Music is warbling from many a spray,

Blossoms unfolding,

Snow white and golden,

Sweet is the breath of the new-born day.

THE snail crawls out with his house on his back; You may know whence he comes by his slimy track; And creep, creep, creep, creep,

Oh! how slowly he goes!

And you'd do the same if you carried your house,

You can't see him eat, but you know where he's been, He has fed on the leaves of the plant so green.

And still, still, still, still,

Still in darkness of night,

And he stealeth away ere the morning light.

With horny eyes how he peereth about!
But the blackbird at last has found him out;
And tap, tap, tap, tap,

On the roof of his house;

He gobbles him up as a cat would a mouse.

To what can we liken a grovelling snail ?
To a meddling old gossip with falsehood's trail,
And pick, pick, pick, pick,

Till no beauty appears,

But Truth finds her out with her house 'bout her cars.

26

THE QUAIL CALL.

HARK to the quail, how she pipes at morn,
"Come along! come, let us hide in the corn.”
Look at her stealing through yonder green field,
Telling of sweets that the harvest will yield,
Singing the while that she joyfully glides,
"God be thanked! who for the humble provides."

Cool on the heather the dew yet lies;

"Cold the night!" flutt'ring and shiv'ring, she cries; Runs to sand, where she maketh her bed,

Patiently waits till the shades are all fled,
Wistfully watches the brightening skies;
"God be thanked slumber he gave to mine eyes."

Now come the huntsmen with horn and hound;
"Get you gone! here I lie safe in the ground;

While the wheat stands and the leaves are yet green, I by the hunter shall never be seen;

Ah! but the reapers they lay me so bare;

Who'll defend? God for His creature will care."

“Hark, when the reaping is over and done
I'll begone! Ruthless' the winter comes on;"
Hither and thither she flits and she flies,
But not a gleaning of harvest she spies;
Though in the vale of her birth she would stay,
Look! she goes over the mountains away.

-27

THE WORM.

TURN, turn thy hasty foot aside,
Nor crush that helpless worm:
The frame thy wayward looks deride.
None but a God could form.

The common Lord of all that move,
From whom thy being flow'd,
A portion of His boundless love,
On that poor worm bestow'd.

The sun, the

moon, the stars He made,

To all His creatures free;

And spreads o'er earth the grassy blade

For worms as well as thee.

Let them enjoy their little day,
Their lowly bliss receive:
O! do not lightly take away
The life thou canst not give.

1 ruthless, pitiless.