Unnoticed he contrived to glide
Adown a greenwood alley,
By lilies lured-that grew beside
A streamlet in the valley.

And there, where under beech and birch
The rivulet meandered,

He strayed, till neither shout nor search
Could track where he had wandered.

Still louder, with increasing dread,
They called his darling name;
But 't was like speaking to the dead-
An echo only came.

Hours passed till evening's beetle roams,
And blackbird's songs begin;
Then all went back to happy homes,
Save Wilhelm's kith and kin.

The night came on-all others slept

Their cares away

till morn;

But sleepless all night watched and wept
That family forlorn.

Betimes the town-crier had been sent

With loud bell up and down; And told th' afflicting accident

Throughout Wiesbaden's town.

The news reached Nassau's Duke-ere earth

Was gladdened by the lark,

He sent a hundred soldiers forth

To ransack all his park.

But though they roused up beast and bird

From many a nest and den,

No signal of success was heard

From all the hundred men.

A second morning's light expands-
Unfound the infant fair;

And Wilhelm's household wring their hands,
Abandoned to despair.

But, haply, a poor artisan

Searched ceaselessly, till he
Found safe asleep the little one,
Beneath a beechen tree.

His hand still grasped a bunch of flowers;
And-true, though wondrous-near,
To sentry his reposing hours,

There stood a female deer

Who dipped her horns at all that passed
The spot where Wilhelm lay,
Till force was had to hold her fast,
And bear the boy away.

Hail! sacred love of childhood-hail!
How sweet it is to trace
Thine instinct in Creation's scale,
E'en 'neath the human race!

To this poor wanderer of the wild,
Speech, reason were unknown-
And yet she watched a sleeping child,
As if it were her own!

ex-cept'-ed, left out

stroll, to wander about
loung'-er, one who lounges

con-sis'-tent, acting up to cha-hur-ri'-ed-ly, with haste

ca-ress'-ing, fondling

ho-ri'-zon, where the sky and earth

But as little Dombey was no stronger at the expiration of weeks of this life than he had been on his first arrival, a little carriage was got for him, in which he could lie at his ease, with an alphabet and other elementary works of reference, and be wheeled down to the sea-side. Consistent in his odd tastes, the child set aside a ruddy-faced lad who was proposed as the drawer of his carriage, and selected instead, the lad's grandfather, a weazen, old, crabfaced man, in a suit of battered oilskin, who had got tough and stringy from long pickling in salt water, and who smelt like a weedy sea-beach when the tide is out.

With this notable attendant to pull him along, and Florence always walking by his side, he went down to the margin of the ocean every day; and

there he would sit or lie in his carriage for hours together: never so distressed as by the company of children-his sister Florence alone excepted, always.

Go away, if you please,' he would say, to any child who came to bear him company; thank you, but I don't want you.'

Some small voice, near his ear, would ask him how he was, perhaps.

'I am very well, I thank you. better go and play, if you please.'

But you had

Then he would turn his head.. and watch the child away, and say to Florence, We don't want any others, do we? Kiss me, Floy.'

He had even a dislike, at such times, to the company of his nurse, and was well pleased when she strolled away, as she generally did, to pick up shells and acquaintances. His favourite spot was quite a lonely one, far away from most loungers; and with Florence sitting by his side at work, or reading to him, or talking to him, and the wind blowing on his face, and the water coming up among the wheels of his bed, he wanted nothing more.

6

6

Floy,' he said one day, where's India, where that boy Bitherstone's friends live?'

'Oh, it's a long, long distance off.'

• Weeks off?'

Yes, dear. Many weeks' journey, night and day.' If you were in India, Floy, I should-What is that mamma did? I forget.'

'Love me?'

'No, no. Don't I love you now, Floy? What is it? Died. If you were in India, I should die, Floy.'

She hurriedly put her work aside, and laid her head down on his pillow, caressing him. And so would she, she said, if he were there. He would be better soon.

'Oh! I am a great deal better now! I don't mean that, I mean that I should die of being so sorry, and so lonely, Floy!'

Another time, in the same place, he fell asleep, and slept quietly for a long time. Awaking suddenly, he listened, started up, and sat listening. Florence asked him what he thought he heard. 'I want to know what it says. The sea, Floy, what is it that it keeps on saying?'

She told him, that it was only the noise of the rolling waves.

"Yes, yes. But I know that they are always saying something. Always the same thing. What place is over there?' He rose up, looking eagerly at the horizon.

She told him there was another country opposite, but he said he didn't mean that; he meant farther away, farther away!

Very often afterwards, in the midst of their talk, he would break off, to try to understand what it was the waves were always saying; and would rise up in his couch to look at that invisible region, far away. CHARLES DICKENS, Little Dombey.'

COMPOUND ADDITION-LONG MEASURE.