Mike was delighted. He had come to live on the farm only the week before, and in all his life had never been on the back of a horse or donkey. He had looked every day with longing eyes at Jack grazing quietly in the pasture, and had thought how happy he should be if he were ever allowed to have a ride on him. So off he started in great glee, saying to himself, "It will be easy enough to manage this little fellow." When about half a mile on the way, they came to a brook, and Mike thought he would let Jack have a drink. This was all very well; but, when Mike wanted to go on, Jack had changed his mind, and concluded not to go any further. Mike pulled and pulled on the bridle, trying to turn him back into the road; but the obstinate creature planted his feet firmly, and would not budge an inch. Just then a kind old Irishman came, on the little foot-bridge, over the brook, and Mike called to him to know what he should do. "Sure, you must have a stick, sonny," said the man. "Donkeys won't go without the stick." So he cut a stick from a tree near by, and gave it to Mike, who used it as hard as he could, but to no purpose. Then the old man took another, and, going behind the little beast, touched him up smartly with it, at the same time giving his tail a funny little twist. This was more than Jack could stand. He gave in and jogged on. But he would go very slowly, in spite of Mike's urging, and now and then he would amuse himself by kicking out his hind-legs, and trying to throw Mike off. Once, too, just as they were starting back from the grocer's he suddenly lay down flat, and threw Mike over his head, scattering basket and bundles. Poor Mike was half an hour late; but, when he told good Mrs. Smith all his troubles, she excused him. She laughed hard, too, when Mike said, like a true-born Irish boy, "Sure, marm, I never want to ride Jack again till I've learned how." IDA FAY. [Illustration] OFF FOR THE WINTER. "O SWALLOWS! what can be the matter? And what do you mean by your chatter? You sit on the barn-roof by dozens,-- Aunts, grandmothers, uncles, and cousins; You circle and wheel, then you twitter away: Oh, what are you saying? Do tell me, I pray." "My little one, cold winds are blowing; We swallows to South-land are going: We meet in the clear autumn weather, And plan our long journey together. When spring-time returns, with its green dancing leaves, We'll come back to our little nests under the eaves." "Sweet wild flowers, oh, where are you hiding? In what hidden nook are you biding? I've wandered the meadows all over,-- There's no breath of wild rose or clover; No violets peeping through grass-blades I see, No daisies or buttercups nodding to me."