WHIPPOORWILL.

Unseen in the thicket a lone little bird Cries over and over the sorrowful word, Till the children, whose sweet lisping prayers have been said, Turn over, half waking, and call from their bed, "Do make that bird stop calling down from the hill His mournful old story, Whip, whip, oh! poor Will." What could Will have done in the days long ago That this bird's great-grandfather hated him so? Did he rifle a nest, did he climb up a tree, Did he meddle where he had no business to be?— When we find out, dear children, what 'twas Katy did, The secret with those funny wood gossips hid, We are likely, and not before then, to discover The rune that the poor little songster runs over, Who, hour by hour, up there on the hill, Calls mournfully, urgently, Oh! whip poor Will.