By and by her young mistress entered, And uttered a piteous cry, When she saw the fate of what had so late Delighted her watchful eye. But where was the one, who had spoiled it, Concealing his guilty face? She had not a clue whereby to pursue The rogue to his lurking-place. Thought kit, "I 'll keep still till 't is over, And none will suspect it was I." For the puss awoke, when her mistress spoke, And she well understood the cry. But, mewing at length for her dinner, Kit's mouth confessed the whole truth: It opened so wide, that her mistress spied A rose-leaf pierced by her tooth. Then kit was expelled from the parlor All covered with shame. And those Inclined, like her, in secret to err, Should remember kit with the rose. THE STORM IN THE FOREST. The storm in the forest is rending and sweeping; While tree after tree bows its stately green head; The flowerets beneath them are bending and weeping; And leaves, torn and trembling, all round them are spread. The bird that had roamed, till she thinks her benighted, Dismayed, hastens back to her home in the wood; And flags not a wing, till her bosom, affrighted, Has laid its warm down o'er her own little brood. And they, since that fond one so quickly has found them, To shelter their heads from the rain and the blast, Shall fearless repose, while the bolts burst around them; And lie calm and safe, till the darkness is past. Hast thou, too, not felt, when the tempest was drearest, And rending thy covert, or shaking thy rest, Thine own blessed angel that moment the nearest-- Thy screen in his pinion--thy shield in his breast? When clouds frowned the darkest, and perils beset thee, Till each prop of earth seemed to bend, or to break, Did e'er thy good angel turn off, and forget thee? The mother her little ones, then, may forsake! Ah, no! thou shalt feel thy protector the surer-- The sun, in returning, more cheering and warm; And all things around thee, seem fresher and purer, And touched with new glory, because of the storm! THE UPROOTED ELM. Alas! alas! my good old tree, A fatal change is past on thee! And now thine aged form I see, All helpless, lying low: The rending tempest, in its flight 'Mid darkness of the wintry night, Hath struck thee, passing in its might, And felled thee at a blow. And never more the blooming spring Shall to thy boughs rich verdure bring, Or her gay birds, to flit and sing Where their first plumage grew; For thou, so long, so fondly made My eye's delight, my summer shade, Here, as a lifeless king, art laid In state, for all to view.