The day passed, but ere evening fell the bird returned, bearing in her bill, as a token that the waters had abated, a freshly-plucked olive leaf. "Thou art God's own messenger," joyfully said Noah, tenderly caressing the dove. "Verily something more than instinct guided and prompted thee in thy flight this day." And Noah waited yet another seven days ere he again sent forth the dove. This time, to the ark, the dove returned no more. "Coo-o-o," more plaintively than usual, called her mate the next morning. "Co-o-o-o." "He mourns for his lost love," pityingly said Japheth, the youngest son. "Verily, something hath befallen the bird!" "Nay," responded Noah, "liberty is sweet. After long captivity in a dark, close house-boat, freedom might well try the fidelity of e'en a turtle dove. She awaits his coming, perchance, in the nearest pine or willow tree. Open then the window and let him forth." And Japheth did as his father commanded, but sorrowfully, for it chanced that in close companionship, lo, these many days, with these innocent children of nature, Japheth had come to acquire a tender love and care for both beast and bird. "Go, thou mourning dove," he said, unconsciously bestowing a fitting name upon the gentle bird. "Go!" And, spreading his beautiful wings, off the dove joyfully flew, following with unerring instinct the path in the air yesterday taken by his mate. And yet a few days and Noah removed the covering from the ark and looked, and behold, the face of the ground was dry. THE MAYFLOWERS. (The trailing arbutus, or Mayflower, grows abundantly in the vicinity of Plymouth, and was the first flower that greeted the Pilgrims after their fearful winter.) Sad Mayflower! watched by winter stars And nursed by winter gales, With petals of the sleeted spars And leaves of frozen sails! What had she in those dreary hours, Within her ice-rimmed bay, In common with the wild-wood flowers, The first sweet smiles of May? Yet, "God be praised!" the Pilgrim said, Who saw the blossoms peer Above the brown leaves, dry and dead, "Behold our Mayflower here!" "God wills it: here our rest shall be, Our years of wandering o'er, For us the Mayflower of the sea Shall spread her sails no more." O sacred flowers of faith and hope, As sweetly now as then Ye bloom on many a birchen slope, In many a pine-dark glen. Behind the sea-wall's rugged length, Unchanged, your leaves unfold, Like love behind the manly strength Of the brave hearts of old. So live the fathers in their sons, Their sturdy faith be ours, And ours the love that overruns Its rocky strength with flowers. The Pilgrim's wild and wintry day Its shadows round us draws; The Mayflower of his stormy bay, Our Freedom's struggling cause.