"What is that, mother?"
"The swan, my love--
He is floating down from his native grove,

[Illustration]

No loved one now, no nestling nigh;
He is floating down by himself to die;
Death darkens his eyes, and unplumes his wings,
Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings.
Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like, and sweet, it may waft thce home."

[Illustration]






CHILDREN PROMISING THEIR GRANDFATHER THEY WILL BE GOOD.

[Illustration: T]

Though I am now in younger days,
Nor can tell what shall befall me,
I'll prepare for every place
Where my growing age shall call me.