And thus throughout the livelong day, (Tho’ showery pearl-drops damp its wings; And heedless who may pass its way,) The modest Pewee sits and sings. Bird of the heart—meek Virtue’s child! Emblem of sweet simplicity; An thou’d’st a pleasant hour have whiled, Go list the Pewee’s minstrelsy! The eagle’s wing it may not boast, Nor yet his plume of golden sheen; But not in garb of regal cost Are Virtue’s children always seen. Ah, no, sweet bird! in lowly guise Her fairest child is oftenest met; And seldom knows thy cloudless skies, Or path with flowers so richly set. When summer buds are bright and gay I fly the city’s dull confines, And love to sport the hours away By sedgy streams and leafy shrines. Nor least among the happy sounds Which then salute my raptur’d ear, I hail, from hedge and meadow grounds, The Pewee, with its song so clear. * * * * * HARRY CAVENDISH. BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR,” “THE REEFER OF ’76,” ETC. ETC. ELLEN NEVILLE. When I recovered my senses, after the events narrated in the last chapter, I found that I was lying in the cabin of the schooner on board which I had been serving, while a group composed of the three surgeons and several officers of the expedition stood around me. As I opened my eyes and glanced around, scarce conscious as yet of the objects that met my gaze, one of the medical men bent over me and said that my safety depended on my quiet. Gradually I imbibed the full meaning of his words, and called to mind the events immediately preceding my fall; but, in spite of his charge, I felt an uncontrollable desire to learn the extent of my injury. In a low whisper—so low indeed that I was startled at its faintness—I asked if I was seriously wounded and whether we had conquered. But he smiled as he replied, “Not now, at least not in full, for your weakness forbids it. But the danger is over. The ball has been extracted. Quiet is all you now require.” “But,” said I again, “how of our expedition? Have we conquered?” “We have, but not a word more now. To-morrow you shall hear all. Gentlemen,” he continued, turning to the group, “we had best withdraw now that our friend is past the crisis. He needs repose.” I felt the wisdom of this advice, for my brain was already whirling from the attempt to control my thoughts, even for the mere purpose of asking the questions necessary to satisfy my curiosity; so when the group left the cabin I sank back on my couch, and closing my eyes with a sense of relief, soon lost all recollection in a deep sleep, the effect, no doubt, of the opiate which had been administered to me.