hen another wounded bird appeared but a few feet
off. The emergency being uncommon, it put forth all its histrionic
power, and never Booth or Siddons did so well. With breast ploughing in
the sand, head falling helplessly from side to side, feet kicking out
spasmodically and yet feebly behind, and wings fluttering and beating
brokenly on the beach, it seemed the very symbol of fear, pain, and
weakness, I made a sudden spring forward,--off it went, but immediately
returned when I pushed my foot again toward the grass, renewing its
speaking pantomime. I could not represent suffering so well, if I really
felt it. With a convulsive kick, its poor little helpless head went
under, and it tumbled over on the side; then it swooned, was dying; the
wings flattened out on the sand, quivering, but quivering less and less;
it gasped with open mouth and closing eye, but the gasps grew fainter
and fainter; at last it lay still, dead; but when I poked once more in
the grass, it revived to endure another spasm of agony, and die again.
"Dear, witty little Garrick," I said, "had you a thousand lives and ten
thousand eggs, I would not for a kingdom touch one of them!" and I
wished he could show me some enemy to his peace, that I might make war
upon the felon forthwith.

And in this becoming frame of mind I ended my chapter of "Boy's Play in
Labrador."

THE OLD HOUSE.

My little birds, with backs as brown
As sand, and throats as white as frost,
I've searched the summer up and down,
And think the other birds have lost
The tunes you sang, so sweet, so low,
About the old house, long ago.

My little flowers, that with your bloom
So hid the grass you grew upon,
A child's foot scarce had any room
Between you,--are you dead and gone?
I've searched through fields and gardens rare,
Nor found your likeness anywhere.

My little hearts, that beat so high
With love to God, and trust in men,
Oh, come to me, and say if I
But dream, or was I dreaming then,
What time we sat within the glow
Of the old-house hearth, long ago?

My little hearts, so fond, so true,
I searched the world all far and wide,
And never found the like of you:
God grant we meet the other side
The darkness 'twixt us now that stands,
In that new house not made with hands!

MEMORIES OF AUTHORS.

A SERIES OF PORTRAITS FROM PERSONAL ACQUAINTANCE.