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 statesmanThe noble and wise of the landThe sword, and the chisel, and palette, Shall be held in the little brown hand. M. H. KROUT. ROBERT BRUCE AND THE SPIDER.

ING Bruce of Scotland flung himself down, In a lonely mood to think ;

'Tis true he was monarch, and wore a crown, But his heart was beginning to sink.

For he had been trying to do a great deed,

To make his people glad ;

He had tried and tried, but could not succeed,
And so he became quite sad.

He flung himself into a deep despair,
He was grieved as man could be;

And after a while, as he pondered there,

"I'll give it up!" cried he.

Now, just at that moment, a spider dropped

With its silken cobweb clew,

And the king, in the midst of his thinking stopped

To see what the spider would do.

'Twas a long way up to the ceiling dome,

And it hung by a rope so fine,

That how it would get to its cobweb home
King Bruce could not divine.

It soon began to cling and crawl

Straight up with strong endeavor;
But down it came with a slipping sprawl,
As near to the ground as ever.

Up, up it ran, nor a second did stay,
To make the least complaint,

Till it fell still lower; and there it lay
A little dizzy and faint.

Its head grew steady - again it went,
And traveled a half-yard higher;
'T was a delicate thread it had to tread,
And a road where its feet would tire.

Again it fell, and swung below;

But up it quickly mounted,
Till up and down, now fast, now slow,
Nine brave attempts were counted.
"Sure," said the king, "that foolish thing
Will strive no more to climb,
When it toils so hard to reach and cling,
And tumbles every time."

But up the insect went once more;

Ah me! 't is an anxious minute;
He's only a foot from his cobweb door-
O, say! will he lose or win it?

Steadily, steadily, inch by inch,

Higher and higher he got,

And a bold little run, at the very last pinch,
Put him into the wished-for spot.

"Bravo, bravo!" the king cried out;
"All honor to those who try!
The spider up there defied despair;

He conquered, and why should not I?” Thus Bruce of Scotland braced his mind; And gossips tell the tale,

That he tried once more, as he tried before, And that time did not fail.

LOVE to see the little goldfinch pluck

The groundsel's feathered seed, and twit and twit;

And soon in bower of apple blossoms perched, Plume his gay suit, and pay us with a song

I would not hold him prisoner for the world.

The chimney-haunting swallow, too, my eye
And ear well pleases. I delight to see
How suddenly he skims the glassy pool,
How quaintly dips, and with a bullet's speed
Whisks by. I love to be awake, and hear
His morning song twittered to dawning day.
But most of all, it wins my admiration
To view the structure of this little work-
A bird's nest. Mark it well, within, without—
No tool had he that wrought, no knife to cut,
No nail to fix, no bodkin to insert,

No glue to join; his little beak was all—
And yet how nicely finished! What nice hand,
With every implement and means of art,
And twenty years' apprenticeship to boot,
Could make me such another?

Mark the bee; She, too, an artist is—a cunning artist, Who at the roof begins her golden work, And builds without foundation. How she toils, And still from bed to bed, from flower to flower, Travels the livelong day! Ye idle drones, Who rather pilfer than your bread obtain By honest means like these, behold and learn How grand, how fair, how honorable it is To live by industry! The busy tribes Of bees, so emulous, are daily fed,

Because they daily toil. And bounteous Heaven,

Still to the diligent and active good,

Their very labor makes the cause of health.

DARE AND DO.

ARE to think, though others frown;

Dare in words your thoughts express; Dare to rise, though oft cast down; Dare the wronged and scorned to bless.

Dare from custom to depart;

Dare the priceless pearl possess ; Dare to wear it next your heart;

Dare, when others curse, to bless.

Dare forsake what you deem wrong;
Dare to walk in wisdom's way;
Dare to give where gifts belong;

Dare God's precepts to obey.

Do what conscience says is right;
Do what reason says is best;
Do with all your mind and might;
Do your duty, and be blest.

ARY SCHEFFER.

Ary Scheffer was an eminent French painter. He was born in 1795, and died in 1858.

N the wall of brick and plaster,
Running down the garden walk,
Little Ary drew a picture

With a piece of pointed chalk.

As he drew it, Cousin Gretchen,
With her doll, was standing by ;
And she said, "You'll be an artist,
My dear Ary, if you try."

Truly spoke his Cousin Gretchen;
For, while yet a little boy,
His great diligence and talent

Filled his mother's heart with joy.
Much that mother longed to see him

Grow to be a good, great man.

"I have little money, Ary,

But I'll spare whate'er I can.

"I will pay the best of masters, Who shall teach you all they know. 'In all labor there is profit,'

Honors, too, from labor flow.

"Let not earthly fame or glory,

Be your only end or aim, Let the glory of your Maker

Have the first and highest claim. "Then I doubt not, darling Ary,

If God spare you, you shall be First and foremost of the painters Which the present age shall see.” Truly spoke his loving mother; A great artist he became : All the world now loud in honor Speak of Ary Scheffer's name.

BY-AND-BY.

