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Everything is laughing, singing,

All the pretty flowers are springing;
See the kitten, full of fun,

Sporting in the brilliant sun;

Children, too, may sport and play,

For it is a pleasant day.

Bring the hoop, and bring the ball,
Come with happy faces all;

Let us make a merry ring,

Talk and laugh, and dance and sing;
Quickly, quickly, come away

For it is a pleasant day.

AN ENQUIRY.

Who taught the bird to build her nest Of wool, and hay, and moss? Who taught her how to weave it best, And lay the twigs across ?

Who taught the busy bee to fly

Among the sweetest flowers; And lay her store of honey by,

To eat in winter hours?

Who taught the little ant the way
Her narrow hole to bore;

And through the pleasant summer day,

To gather up her store?

'Twas God, who taught them all the way,

And gave their little skill;

He teaches children how to pray,

And do his holy will.

ANON.

God in his infinite wisdom gave the bird an instinct or inward faculty, by which at certain seasons it builds its beautiful nest, oftentimes of the commonest materials, which it endows with warmth suited to the "little nestlings" which are afterwards to make their appearance. The same Almighty Being likewise taught the busy bee to construct its wondrous cell, for receiving the honey which it culls from the flowers of the field, and thus through all His works, the simplest as well as the highest, the greatest perfection and beauty are to be seen.

HYMN.

There's not a leaf within the bower;
There's not a bird upon the tree;
There's not a dew-drop on the flower,
But bears the impress, (1) Lord! of thee.

Thy hand the varied leaf designed,

And gave the bird its thrilling (2) tone;
Thy power the dew-drop's lints combined,
Till, like the diamond's blaze they shone.

Yes; dew-drops, leaves and birds, and all,
The smallest, like the greatest things,
The sea's vast space, the earth's wide ball,
Alike proclaim the King of Kings.

(1) Impress-mark, stamp. (2) Thrilling-piercing.

But man alone to bounteous Heaven,

Thanksgiving's conscious (3) strains (4) can raise;

To favoured man alone 'tis given,

To join the heavenly host in praise.

(3) Conscious-understood

MRS. OPIE.

(4) Strains-prayers, hymns.

"O all ye Works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord: praise him and magnify him for ever."

"O ye Children of Men, bless ye the Lord; praise him and magnify him for ever."

WE ARE SEVEN.

A simple child, dear brother Jim,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl,

She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl,
That clustered (1) round her head.

'Sisters and brothers, little maid,
How many may you be?'

'How many

? seven in all,' she said,

And wondering looked at me.

'And where are they, I pray you tell?'

She answered, 'seven are we,
And two of us at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea.

(1) Clustered-hanging in clusters.

'Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother.'

'You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea;

Yet you are seven, I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be.'

Then did the little maid reply,
'Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree.'

'You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the church-yard laid,

Then ye are only five.'

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,'

The little maid replied,

'Twelve steps or more from my

And they are side by side.

mother's door,

'My stockings there I often knit,
My 'kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,—
I sit and sing to them.

And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,

I take my little porringer (2)
And eat my supper there.

(2) Porringer-a small wooden bowl.

"The first that died was little Jane,
In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her of her pain,
And then she went away.

'So in the church-yard she was laid,
And all the summer 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?'

The little maiden did 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 say 'Nay, we are Seven.'

THE TRUTH.

WORDSWORTH.

"Why should you fear the truth to tell? Does falsehood ever do so well?

Can you be satisfied to know

There's something wrong to hide below?

No; let your fault be what it may,

To own it is the happy way.

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