The meadow-lark, with yellow breast, alights On the old field, and sings her favorite strain— A clear harmonious song. The Hunter Boy— A little urchin stealing by his side, With freckled face, lit up with roguish smiles, And eyes that twinkled perfect gems of fun— Armed with an ancient musket, that did speak The voice of death on wars victorious fields, Creeps down the garden wall and nears her seat, Then, casting down his flopping hat of straw, Rests fearless o’er his trembling playmate’s back, Takes deadly aim, and shuts both eyes, and fires! Loud ring the hills, and vales, and plains around, The border grove is filled with sulphurous smoke, The cat-bird cries “for shame!” and darts away Before her leafy resting-place is seen; And when the cloud of death has floated on, The victim bird is found a gory thing, While the proud hero of this manly sport, Struts down the lane like Cæsar entering Rome. The patient Angler threads the winding brook, Tempting the dainty trout with gilded bait; And ever and anon, as fleecy clouds Pass o’er the sun, the fish voracious darts From the cool shadows of some mossy bank, Swallows the bait with one convulsive act, And learns too late that death was at the feast; While the glad sportsman feels the sudden jerk, And plays his victim with extended line, Swiftly he darts, and through the glittering rings The silken line is drawn with ringing sound, Till wearied out with struggling that but serves To drive the barbed weapon deeper still, He seeks his quiet shelter ’neath the bank, And thence in triumph to the shore is borne, A prize that well rewards a day of toil. Along the hills the school-boy flies his kite, Shoots the smooth marble o’er the studded ring, Or o’er the commons with a bound and shout, Beats the soft ball for one well skilled to catch. Health crowns the joyful exercise, and night Finds its tired votaries trained for quiet sleep. Bearing his hazel wand of curious form, The searcher after earth’s deep spring goes forth, Handling his mystic prongs as Merlin taught, Or later follower of the magic school. Now over hill-tops, stony as the mounds The Indian warriors raise above their slain, Then down in valleys, where the sun ne’er shines, Fringed round with sylvan borders dense and rank, He trudges, looking wiser than the one Who passes o’er the busy brain his hand, And wraps the senses in a sleep profound. At length, above a vale where willows bend, And grass grows greenest in the waning year, His curious tell-tale turns toward the earth; He stops, and with a shout of joy proclaims The long sought spot where living water runs, And where the well may sink, nor sink in vain.