HERE'S a little mischief-maker
That is stealing half our bliss,
Sketching pictures in a dream-land
That are never seen in this ;
Dashing from our lips the pleasure
Of the present, while we sigh.
You may know this mischief-maker,
For his name is "By-and-By."
He is sitting by our hearth-stones
With his sly, bewitching glance,
.Whispering of the coming morrow,
As the social hours advance;
Loitering 'mid our calm reflections,
Hiding forms of beauty nigh-
He's a smooth, deceitful fellow,
This enchanter, “By and-By.”

You may know him by his wincing,
"By his careless, sportive air;
By his sly, obtrusive presence,

That is straying everywhere;
By the trophies that he gathers
Where his somber victims lie;
For a bold, determined fellow
Is this conqueror, "By-and-By."
When the calls of duty haunt us,

And the present seems to be
All the time that ever mortals
Snatch from dark eternity,
Then a fairy hand seems painting
Pictures on a distant sky;
For a cunning little artist
Is the fairy, "By-and-By.”
"By-and-By" the wind is singing;

"By-and-By" the heart replies; But the phantom, just before us, Ere we grasp it, ever flies.

List not to the idle charmer,

Scorn the very specious lie; Only in the fancy liveth

This deceiver, "By-and-By."

J. W. BARKER.

66

LEARN A LITTLE EVERY DAY.

ITTLE rills make wider streamlets,

Streamlets swell the rivers' flow; Rivers join the mountain billows, Onward, onward, as they go! Life is made of smallest fragments, Shade and sunshine, work and play; So may we, with greatest profit, Learn a little every day.

Tiny seeds make plenteous harvests,
Drops of rain compose the showers;
Seconds make the flying minutes,

And the minutes make the hours!
Let us hasten, then, and catch them,
As they pass us on the way;
And with honest, true endeavor,
Learn a little every day.

Let us while we read or study,

Cull a flower from every page;
Here a line, and there a sentence,
'Gainst the lonely time of age!
At our work or by the way-side,
While we ponder, while we play,
Let us thus by constant effort
Learn a little every day.

THE BEST THAT I CAN.

CAN not do much," said a little star,
"To make the dark world bright;
My silvery beams cannot struggle far
Through the folding gloom of night;
But I am a part of God's great plan,
And I'll cheerfully do the best I can."

What is the use," said a fleecy cloud,
"Of these few drops that I hold?
They will hardly bend the lily proud,
Though caught in her cup of gold;
Yet am I a part of God's great plan,
So my treasure I'll give as well as I can."

A child went merrily forth to play,

But a thought, like a silver thread,
Kept winding in and out all day

Through the happy golden head;
And it seemed to say, Do all you can,
For you are a part of God's great plan."

She knew no more than the glancing star,
Nor the cloud with its chalice full,

How, why, and for what all strange things are—
She was only a child at school;

But she thought, "It is a part of God's great plan
That even I should do all that I can."
So she helped a younger child along,

When the road was rough to the feet;
And she sang from her heart a little song
That we all thought was passing sweet;
And her father, a weary, toil-worn man,
Said, "I too, will do the best that I can."'

THE GOLDEN STAIR.

UT away the little playthings
That the darling used to wear,
She will need them on earth never-
She has climbed the golden stair;
She is with the happy angels,
And I long for her sweet kiss,
Where her little feet are waiting
In the realm of perfect bliss.

Lay aside her little playthings
Wet with mother's pearly tears-
How we shall miss little Nellie
All the coming, weary years!
Fold the dainty little dresses
That she never more will wear,
For her little feet are waiting
Up above the golden stair.

Kiss the little curly tresses

Cut from her bright, golden hair—
Do the angels kiss our darling
In the realm so bright and fair?
Oh! we pray to meet our darling
For a long, long, sweet embrace,
Where the little feet are waiting-
And we meet her face to face.

W. D. SMITH.

"I WOULD IF I COULD."

WOULD if I could," though much it's in use,

Is but a mistaken and sluggish excuse; And many a person who could if he would, Is often heard saying, “I would if I could." "Come, John," said a school-boy, "now do not refuse

Come, solve me this problem; you can if you choose."

But John at that moment was not in the mood,
And yawningly answered, "I would if I could."

At the door of a mansion a child, thinly clad,
While the cold wind blew fiercely, was begging for
bread;

A rich man passed by her as trembling she stood,
And answered her coldly, "I would if I could."

The scholar receiving his teacher's advice,
The swearer admonished to quit such a vice,
The child when requested to try and be good,
Oft give the same answer, "I would if I could."

But if we may credit what good people say,
That where there's a will, there is always a way;
And whatever ought to be, can be, and should-
We never need utter, "I would if I could."

PRINCIPLE PUT TO THE TEST.

YOUNGSTER at school, more sedate than the rest,

Had once his integrity put to the test;

His comrades had plotted an orchard to rob, And asked him to go and assist in the job.

He was very much shocked, and answered, “O no!
What, rob our good neighbor! I pray you don't go ;
Besides, the man's poor-his orchard's his bread;
Then think of his children, for they must be fed."

