humane for the future, I sentence you to give half your fortune to this man, whom you endeavored to ruin." Upon this the basket-maker, after thanking the magistrate for his goodness in thus tendering him a fortune, replied:

66

and accus

Having been bred up in poverty, tomed to labor, I have no desire to acquire riches which I should not know how to use; all, therefore, that I require of this man, is to put me in to the same situation I was in before, and to learn more humanity." The rich man could not help feeling astonished at this generosity; and having acquired wisdom by his misfortunes, not only treated the basket-maker as a friend during the rest of his life, but employed his riches in relieving the poor, and benefiting his fellow-creatures.

THE SQUIRREL.

"THE squirrel is happy, the squirrel is gay," Little Henry exclaim'd to his brother; "He has nothing to do or to think of but play, And to jump from one bough to another."

But William was older and wiser, and knew

That all play and no work wouldn't answer, So he ask'd what the squirrel in winter must do, If he spent all the summer a dancer.

The squirrel, dear Harry, is merry and wise, For true wisdom and mirth go together; He lays up in summer his winter supplies, And then he don't mind the cold weather.

SONG OF THE BEES.

WILT thou hear a song to charm thee?
List, the bees with busy wing,

Evermore they buzz and sing:

"We must labor while 'tis spring;"
That's the song the bees are singing,
All so gay to labor springing,
Ever cheerful, ever singing.

Come and see the busy dwelling,
Airy chambers neat and fine:

How the waxen arches shine!

What sweet stores the white walls line,

There not one his time is wasting,

Young and old to labor hasting,
Ever cheerful, ever singing.

List thou to the lovely music,
List the bees the while they sing,
Evermore with busy wing,

"We must labor while 'tis spring;"
That's the song the bees are singing:
Up! like them to labor springing,
Ever cheerful, ever singing.

THE MUSICAL BOX.

SHE stood by the casement, a beautiful child, Where summer wind's whispers were bland, And her bright coral lips with joyfulness smil'd At the musical box in her hand.

She raised it in wonder, and soft on her ear
In fairy-like music it rose,

Then sank into numbers as gentle, and clear,
As a lullaby song of repose.

She listen'd, and thought that some sweet little bird Had left its green home on the bough,

And the tones which were once in the deep forest heard,

Were the tones which were greeting her now.

And again, as it swell'd on the soft balmy air,
Its echoes play'd out 'mong the trees,

She thought that some spirit was whispering there
With the sweet music-breath of the breeze.

She had heard o'er the waters (when stilly and

mute

The twilight of evening drew nigh)

The echoing sound of the silver-toned flute,
Float far on the summer wind by.

She had heard gentle songs that her sisters had

sung,

Sweet strains she had loved to recall,

But the sounds which so clear through the music

box rung,

Were far sweeter and softer than all.

And Ellen still thinks, that in comfort and rest, Secure from the world and its shocks,

Some sweet singing wood-bird has built its snug

nest

In her own little musical box.

MISS C. H. WATERMAN.

A SWINGING SONG.

MERRY it is on a summer's day,

All through the meadows to wend away;
To watch the brooks glide fast or slow,
And the little fish twinkle down below;
To hear the lark in the blue sky sing,
Oh, sure enough, 'tis a merry thing—
But 'tis merrier far to swing-to swing!

Merry it is on a winter's night

To listen to tales of elf and sprite,
Of caves and castles so dim and old,—

The dismallest tales that ever were told;

And then to laugh, and then to sing,
You may take my word is a merry thing,-
But 'tis merrier far to swing-to swing!

Down with the hoop upon the green;
Down with the ringing tambourine ;—
Little heed we for this or for that;
Off with the bonnet, off with the hat!
Away we go like birds on the wing!

Higher yet! higher yet! "Now for the King!"
This is the way we swing-we swing!

Scarcely the bough bends, Claude is so light,-
Mount up behind him-there, that is right!
Down bends the branch now!-swing him away;
Higher yet-higher yet-higher, I say!
Oh, what a joy it is! Now let us sing

"A pear for the Queen-an apple for the King!" And shake the old tree as we swing-we swing!

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,