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And eagerly did cry,

       "I've got a lovely pair of wings,

       Of course I ought to fly."

      In vain parental cacklings,

       In vain the cold sky's frown,

       Ambitious goosey tried to soar,

       But always tumbled down.

      The farm-yard jeered at her attempts,

       The peacocks screamed, "Oh fie!

       You're only a domestic goose,

       So don't pretend to fly."

      Great cock-a-doodle from his perch

       Crowed daily loud and clear,

       "Stay in the puddle, foolish bird,

       That is your proper sphere."

      The ducks and hens said, one and all,

       In gossip by the pool,

       "Our children never play such pranks;

       My dear, that fowl's a fool."

      The owls came out and flew about,

       Hooting above the rest,

       "No useful egg was ever hatched

       From transcendental nest."

      Good little goslings at their play

       And well-conducted chicks

       Were taught to think poor goosey's flights

       Were naughty, ill-bred tricks.

      They were content to swim and scratch, And not at all inclined For any wild-goose chase in search Of something undefined.

      Hard times she had as one may guess,

       That young aspiring bird,

       Who still from every fall arose

       Saddened but undeterred.

      She knew she was no nightingale,

       Yet spite of much abuse,

       She longed to help and cheer the world,

       Although a plain gray goose.

      She could not sing, she could not fly,

       Nor even walk with grace,

       And all the farm-yard had declared

       A puddle was her place.

      But something stronger than herself

       Would cry, "Go on, go on!

       Remember, though an humble fowl,

       You're cousin to a swan."

      So up and down poor goosey went,

       A busy, hopeful bird.

       Searched many wide unfruitful fields,

       And many waters stirred.

      At length she came unto a stream

       Most fertile of all Niles, Where tuneful birds might soar and sing Among the leafy isles.

      Here did she build a little nest

       Beside the waters still,

       Where the parental goose could rest

       Unvexed by any bill.

      And here she paused to smooth her plumes,

       Ruffled by many plagues;

       When suddenly arose the cry,

       "This goose lays golden eggs."

      At once the farm-yard was agog;

       The ducks began to quack;

       Prim Guinea fowls relenting called,

       "Come back, come back, come back."

      Great chanticleer was pleased to give

       A patronizing crow,

       And the contemptuous biddies clucked,

       "I wish my chicks did so."

      The peacocks spread their shining tails,

       And cried in accents soft,

       "We want to know you, gifted one,

       Come up and sit aloft."

      Wise owls awoke and gravely said,

       With proudly swelling breasts,

       "Rare birds have always been evoked

       From transcendental nests!"

      News-hunting turkeys from afar

       Now ran with all thin legs

       To gobble facts and fictions of

       The goose with golden eggs.

      But best of all the little fowls

       Still playing on the shore,

       Soft downy chicks and goslings gay,

       Chirped out, "Dear Goose, lay more."

      But goosey all these weary years

       Had toiled like any ant,

       And wearied out she now replied,

       "My little dears, I can't.

      "When I was starving, half this corn

       Had been of vital use,

       Now I am surfeited with food

       Like any Strasbourg goose."

      So to escape too many friends,

       Without uncivil strife,

       She ran to the Atlantic pond

       And paddled for her life.

      Soon up among the grand old Alps

       She found two blessed things,

       The health she had so nearly lost,

       And rest for weary limbs.

      But still across the briny deep

       Couched in most friendly words,

       Came prayers for letters, tales, or verse,

       From literary birds.

      Whereat the renovated fowl

       With grateful thanks profuse,

       Took from her wing a quill and wrote

       This lay of a Golden Goose.

       Bex, Switzerland, August, 1870.

      THE year 1869 was less fruitful in work than the preceding one. Miss Alcott spent the winter in Boston and the summer in Concord. She was ill and very tired, and felt little inclined for mental effort. "Hospital Sketches," which had been first published by Redpath, was now republished by Roberts Brothers, with the addition of six shorter "Camp and Fireside Stories." The interest of the public in either the author or the work had not lessened; for two thousand copies of the book in its new form were sold the first week. In her weary condition she finds her celebrity rather a burden than a pleasure, and says in her journal: –

      People begin to come and stare at the Alcotts. Reporters haunt the place to look at the authoress, who dodges into the woods à la Hawthorne, and won't be even a very small lion.

      Refreshed my soul with Goethe, ever strong and fine and alive. Gave S. E. S. $200 to invest. What richness to have a little not needed!

      Miss Alcott had some pleasant refreshment in travelling during the summer.

      July. – ... Spent in Canada with my cousins, the Frothinghams, at their house at Rivière du Loup, – a little village on the St. Lawrence, full of queer people. Drove, read, and walked with the little ones. A pleasant, quiet time.

      August. – ... A month with May at Mt. Desert. A gay time, and a little rest and pleasure before the old pain and worry began again.

      Made up $1,000 for S. E. S. to invest. Now I have $1,200 for a rainy

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