His mate is perched on the other side of the river, and now and then warns him by a cry to continue patient. At this well-known call he partly opens his broad wings and answers to her voice in tones not unlike the laugh of a madman. Ducks and many smaller waterfowl are seen passing rapidly towards the South; but the eagle heeds them not--they are for the time beneath his attention. The next moment, however, the wild, trumpet-like sound of a distant swan is heard. The eagle suddenly shakes his body, raises his wings, and makes ready for flight. A shriek from his mate comes across the stream, for she is fully as watchful as he. The snow-white bird is now in sight; her long neck is stretched forward; her eyes are as watchful as those of her enemy; her large wings seem with difficulty to support the weight of her body. Nearer and nearer she comes. The eagle has marked her for his prey. As the swan is about to pass the dreaded pair, the eagle starts from his perch with an awful scream. He glides through the air like a falling star, and, like a flash of lightning, comes upon the timid bird, which now, in agony and despair, seeks to escape the grasp of his cruel talons. She would plunge into the stream, did not the eagle force her to remain in the air by striking at her from beneath. The hope of escape is soon given up by the swan. She has already become much weakened. She is about to gasp her last breath, when the eagle strikes with his talons the under side of her wing and forces the dying bird to fall in a slanting direction upon the nearest shore. The eagle’s mate has watched every movement that he has made, and if she did not assist him in capturing the swan, it was because she felt sure that his power and courage were quite enough for the deed. She now sails to the spot where he is waiting for her, and both together turn the breast of the luckless swan upward and gorge themselves with gore. --J. J. AUDUBON. LUCY’S ROSARY I love to see her well-worn beads Slip through her tender hand; They fall like rich enchanted seeds Cast in a fruitful land. From each small bead full silently A floweret fair doth grow-- A winsome thing with soft bright eye, Yet strong in grace, I know. Wild winds may rave and storms may shout, Her blossoms will not fall; The angels gird them round about With hedgerows thick and tall. The Blessed Mary smiles on them, Just as, in days of yore, She smiled when in old Bethlehem Her little Babe she bore. And saints adown the golden stair With noiseless steps oft creep, To tend these shining flowers of prayer, When Lucy is asleep. When autumn dies, these radiant flowers Shall safe transplanted be, To bloom in Eden’s greenest bowers For all eternity.