OH, dear! oh, dear! the summer's past; The singing-birds have gone; The robin, from the maple-bough, Who waked me every morn; The bobolink that used to make The meadow-grass with music shake; The humming-bird that dipped his bill In lily-cup and rose,-- Not one would stay; I only hear The cawing of the crows. The fields look brown: oh, dear! oh, dear! The dismal autumn days are here. And all my pretty flowers are dead! My roses and sweet-peas; The hollyhocks, where, all the day, There was a crowd of bees; The lovely morning-glory vine, That round my window used to twine; The larkspur, with its horns of blue; The sunflower proud and tall,-- That thief the Frost, so sly and still, Has come and stolen all! Chill blows the wind; oh, dear! oh, dear! The dreary autumn days are here. [Illustration] The hives are full of honeycomb; The barns are full of hay; The bins are heaped with ripened grain, That empty were in May; The red and yellow apples now Bend many a heavy orchard bough; Dark purple, 'mid their withered leaves, The frost-grapes smell of musk; The pumpkins lie in yellow heaps; And, in its silver husk, The corn now shows a golden ear; Come! why be sorry autumn's here? The sharp frost cracks the prickly burrs; The keen wind scatters down Upon the grass, for eager hands, The chestnuts ripe and brown; The orange woods, the flame-red bowers, Are brighter than the gayest flowers; 'Tis constant changes make the year: Then why be sorry autumn's here? MARIAN DOUGLAS. [Illustration] [Illustration] FANCHETTE. WHILE spending a winter in a quiet old town in Southern France, I used to meet in my walks, a girl about ten years of age, trudging along, bare-footed, carrying on her arm a large basket. The first time we met she looked up at me with such a pleasant smile, that I bowed and smiled in return. After a few days we became still better acquainted, and she would say, "_Bon jour, madame!_" in answer to my greeting. One day, besides the basket, she carried a large fagot, and her apron full of wild flowers and drooping vines. Then I thought I would like to know more about her. So I said, "You look tired, my little girl: will you not sit down under this old tree with me, and tell me where you live, and where you go every day with that big basket?" She seemed quite pleased to do so, and then told me that her father was a wood-cutter, and that every day she had to walk three miles to the forest to carry him his dinner, and sometimes to help bind fagots. "My name," she said, "is Fanchette, and I have a sister Marie, and a sister Claire, and a baby-brother named Pierre. My sister Marie is ill, and cannot leave her bed, and I have gathered these flowers to take to her."