LITTLE THINGS.

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And when he trotted off to school,

The children all about would cry, “There goes the curly-headed boy,

The boy who never tells a lie." And everybody loved him so,

Because he always told the truth, That every day, as he grew up,

'Twas said, “There goes the honest youth.” And when the people that stood near

Would turn to ask the reason why, The answer would be always this,—

6 Because he never tells a lie.”

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LITTLE THINGS.
LITTLE drops of water,

Little grains of sand,
Make the mighty ocean

And the pleasant land.
Thus the little minutes,

Humble though they be,
Make the mighty ages

Of eternity.
Thus our little errors

Lead the soul away
From the path of virtue,

Off in sin to stray.
Little deeds of kindness,

Little words of love,
Make our earth an Eden,

Like the heaven above.

THE ROSE.

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How fair is the rose! what a beautiful flower !

The glory of April and May !
But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour,

And they wither and die in a day.
Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast

Above all the flowers of the field ;
When its leaves are all dead and its fine colours lost,

Still, how sweet a perfume it will yield ! So frail is the youth and the beauty of men,

Though they hloom and look gay like the rose; But all our fond care to preserve them is vain

Time kills them as fast as he goes.
Then I'll not be proud of my youth nor my beauty,

Since both of them wither and fade;
But gain a good name by well doing my duty;
This will scent like a rose when I'm dead.

DR. Watts, 1674-1748.

THE SQUIRREL.
The squirrel hastens to and fro,

With acorn, nut, and corn,
His hall to fill-he's much to do,

For winter's coming on.
He does not stop for friends or foes,

Until his work is done;
He needs no telling, well he knows

Cold winter's coming on.

THE VIOLET.

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His storehouse, filled with all that's good,

His eye looks proudly on;
Then chatters forth throughout the wood,

“ Now let cold winter come.”

Come, children, like the squirrel, try

In life's bright sunny morn To seek a good, a wise supply Before old age comes on.

« WELL SPRING.”

THE VIOLET.

Down in a green and shady bed

A modest violet grew ;
Its stalk was bent, it hung its head,

As if to hide from view.

And yet it was a lovely flower,

Its colour bright and fair ;
It might have graced a rosy bower

Instead of hiding there.

Yet there it was content to bloom,

In modest tints arrayed ;
And there diffused a sweet perfume

Within the silent shade.

Then let me to the valley go

This pretty flower to see, That I may also learn to grow In sweet humility.

JANE TAYLOR, 1783-1824.

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LUCY GRAY. Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray ;

And when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see, at break of day,

The solitary child.
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;

She dwelt on a wide moor,
The sweetest thing that ever grew

Beside a cottage door.
You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare

upon

the

green ; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray

Will never more be seen.
“ To-night will be a stormy night-

You to the town must go;
And take a lantern, child, to light

Your mother through the snow.” “ That, father, will I gladly do;

'Tis scarcely afternoonThe minster clock has just struck two,

And yonder is the moon.”
At this the father raised his hook,

And snapped a fagot-band ;
He plied his work ;—and Lucy took

The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe :

With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,

That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time :

She wandered up and down;
And many a hill did Lucy climb,

But never reached the town.

LUCY GRAY.

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The wretched parents all that night

Went shouting far and wide ;
But there was neither sound nor sight

To serve them for a guide.
At daybreak on a hill they stood

That overlooked the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood

A furlong from their door.
They wept, and turning homeward, cried,

“ In heaven we all shall meet : When in the snow the mother spied

The print of Lucy's feet.
Half breathless from the steep hill's edge,

They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,

And by the long stone wall;
And then an open field they crossed :

The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost;

And to the bridge they came. They followed from the snowy bank

Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank;

And farther there were none !
Yet some maintain that to this day

She is a living child-
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray

Upon the lonesome wild.
O'er rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.

WORDSWORTH, 1770— 1850.

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