And listen, Essie, while I tell
A story for your ear.

I knew a little girl like you,
Her name was Alice Brown;
With flaxen hair, and light blue eyes,
The prettiest child in town!

But oh, she did not love her book;
She did not love to sew;

But used to play, the livelong day,
you would like to do.

As

Her teacher used to coax and shame;
Her mother used to chide;

But Alice, though she loved her play,
Loved nothing else beside.

And so she grew in ignorance;

Scarcely could read or spell;

If asked what ten and ten would make,
Alice could never tell!

But when just turned of twelve years old, Her doting mother died;

And her father he was grave and stern, And she had no friend beside.

Her dress was never neatly kept;
Her curls were all awry;

Though often told the better way,
Still she would never try.

All knew her for a Slattern;
As you may well suppose;
For her dress was out at elbows,
And her stockings out at toes!

But by and by there came a crash,

Her father, he fell poor,

And died; and lazy Alice begged her bread, Yes, begged from door to door!

At last within the alms-house

The wretched creature came; And died, a broken-hearted girl— Weary with sin and shame!

Now, Essie, which is best, think you,

Work, study and some play;

Or like this little girl, to be
Allowed to play all day?

Say, would you like to bear the name
Of the laziest child in town;

To be a dunce, and mayhap die,
Like wretched Alice Brown?

THE BIRD'S NEST.

TAKE back, take back those trembling things,

God made them to be free!

To sweep upon unfetter'd wings,

Far over land and sea.

To rove at will through forest trees,
To usher in the day,

To swell their music on the breeze,
In many a matin lay.

He gave to them the shady wood,
A covert and a home,

So that, amid its solitude,

The spoiler might not come.

Yet thou hast sought the friendly bough
Where they were wont to rest,
And from its leafy shelter now
Hast ta'en away the nest.

Can those poor birds, that sadly lie
In sorrow on thy knee,

With many a plaintive wailing cry,
Give any joy to thee?

Or that young, fluttering, feeble thing,
That takes its trembling stand,
And tries in vain to raise its wing,
Upon thy little hand?

Can it bring half the pleasant joy,
As when through woodland dells
It lured my bright-eyed happy boy
With music's fairy spells?

Is it as lovely to the eye,

That timid prison'd one,

As when it, half way to the sky,
Goes glancing in the sun?

No, no; they languish for the tree,
Their pleasant home of rest,—
God made them to be wild, and free,
Take back, my boy, the nest.

C. H. WATERMAN.

GOOD MORNING.

"OH! I am so happy !" a little girl said, As she sprang, like a lark, from her low trundle

bed;

""Tis morning, bright morning-good morning,

рара,

Oh! give me one kiss for good morning, mamma; Only just look at my pretty Canary,

Chirping so sweet, Good morning to Mary;'
The sun is peeping straight into my eyes—
Good morning to you, Mr. Sun, for you rise
Early, to wake my birdie and me,

And make us as happy as happy can be."

"Happy you may be, my dear little girl," Said the mother, adjusting a clustering curlHappy you can be, but think of the One

66

Who wakened, this morning, both you and the sun."

The little girl turned her bright eyes with a nod, "Ma, may I then say good morning to God?" "Yes, little darling one, surely you may Kneel, as you kneel every morning, to pray." Mary knelt solemnly down, with her eyes Looking up earnestly into the skies.

And her little hands, that were folded together, Softly she laid on the lap of her mother

"Good morning, dear Father in Heaven," she said,

"I thank thee for watching my snug little bed,
For taking care of me all the dark night,
And waking me up with the beautiful light.
Oh! keep me from naughtiness all the long day,
Dear Father, who taught little children to pray."
An angel looked down from heaven and smiled,
But she saw not the angel, that beautiful child.