THE SCHOOL-BOY'S VISION.

BY MARY D. BRINE.

There's the bell for "recess over," time for stupid books again; But how can a fellow study with Thanksgiving on his brain? When I read of Turks and Turkey, little heed to them I pay, While my mind is full of visions of the near Thanksgiving-day. I can only hear the "gobble" of a turkey, fat and nice, Which, my grandpa writes, is waiting to be gobbled in a trice, Just as soon as Sis and I and all the family are able To be off and spend Thanksgiving round the dear old farm-house table. That's a study, now, of Turkey that a fellow likes, I'm sure, But put it in geography, and that I can't endure; It has a different flavor somehow on the dear old farm, And "cramming" then or "stuffing" never does one any harm. Now there's a class in spelling: Bobby White has tripped on "skates," And that's something I don't do. I remember how my mates And I went off together, with our skates upon our feet, For a race across the mill-pond, and 'twas only I who beat. Oh, Thanksgiving-day is jolly on the dear old farm, and so It knocks study in the head for a week before we go; And I pity any fellow, be he black, or white, or brown, Whose grandpapa and grandma are not living—out of town. Well, I s'pose I ought to study while my book before me lies, But it's hard upon a fellow now to have to shut his eyes Upon such charming visions. Did you speak, sir? can I tell Where Turkey is? Oh yes, sir, I have learned that lesson well.

THIS IS NOT INTENDED TO SHOW HOW OUR PRECIOUS BOY LOOKED AFTER HIS THANKSGIVING DINNER, BUT HOW HE SAID HE FELT.