Yet another song of the Robin which has moistened the eyes of many a youthful vocalist. I don't know that it ever had a title, but we will call it THE NORTH WIND. The North wind doth blow, And we shall have snow, And what will the Robin do then, poor thing? He will sit in the barn, And keep himself warm, With his little head under his wing, poor thing! It is not claimed for these pieces that they belong to any high order of verse--though really, in more senses than one, they belong to the very first. In point of popularity alone, they are not surpassed by "Paradise Lost," nor by the plays of Shakespeare, or the songs of Burns. Then, they have so thoroughly commanded the interest and engaged the affections of the wee folks, that, with old and young alike--for the young so soon grow into the old, alas!--there are no compositions in the world better secured for the honour and glory of immortal fame. They have not been very often printed, I have said--not often in recent years, at least--and the reason, I suppose, is because it was not deemed necessary to set out in print what everybody knows so well by heart. It must be refreshing for the eye, however, to scan what is so familiar to the ear, and I make no apology--yea, I hope to be thanked for their appearance in this little book for bairns and big folk. Let the next be LITTLE BO-PEEP. Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep, And doesn't know where to find them; Let them alone, and they'll come home, Bringing their tails behind them. Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep. And dreamt she heard them bleating; But when she awoke, she found it a joke, For still they all were fleeting. Then up she took her little crook, Determined for to find them; She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed. For they'd left their tails behind them. It happen'd one day, as Bo-peep did stray Under a meadow hard by, That she espied their tails, side by side, All hung on a tree to dry. She heaved a sigh, and wiped her eye, And over the hillocks went stump-o; And tried as she could, as a shepherdess should, To tack again each to its rump-o. The ballad lacks sadly in particulars, to be sure. How the tails of the entire flock disappeared in one fell swoop--whether by malice aforethought, at the instance of a lurking enemy, or in a miraculous accident, whilst the young shepherdess slept at her charge--has never been told, though thousands of wondering pows, multiplied by ten, have wanted to know. Perhaps it is better not explained. Mystery is so often just another word for charm.