[Illustration: Bachelor's Hall]




[Illustration: MAY-DAY.]

MAY-DAY.

It is the choice time of the year,
For the violets now appear;
Now the rose receives its birth,
And pretty primrose decks the earth.
Then to the May-pole come away,
For it is now a holiday.

ACTAEON AND DIANA.


As I was lying in bed this morning, enjoying one of those half-dreams,
half-reveries, which are so pleasant in the country, when the birds are
singing about the window, and the sunbeams peeping through the curtains,
I was roused by the sound of music. On going down-stairs, I found a
number of villagers dressed in their holiday clothes, bearing a pole
ornamented with garlands and ribands, and accompanied by the village
band of music, under the direction of the tailor, the pale fellow who
plays on the clarionet. They had all sprigs of hawthorn, or, as it is
called, "the May," in their hats, and had brought green branches and
flowers to decorate the Hall door and windows. They had come to give