The Boy's Appeal.

O say, dear sister, are you coming         Forth to the fields with me?     The very air is gaily ringing         With hum of bird and bee,     And crowds of swallows now are chirping         Up in our ancient thorn,     And earth and air are both rejoicing,         On this gay summer morn.     Shall we hie unto the streamlet's side         To seek our little boat,     And, plying our oars with right good will,         Over its bright waves float?     Or shall we loll on the grassy bank         For hours dreamy, still,     To draw from its depths some silv'ry prize,         Reward of angler's skill?     I do not talk of the tempting game         The forest covers hide,     So dear to the sportsman - plovers shy,         Pheasants with eye of pride,     For I know your timid nature shrinks         From flash of fire-arm bright,     And the birds themselves hear not the din         With more intense affright.     But we may tread the cool wood's paths,         And wander there for hours,     Discovering hidden fairy dells,         Be-gemmed with lovely flowers;     And while you weave them in varied wreaths;         In oaks of giant size     I'll seek for nests of cunning shape -         I, too, must win some prize.     Then, sister, listen! squander not         These hours of precious time     With stupid book or useless work -         It is indeed a crime;     But haste with me to the wood-lands green,         Where forest warblers sing     And bees are humming - like them, too,         We must be on the wing.