SPRING DAYS IN BURLINGTON.

DOWN where the wake-robin springs from its slumbers, Opening its cardinal eye to the sun; Come the dull echoes of far away thunders Heavy and fast as the shots of a gun. Up on the hill where the wild flowers nestle, Like new fallen stars on the green mossy strand; There come the dead notes of the house-cleaning pestle— The sound of the carpet is heard in the land. Up! for the song birds their matins are singing; Up, for the morning is tinting the skies; Up, for the good wife the clothes-prop is bringing Out to the line where the hall carpet flies. Up, and away! for the carpet is dusty! Fly, for the house-cleaning days have begun! Run! for the womanly temper is crusty; Up and be doing, lest ye be undone! Late, late; too late. Just one moment of snoring. He wakes to the sound of the tumult below. O’er the beating of carpets he hears a voice roaring, “Breakfast was over three hours ago!” See, he is plunged in the front of the battle; Where dust is the thickest they tell him to stand; Where suds, mops and scrub-brushes spatter and rattle, And the sound of the carpet is heard in the land.