WILLIE’S FLOWEES. 
’Twas in tlie month that follows May, 
That little Willy ran away, 
And his sweet name was echoed shrill. 
From every grove and plain and hill. 
I 
His mother took her darhng boys. 
Far from the city’s dnst and noise. 
That they in shady groves might play. 
And pick wild dowers and smell the hay. 
One morning when the snn was high. 
And not a cloud obscured the sky, 
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When every thing in nature smiled. 
She missed one httle roguish child. 
A, narrow bridge beneath the hill, 
A clear stream spanned, that turned a mill, 
And little Willy loved to look 
Into this running laughing brook. 
And now the mother, almost wild, 
Ean calling on her straying child. 
As flowers dropped from his little hand. 
His tiny foot-prints in the sand. 
Lead where the sun in dazzling beams. 
Upon the treacherous water gleams. 
But joy! she sees his sunny head. 
Beneath a branching oak’s dark shade. 