"You speak very fine, and you look very grave—
But apples we want, and apples we'll have.

If

you will go with us, we'll give you a share; If not, you shall have neither apple nor pear."

He spoke, and James pondered—“I see they will go ;
Poor man! what a pity to injure him so!

Poor man! I would save him his fruit if I could;
But staying behind will do him no good.

"If this matter depended alone upon me,

His apples might hang till they drop from the tree;
But since they will take them, I think I'll go too;
He will lose none by me, though I get a few."

His scruples thus silenced, James felt more at ease,
And went with his comrades the apples to seize.
He blamed and protested, but joined in the plan;
He shared in the plunder, but pitied the man.
Conscience slumbered awhile, but soon woke in his
breast,

And in language severe the delinquent addressed:
"With such empty and selfish pretenses away!

By your actions you're judged, be your speech what it may.' WILLIAM Cowper.

The little sunbeam darted through,
And raised their blue heads up.
They smiled to see it, and they lent
The morning breeze their sweetest scent.

A mother safe beneath a tree

Had left her babe asleep;

It woke and cried, but when it spied
The little sunbeam peep

So slyly in, with glance so bright,
It laughed and chuckled with delight.
Away, away, o'er land and sea

The merry sunbeam went:
A ship was on the waters free

From home and country sent; But sparkling in that joyous ray, The blue waves danced around her way.

A voyager gazed with weary eye, And heart of bitter pain; With the bright sunbeam from the sky Lost hpe sprang up again. "The waves," he said, "are full of glee, Then yet there may be some for me."

D

The sunbeam next did not disdain
A window low and small;

It entered at the cottage pane,

And danced upon the wall.

A pale young face looked up to meet The radiance she had watched to greet.

So up and down, and to and fro,

The sunbeam glanced about; And never door was shut, I know, To keep the stranger out.

But lo! where'er it touched the earth It seemed to wake up joy and mirth.

I can not tell the history

Of all that it could do;
But this I tell, that you may try
To be a sunbeam too-

By little smiles and deeds of love,
Which cheer like sunshine from above.

O forth to the battle of life, my boy,

Go while it is called to-day;

For the years go out, and the years come in,
Regardless of those who may lose or win-
Of those who may work or play.

And the troops march steadily on, my boy,

To the army gone before;

You may hear the sound of their falling feet,

Going down to the river where the two worlds meet: They go to return no more.

There is room for you in the ranks, my boy,

And duty, too, assigned.

Step into the front with a cheerful grace—

Be quick, or another may take your place,
And you may be left behind.

There is work to do by the way, my boy,
That you never can tread again;
Work for the loftiest, lowliest men—
Work for the plough, adz, spindle, and pen;
Work for the hands and the brain.

Then go to the battle of life, my boy,

In the beautiful days of youth;

Put on the helmet, breastplate, and shield,
And the sword that the feeblest arm may wield
In the cause of right and truth.

666

で

WANTED, A BOY.

ANTED, a boy!' Well, how glad I am
To know that I was the first to see
The daily paper-so early too-
Few boys are up—'t is lucky for me."

You hurry away through quiet streets,
Breathlessly reaching the office door
Where a boy was wanted, and lo! you find

It thronged and besieged by at least a score.
"Wanted, a boy!" So the place was gone;
You did not get it? Well, never mind.
The world is large, and a vacant place
Is somewhere in it for you to find

Perhaps by long and devious ways,

With perils to face, and battles to win, Obstacles great to be overcome,

Before you reach it, and enter in. Philosophy surely wanted a boy,

While Franklin worked at a printer's case; Mechanics, when, low in the darkened mine, By an engine, Stephenson found his place; Nature, while Linnæus, crushed and tried As a cobbler, toiled out his sunless youth; Freedom, ere Washington reached her arms From childhood, up by the way of truth. "Wanted, a boy!" 't is written above Coveted places of highest renown; But the ladder of labor must ever be trod By boyish feet, ere the sign comes down. There are humble names half hidden now

On the school day roll, 'mong many a score, That yet will shine as the lights of fame,

Till boys are wanted on earth no more.

The forum is echoing burning words

Of orators destined to pass away; You will be wanted instead of them soon, Men of the future are boys to day. The watchmen standing on Zion's walls, Faithfully doing the Master's will, Are falling asleep as the years go by ;— Wanted, a boy each place to fill.

MARY B. REESE,

THE PET LAMB.

'HE dew was falling fast; the stars began to blink;

I heard a voice; it said, "Drink, pretty creature, drink :"

And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied
A snow-white mountain lamb, with a maiden at its
side.

No other sheep were near; the lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone;
With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel,
While to that mountain lamb she gave its evening meal.

'Twas little Barbara Lethwaite, a child of beauty rare!
I watched them with delight: they were a lovely pair.
Now with her empty can the maiden turned away;
But ere ten yards were gone, her footsteps she did stay.
Towards the lamb she looked; and from a shady place
I, unobserved, could see the workings of her face;
If nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring,
Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid might
sing-

"What ails thee, young one? what? Why pull so at thy cord?

Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and board?