"I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "For what you're pleased to say, And bidding you good-morning, now, I'll call another day."

The spider turned him round about,
And went into his den,
For well he knew the silly fly

Would soon be back again;

So he wove a subtle thread
In a little corner sly,
And set his table ready
To dine upon the fly.

He went out to his door again,
And merrily did sing,

"Come hither, hither, pretty fly,

With the pearl and silver wing;

Your robes are green and purple, There's a crest upon your head; Your eyes are like the diamond bright, But mine are dull as lead."

Alas, alas how very soon

This silly little fly,

Hearing his wily, flattering words,

Came slowly flitting by :

With buzzing wings she hung aloft,

Then near and nearer drew

Thought only of her brilliant eyes,

And green and purple hue; Thought only of her crested head, Poor foolish thing! At last Up jumped the cunning spider, And fiercely held her fast.

He dragged her up his winding stair,

Into his dismal den

Within his little parlor - but
She ne'er came out again!
And now, dear little children
Who may this story read,
To idle, silly, flattering words,
I pray you, ne'er give heed :

Unto an evil counsellor

Close heart and ear and eye,
And learn a lesson from this tale

Of the spider and the fly.

Mary Howitt.

THE MOUNTAIN AND THE SQUIRREL.

THE mountain and the squirrel

Had a quarrel,

And the former called the latter "Little prig;"
Bun replied,

"You are doubtless very big,

But all sorts of things and weather

Must be taken in together

To make up a year,
And a sphere:

And I think it no disgrace

To occupy my place.

If I'm not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry;
I'll not deny you make

A very pretty squirrel track.

Talents differ; all is well and wisely put ;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,

Neither can you crack a nut."

- R. W. Emerson.

LITTLE BROWN HANDS.

THEY drive home the cows from the pasture,
Up through the long shady lane,

Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-fields,
That are yellow with ripening grain.

They find, in the thick waving grasses,
Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows.

They gather the earliest snowdrops,

And the first crimson buds of the rose.

They toss the new hay in the meadow ;
They gather the elder-bloom white;
They find where the dusky grapes purple
In the soft-tinted October light.
They know where the apples hang ripest,
And are sweeter than Italy's wines;
They know where the fruit hangs the thickest
On the long, thorny blackberry-vines.

They gather the delicate sea-weeds,
And build tiny castles of sand;
They pick up the beautiful sea-shells, —
Fairy barks that have drifted to land.
They wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops
Where the oriole's hammock-nest swings;

And at night-time are folded in slumber
By a song that a fond mother sings.

Those who toil bravely are strongest ;
The humble and poor become great ;
And so from these brown-handed children
Shall grow mighty rulers of state.
The pen of the author and statesman,
The noble and wise of the land,
The sword, and the chisel, and palette,
Shall be held in the little brown hand.

HYMNS.