THE LAMBING.

With a tiny dimpling hand to the yielding bosom pressed— As I rose from her side to go—though sore was my heart to stay—

To the ease of the labouring ewes that else would have died ere day.

Banking the peats on the hearth, I reached from the rafter- hook The lanthorn and kindled the flame, and taking my plaid and crook,

I lifted the latch, and turned once more to see if she slept; And looked on the slumber of peace, then into the night I stepped—

Into the swirling dark of the driving, blinding sleet, And a world that seemed to away and slip from under my feet, As if rocked by the wind that swept the roaring, starless night, Yet fumed in a fury vain at my lanthorn's shielded light.

Clean-drenched in the first wild gust, I battled across the garth,

And passed through the clashing gate—the light of the glowing hearth

And the peace of love in my breast the craven voices to quell— As I set my teeth to the wind, and turned to the open fell.

Over the tussocks of bent I strove till I reached the fold,

My brow like ice, and my hands so numbed that they scares could hold

Sorely I laboured, and watched each young lamb struggle for breath, Fighting till dawn for my flock with the ancient shepherd— Death; And glad was my heart when at last the stackyard again I crossed, And thought of the strife well o'er with never a yeanling lost.

But ere I came to the door of my home, drawing wearily nigh, I heard with a boding heart a feeble, querulous cry, Like a motherless yeanling's bleat; and I stood in the dawn's grey light, Afraid of I knew not what, sore spent with the toil of the night.

Then, setting a quaking hand to the latch, I opened the door ; And, shaking the cold from my heart, I stumbled across the floor Unto the bed where she lay, calm-bosomed, in dreamless rest; And the wailing baby clutched in vain at the lifeless breast,.

I looked on the cold, white face; then sank with a cry by the bed,

And thought bow the hand of Death had stricken my whole joy dead—

My flock, my world, and my heart—with my love, at a single blow ; And I cried : "I, too, will die !" and it seemed that life ebbed low, And that Death drew very near; when I felt the touch on my cheek Of a little warm band outthrust, and I heard that wailing weak, And, knowing that not for me yet was rest from love and strife, I caught the babe to my breast, and looked in the eyes of life.

WILFRID WILSON GIBSON.