TWO SIDES.

H, dear! oh, dear! the summer's past; The singing-birds have gone; The robin, from the maple-bough, Who waked me every morn; The bobolink that used to make The meadow-grass with music shake; The humming-bird that dipped his bill In lily-cup and rose,— Not one would stay; I only hear The cawing of the crows.

The fields look brown: oh, dear! oh, dear! The dismal autumn days are here. And all my pretty flowers are dead! My roses and sweet-peas; The hollyhocks, where, all the day, There was a crowd of bees; The lovely morning-glory vine, That round my window used to twine; The larkspur, with its horns of blue; The sunflower proud and tall,— That thief the Frost, so sly and still, Has come and stolen all! Chill blows the wind; oh, dear! oh, dear! The dreary autumn days are here.

The hives are full of honeycomb; The barns are full of hay; The bins are heaped with ripened grain, That empty were in May; The red and yellow apples now Bend many a heavy orchard bough; Dark purple, 'mid their withered leaves, The frost-grapes smell of musk; The pumpkins lie in yellow heaps; And, in its silver husk, The corn now shows a golden ear; Come! why be sorry autumn's here? The sharp frost cracks the prickly burrs; The keen wind scatters down Upon the grass, for eager hands, The chestnuts ripe and brown; The orange woods, the flame-red bowers, Are brighter than the gayest flowers; 'Tis constant changes make the year: Then why be sorry autumn's here?

MARIAN DOUGLAS.