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THE SCHOOLMISTRESS.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

Tried one of modest brownish-red;

So true the rod, a single turn

Of wrist, so slight you'd scarce discern,

And without seeming thought or care,

It leaps, it hovers in the air;

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Then downward floats the feathery fly,

As soft as flake from April sky.

But all in vain, and weary quite,

With heavy heart and basket light,

O'er pasture and through field I strode,

To gain, at length, the mountain road.

The way was long, the sun on high

Blazed with the fury of July;

Sometimes a glimpse of woodland glade,

Served but to mock me with its shade,

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