"A miracle! a miracle!

This matron, well I know,

Was but a wild and careless child

Not half an hour ago.

“And when she to her children speaks

Of duty's golden rule,

Her lips repeat, in accents sweet,
My words to her at school."

The scene was changed again, and lo,
The school-house rude and old,
Upon the wall did darkness fall,

The evening air was cold.

"A dream!" the sleeper, waking, said, Then paced along the floor,

And, whistling slow and soft and low,
He locked the school-house door.

And, walking home, his heart was full
Of peace and trust and love and praise;
And singing slow and soft and low,

He murmured, "After many days.”

Celia Tharter.

1836.

THE SANDPIPER.

Across the narrow beach we flit,
One little sandpiper and I ;
And fast I gather, bit by bit,

The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry.
The wild waves reach their hands for it,
The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,
and down the beach we flit,-
One little sandpiper and I.

As

up

Above our heads the sullen clouds

Scud black and swift across the sky; Like silent ghosts, in misty shrouds Stand out the white light-houses high. Almost as far as eye can reach,

I see the close-reefed vessels fly, As fast we flit along the beach,One little sandpiper and I.

I watch him as he skims along

Uttering his sweet and mournful cry;
He starts not at my fitful song,
Or flash of fluttering drapery ;
He has no thought of any wrong;

He scans me with a fearless eye.

Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong, This little sandpiper and I.

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night
When the loosed storm breaks furiously?
My driftwood fire will burn so bright!
To what warm shelter canst thou fly?
I do not fear for thee, though wroth

The tempest rushes through the sky ;
For are we not God's children both,
Thou, little sandpiper, and I?

A SONG OF EASTER.

Sing, children, sing!

And the lily censers swing ;

Sing that life and joy are waking and that Death no more is king.

Sing the happy, happy tumult of the slowly brightening Spring ;

Sing, little children, sing!

Sing, children, sing!

Winter wild has taken wing.

Fill the air with the sweet tidings till the frosty echoes ring!

Along the eaves the icicles no longer glittering

cling;

And the crocus in the garden lifts its bright face

to the sun,

And in the meadows softly the brooks begin to

run;

And the golden catkins swing

In the warm airs of the Spring;

Sing, little children, sing!

Sing, children, sing!

The lilies white you bring

In the joyous Easter morning for hope are blossoming;

And as the earth her shroud of snow from off her

breast doth fling,

So may we cast our fetters off in God's eternal

spring.

So may we find release at last from sorrow and from pain,

So may we find our childhood's calm, delicious dawn again.

Sweet are your eyes, O little ones, that look with smiling grace,

Without a shade of doubt or fear into the future's face!

Sing, sing in happy chorus, with joyful voices tell

That death is life, and God is good, and all things shall be well;

That bitter days shall cease

In warmth and light and peace,—

That Winter yields to Spring,

Sing, little children, sing!

William Dean howells.

1837.

THANKSGIVING.

Lord, for the erring thought
Not into evil wrought:

Lord, for the wicked will
Betrayed and baffled still:
For the heart from itself kept,
Our thanksgiving accept.

For ignorant hopes that were
Broken to our blind prayer:
For pain, death, sorrow sent
Unto our chastisement:
For all loss of seeming good,
Quicken our gratitude.

Mary Mapes Dodge.

MY WINDOW-IVY.

Over my window the ivy climbs,
Its roots are in homely jars ;

But all the day it looks at the sun,

And at night looks out at the stars.

The dust of the room may dim its green, But I call to the breezy air:

"Come in, come in, good friend of mine! And make my window fair.”