the possession, if not of high or wide culture, yet of a genius that was real and living. Less than most poetry by young writers did it present the echoes of the greater poets of our time. It had neither the excellences nor the defects of imitative verse. What struck one was its naturalness, its spontaneity, its being the utterance of one who sang " as the birds do," because the song was in her. I quote two samples as showing what led me to wish to know more of the writer : —
"THE SONG OF THE CITY SPARROWS.
"When the summer-time is ended,
And the winter days are near ;
When the bloom hath all departed
With the childhood of the year ;
"When the martins and the swallows
Flutter, cowardly, away ;
Then the people can remember
That the sparrows always stay ;
"That, although we're plain and songless,
And poor city birds are we,
Yet, before the days of darkness
We, the sparrows, never flee ;
" But we hover round the window,
And we peck against the pane,
While we twitteringly tell them
That the spring will come again.
