MEADOW-QUAKERS.

In the early autumn Come the Meadow-Quakers; Not the Shakers, not the Shakers— No, no, no. These quiet little people Stand straight as a church steeple, And no one ever saw them come Or ever saw them go. White their hats and broad-brimmed, Lined with pale pink lining, On them dew-drops often shining— Yes, yes, yes. No butterfly goes near them, No brown bee hums to cheer them, And what these Quaker folks are called I want you all to guess.

"Oh dear! I went to catch a little Fly, and the naughty thing had a pin in its tail." [Continuation of sobs.]