A song to the oak, the brave old oak, Who hath ruled in the greenwood long; Here's health and renown to his broad green crown, And his fifty arms so strong. There's fear in his frown when the sun goes down, And the fire in the west fades out; And he showeth his might, on a wild midnight, When the storms through his branches shout. Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak, Who stands in his pride alone; And still flourish he, a hale, green tree, When a hundred years are gone. In the days of old, when the spring with cold Had brightened his branches gray, Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweet To gather the dew of May; And on that day, to the rebeck gay They frolicked with lovesome swains; They are gone, they are dead, in the churchyard laid, But the tree, it still remains. Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak, Who stands in his pride alone; And still flourish he, a hale old tree, When a hundred years are gone. He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes Were a merry sound to hear, When the squire's wide hall and the cottage small Were filled with good English cheer. Now gold hath the sway we all obey, And a ruthless king is he; But he never shall send our ancient friend To be tossed on the stormy sea. Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak, Who stands in his pride alone; And still flourish he, a hale, green tree, When a hundred years are gone. --_Henry Fothergill Chorley._ "CHEEPER," A SPARROW BABY. BY ANNE W. JACKSON. One day in May, as I was hurrying along the street, my steps were arrested by the distressed chirping of a sparrow on the opposite sidewalk. Thinking that probably a young sparrow had fallen from the nest, I picked my way across the muddy road to the other side to see what I could do. The poor little sparrow-mother was wildly hopping about and chirping in sore distress. And what a pitiful sight greeted my eyes! Upon the wet grass, under the very jaws of an evil-looking little black-and-tan dog, was a poor, draggled, shivering baby sparrow. At sight of me the dog coolly picked up the baby and trotted off. I followed and he soon dropped it; but I couldn't succeed in driving him away. He still remained in sight, bold and impudent. I was in a sad dilemma. Of the two evils which confronted me, or rather the baby, which would prove the less? The trees all about the place were tall ones, with no low branches. There was no hope of returning the baby to its nest. It was too weak from cold and fright, as well as too young, to fly. If I left it the dog would certainly return and devour it before its mother's eyes.