"So in the churchyard she was laid;
And when the grass was dry
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."

"How many are you then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"
Quick was the little maid's reply,
"O Master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

Wordsworth.

THE CHOSEN TREE.

A BIRD built her nest in a fair green tree
In the midst of a beautiful wood,

She lined it with feathers, and made it so soft,
As only a mother could.

Primroses grew in the long green grass,

At the foot of the chosen tree,

And the scent of sweet violets filled the air,

Like odours from Araby.

There the daisy, that modest simple flower,

With its eye of golden hue,

And cowslips sweet, and the wind-flower light, And the graceful harebell grew.

The dragon-fly came, and the painted moth,
And the musical winged bee,

The grasshopper too, with his chirping voice,
To sport 'neath the chosen tree.

Not long ere three tiny heads were seen
Peeping out from their downy nest;
And, oh! what a happy mother was she
That warmed them beneath her breast!

She loved them as only a mother loves,
She sang them her songs of glee;

There were no little birds so happy as they,
In their nest in the chosen tree.

But one of that little family

Grew tired of his mother's care;
He sat all day in a sullen mood,
And nought to him seemed fair.

For the heart of that little bird was changed,
He thought he should like to roam,
Away o'er the fields, and the high green hills,
In search of a brighter home.

Ah, me! there is not a brighter home
Than that which is lighted by love;
There is no other light so divinely sweet,
Nor the moon nor the stars above.

But he fled away and sported awhile

'Mid flowers of each perfume and hue; But when night came on he was weary and cold, And it rained, and the stormy wind blew.

Ah! then how he thought of his mother's wing,
Which had covered him tenderly,

And his little brothers, so happy and good,
In their home in the chosen tree.

Then he lifted his voice, but none to hear
The sound of his sorrow was nigh.

So he cover'd his head with his half-fledged wing,
And lay down on a stone to die.

Ah! never more in that beautiful wood
Was the song of his gladness heard,
And for many a day did his brothers weep
For the loss of that truant bird.

And for many a day no song of joy
Came up from his mother's breast;
She mourned for him with drooping wing,
But he came not again to his nest.

And thus, little children, from this you may learn

How one little child may be

The cause of sorrow which nought may remove

In a loving family.

You each have a home in a chosen tree,

Your parents have lit it with love;

Then cause not the shadow of grief to ascend,
That beautiful light to remove.

But seek for that wisdom that comes from on high, That truth which shall never decay;

That heaven-born peace which the world cannot give, Nor the world and its pride take away.

And your heavenly Father who dwelleth above
Will guard you wherever you be ;

He will send down the light of celestial love
To your home in the chosen tree.