I love to look on a scene like this, Of wild and careless play, And persuade myself that I am not old, And my locks are not yet gray; For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart. And makes his pulses fly, To catch the thrill of a happy voice; And the light of a pleasant eye. I have walked the world for four score years, And they say that I am old-- That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, And my years are well-nigh told. It is very true--it is very true-- I am old, and I "bide my time;" But my heart will leap at a scene like this, And I half renew my prime. Play on! play on! I am with you there, In the midst of your merry ring; I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, And the rush of the breathless swing. I hide with you in the fragrant hay, And I whoop the smothered call, And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, And I care not for the fall. I am willing to die when my time shall come, And I shall be glad to go-- For the world, at best, is a dreary place, And my pulse is getting low; But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail In treading its gloomy way; And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, To see the young so gay. [Illustration] THE KING OF THE NIGHT. BARNEY CORNWALL. In the hollow tree, in the old gray tower, The spectral owl doth dwell; Dull, hated, despised, in the sunshine hour, But at dusk he's abroad and well; Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him, All mock him outright by day; But at night, when the woods grow still and dim, The boldest will shrink away; O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl, Then, then, is the reign of the horned owl. And the owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold, And loveths the woods deep gloom; [Illustration: "THE KING OF THE NIGHT."] And, with eyes like the shine of the moonstone cold, She awaiteth her ghastly groom; Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings, But when her heart heareth his flapping wings, She hoots out her welcome shrill; O, when the moon shines and the dogs do howl, Then, then, is the joy of the horned owl! Mourn not for the owl nor his gloomy plight; The owl hath his share of good: If a prisoner he be in broad daylight, He is lord in the dark green wood; Nor lonely the bird nor his ghastly mate, They are each unto each a pride; Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange, dark fate Hath rent them from all beside; So, when the night falls and dogs do howl, Sing, ho! for the reign of the horned owl. We know not alway Who are kings by day, But the king of the night is the bold brown owl. [Illustration] A 'RITHMETIC LESSON. PHILLIP BAILEY.