THE MOTH.

AH! how you hold that little thing!
I fear you'll break its pretty wing!
How can you like to give it pain ?
Pray do now let it go again.

Ah, cruel boy! see what you've done!
No more 'twill flutter in the sun,
Or fly about by candle-light,

For now 'tis killed; oh, painful sight!

Its horns are curl'd close to its head,
Its wing is off, and it is dead.
If with a fly a boy begins

To steel the heart by sticking pins,

To run its little body through,
Or pull its legs, or wings off too,
He'll do as much, when grown a man,
To fellow-creatures, if he can.

THE BEGGAR-BOY.

A POOR boy went by with his raiment all torn;
He look'd, too, so dirty, and very forlorn;

His coat was in tatters, no shoes on his feet,
And they shiver'd with cold on the stones of the street.

Poor boy! no kind father nor mother has he,
Nor has he a nice house at home as have we:

He begs all the day for a morsel of bread,

And perhaps sleeps at night in a comfortless shed.

He has no kind friends who may teach him and guide,
And he hears what is sinful, and sees it beside:
Oh, how good and how thankful I then ought to be
To the God who has given these good things to me!

THE WORK-BAG.

To Jane her aunt a work-bag gave,
Of silk, with flowers so gay,
That she a place might always have
To put her work away.

And then 'twas furnished quite complete,

With cotton, silk, and thread, And needles in a case so neat,

Of all the sizes made.

A little silver thimble, too,
Was there among the rest;
And a large waxen doll, quite new,
That waited to be dress'd.

But Jane was very fond of play,
And loved to toss her ball;
And I am quite ashamed to say,
She scarcely worked at all.

But if at any time she did,

'Twas but a stitch or two; And though she often had been bid, But little more would do.

The pretty little bag, indeed,
Was hung upon her chair;

But cotton, needles, silk, and thread,
Were scattered here and there.

Her aunt, by chance, came in that day,
And asked if doll was dress'd;
Miss Jane had been engaged in play,
And careless of the rest.

The silk, to make her little dress,

Was on the table laid,
And, with an equal carelessness,
The cap had also strayed.

With gauze and lace the floor was strewed,

All in disorder lay,

When, bounding in with gesture rude,
Came Jane, returned from play.

She little thought her aunt to find,
And blushed to see her there;
It brought her carelessness to mind,
And what her doll should wear.

"Well, Jane, and where's your doll, my dear? I hope you've dress'd her now;

But there is such a litter here,

You best know when and how."

So spoke her aunt, and, looking round,
The empty bag she spied;

Poor Jane, who no excuse had found,
Now hid her face and cried.

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"Since," said her aunt, no work you do,

But waste your time in play; The work-bag, of no use to you, I now shall take away."

But now, with self-conviction, Jane
Her idleness confessed,

And ere her aunt could come again,

Her doll was neatly dress'd.

THE CHILD AND THE BIRD.

Child: LITTLE bird, little bird, come to me!
I have a green cage ready for thee;
Many bright flowers I'll bring to you,
And fresh, ripe cherries, all wet with dew.

Bird: Thanks, little maiden, for all thy care,
But I dearly love the clear, cool air;

And my snug little nest in the old oak-tree
Is better than golden cage for me.

Child: Little bird, little bird, where wilt thou go
When the fields are all buried in snow?

The ice will cover the old oak-tree:
Little bird, little bird, stay with me!

Bird: Nay, little maiden, away I'll fly

To greener fields and a warmer sky;
When Spring returns with pattering rain,
My merry song you will hear again.

Child: Little bird! little bird! who'll guide thee
Over the hills, and over the sea?

Foolish one, come in the house to stay;
For I am sure you'll lose your way.

Bird: Ah, no, little maiden! God guides me
Over the hills and over the sea;

I will be free as the morning air,
Chasing the sunlight everywhere!

GOOD TEMPER.

THERE's not a cheaper thing on earth,
Nor yet one half so dear;

'Tis worth more than distinguished birth,
Or thousands gained a-year.

It lends the day a new delight-
'Tis virtue's firmest shield;

And adds more beauty to the night
Than all the stars may yield.

It maketh poverty content;
To sorrow whispers peace;
It is a gift from heaven sent
For mortals to increase.

It meets you with a smile at morn—

It lulls you to repose;

A flower for peer and peasant born—
An everlasting rose.

A charm to banish grief away—

To snatch from brow the care;
Turns tears to smiles, makes dulness gay,
Spreads gladness everywhere.
And yet 'tis cheap as summer dew,

That gems the lily's breast;

A talisman for love, as true

As ever man possessed.

As smiles the rainbow through the cloud,
When threatening storm begins;

As music 'mid the tempest loud,

That still its sweet way wins;

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