"Oh!" says the little fly, "What shall I do?

My wings and my body

Are wet through and through."

Away ran the little brook,
Faster than ever,

And tumbled the fly and drop

Into the river.

"Oh!" says the little fly, "What shall I do?

Where am I going?

I wish that I knew!"

The river rolled on

With a mighty commotion, And emptied the little drop Into the ocean.

"Oh!" says the little fly
"What shall I do?

The world is all turned
Into water, 'tis true."

There came a great fish,

With a fierce-looking eye,

And he snapped at the drop
For the sake of the fly.

"Oh!" says the little fly,

"What shall we do?

If the fish swallows you
He will swallow me too."

But a sunbeam, that saw

What the matter was there,
Drank the drop,

And the fly was as free as the air.

"Now," says the little fly,
"See what I'll do!"

So he shook his little wings,
And away he flew.

THE ORPHANS OF THE PRAIRIE.

In view of a hunter who chanced to pass
Far over the prairie wild,

All helpless there lay in the tall, sighing grass,
A poor little Indian child.

His father and mother, the day before,

In their wilderness home had died;

And, weeping, his brother and he had roamed o'er The edge of that prairie wide.

They sickened and faltered;-and one lay there
O'erhung by the angel of death!
There was not enough in a desert of air

To lend him a moment of breath!

The other, his languishing frame had drawn
To the brink of a stream, to dip

A shell, where it filled, as the waves rolled on,
To moisten the dying one's lip.

It could not recover the vital spark,
On the soft, green, flowery sod,

His ear it was shut, and his eye cold and dark-
The orphan was gathered to God!

The sad little mourner, all homeless and lone
In pitying mercy and love,

The hunter then fostered, and reared as his own :-
He made the young eagle a dove!

MISS H. F. GOULD.

THE ROSE AND THE BUTTERFLY.

THERE lay upon a rose's bed

At morning's early light,

A little, crawling, shapeless thing
Unseemly to the sight.

The buds closed up the crimson leaves
Within their folds of green,

And trembled, as that worm appear'd
Their slender boughs between.

A half-blown rose in beauty's pride
Address'd that humble worm,
Not knowing that a casket foul
May hold a precious germ.

"What dost thou here, unsightly thing?"

The haughty floweret said,

"Why seek among our glittering leaves A pillow for thy head?

"Why make my young companions veil Their beauties with affright,

And bow their forms at thy approach,
As at the shades of night?

"Why linger 'mid the flow'rets fair

That all delight to see, Making the eye that looks on us

Turn shudd'ringly from thee?

"Go down to earth, thou loathsome one, With thy polluting breath;

Ask for a grave within its breast,

A boon-the boon of death."

"Vain blossom of a sunny hour,"

The humble worm replied,

"Who scorn'st the good of poorer mien, With taunting words of pride;

"Know-that His love who painted thee In that soft blushing dye, Extends his wide, protecting care,

To one so low as I.

"His wisdom placed me here, to see
In this despised guise,
The vanity of outward grace,

That leans not on the skies.

"A little while, and I shall be
As lovely to the sight
As thy young buds, and float afar
On wings of rainbow light.

"But never in my days of pride
Will I, with scornful eye,
Gaze on a thing, however poor,
Fashion'd by Him on high."

He ceased-the noxious worm no more
Around the green bough clings,

But, lo! a sportive butterfly,

He spreads his painted wings.