IV.

Sometimes I meet them like a man,

Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound, And to a horse I turn me can,

To trip and trot about them round.
But if to ride

My back they stride,

More swift than wind away I go

O'er hedge and lands,

Thro' pools and ponds,

I whirring, laughing, ho! ho! ho!

V.

When lads and lasses merry be
With possets and with juncates fine,
Unseene of all the companie,

I eat their cakes and sip their wine.
And, to make sport,

I creak and snort,

And out the candles I do blow;
The maids I kiss,

They shriek, "Who's this?"

I answer nought but, ho! ho! ho!

VI.

And now and then, the maids to please,
At midnight I card up the wool;
And while they sleep and take their ease,

With wheel to threads their flax I pull
I grind at mill

Their malt up still;

Fiends, ghosts, and sprites,
Who haunte the nightes,

The hags and goblins do me know;
Their deeds are bad,

Their ways are sad,

But mine are merry, ho! ho! ho!

May all my young friends emulate Robin Goodfellow in being cheerful and active-not in doing mischief but in doing good.

Something about the Month of July.

"Beneath a shivering canopy reclined,
Of aspen leaves that wave without a wind,
I love to lie, when lulling breezes stir
The spiry cones that tremble on the fir;
Or wander 'mid the dark-green fields of broom
When peers in scattered tufts the yellow bloom;
Or trace the path with tangling furze o'errun,
When bursting seed-bells crackle in the sun,
And pittering grasshoppers, confusedly shrill,
Pipe giddily along the glowing hill."

OW it is, indeed, that the sun makes glorious summer. "And," as old Spencer, the poet sayeth, "hot July comes boiling like to fire"-he might have said water, but that would not have been so poetical. But still the month is hot. "The dog-star rages." It is hot in the day, it is hot in the night, and the earth is chapped with parching; the little brooks are dried up; the cattle seek the shade. But the oaks-the beautiful