubles of life are still;
The bees wandered lost in the depths of June,
And I paused where the chime of a silver rill
Sang the linnet and lark to their rest at noon.

"Said my soul, 'See how calmly the wavelets glide,
Though so narrow their way to their ocean vent;
And the world that I traverse is wide, is wide,
And yet is too narrow to hold content'

"O my son, never say that the world is wide;
The rill in its banks is less closely pent:
It is thou who art shoreless on every side,
And thy width will not let thee enclose content."

As the voice ceased Kenelm lifted his head. But the banks of the brook
were so curving and so clothed with brushwood that for some minutes the
singer was invisible. At last the boughs before him were put aside, and
within a few paces of himself paused the man to whom he had commended
the praises of a beefsteak, instead of those which minstrelsy in its
immemorial error dedicates to love.

"Sir," said Kenelm, half rising, "well met once more. Have you ever
listened to the cuckoo?"

"Sir," answered the minstrel, "have you ever felt the presence of the
summer?"

"Permit me to shake hands with you. I admire the question by which you
have countermet and rebuked my own. If you are not in a hurry, will you
sit down and let us talk?"

The minstrel inclined his head and seated himself. His dog--now emerged
from the brushwood--gravely approached Kenelm, who with greater gravity
regarded him; then, wagging his tail, reposed on his haunches,
intent with ear erect on a stir in the neighbouring reeds, evidently
considering whether it was caused by a fish or a water-rat.

"I asked you, sir, if you had ever listened to the cuckoo from no
irrelevant curiosity; for often on summer days, when one is talking with
one's self,--and, of course, puzzling one's self,--a voice breaks out,
as it were from the heart of Nature, so far is it and yet so near; and
it says something very quieting, very musical, so that one is tempted
inconsiderately and foolishly to exclaim, 'Nature replies to me.' The
cuckoo has served me that trick pretty often. Your song is a better
answer to a man's self-questionings than he can ever get from a cuckoo."

"I doubt that," said the minstrel. "Song, at the best, is but the echo
of some voice from the heart of Nature. And if the cuckoo's note seemed
to you such a voice, it was an an