THE LITTLE PEASANT.

Unstrung by her heart's first sorrow, In the dawn of her life she stands, With listless fingers holding A vacant nest in her hands. The grass at her feet no longer Is bright with the light of the skies, As downward she looks through the tear-drops That stand in her heaven-blue eyes. For the nest, so cold and forsaken, Has taught her the lesson to-day, That the dearest of earthly treasures Have wings, and can fly away. Yet she clings to the empty casket, And sighs that no more is left, As a mother clings to the cradle Of its dimpled treasure bereft. Alas! for the early shadows That fall about our way, When the beautiful light has vanished, And the hill-tops are cold and gray.