Nay, my little master, nay,
Do not serve me so, I pray;

Don't you see the wool that grows
On my back to make your clothes ?
Cold, ah, very cold you'd be,
If you had not wool from me..

True it seems a pleasant thing
Nipping daisies in the spring;
But what chilly nights I pass
On the cold and dewy grass,
Or pick my scanty dinner where
All the ground is brown and bare.

Then the farmer comes at last,
When the merry Spring is past,
Cuts my woolly fleece away
For your coat in wintry day.
Little master, this is why
In the pleasant fields I lie.

ANN TAYLOR.

I

THE SWEET STORY OF OLD.

THINK, when I read that sweet story of old, When Jesus dwelt here among men,

And call'd little children, as lambs, to His fold, I should like to have been with them then.

I wish that His hands had been put on my head,
And that I had been placed on His knee,
And that I might have seen His kind look when
He said,

"Let the little ones come unto ME."

Yet still to my Saviour in prayer I may go,
And ask for a share in His love;

And if I thus earnestly seek Him below,
I shall see Him and hear Him above-

In that beautiful place He is gone to prepare
For all who are wash'd and forgiven ;*
And many dear children are gathering there;
"For of such is the kingdom of heaven."

MRS. LUKE.

I MUST NOT TEASE MY MOTHER.

I MUST not tease my mother,
For she is very kind;

And everything she says to me
I must directly mind;

For when I was a baby,

And could not speak or walk,
She let me in her bosom sleep,
And taught me how to talk.

I must not tease my mother;
And when she likes to read,
Or has the headache, I will step
Most silently indeed:

I will not choose a noisy play,
Nor trifling troubles tell,
But sit down quiet by her side,
And try to make her well.

I must not tease my mother r;
I've heard dear father say,
When I was in my cradle sick,
She nursed me night and day;
She lays me in my little bed,

She gives me clothes and food,
And I have nothing else to pay
But trying to be good.

I must not tease my mother;
She loves me all the day,

And she has patience with my faults,
And teaches me to pray:
How much I'll strive to please her,
She every hour shall see;
For should she go away or die,
What would become of me?

MRS. SIGOURNEY.

E

MY MOTHER DEAR.

THERE was a place in childhood that I remember well,

And there a voice of sweetest tone bright fairy tales

did tell,

And gentle words and fond embrace were giv'n with joy to me,

When I was in that happy place:-upon my Mother's knee.

When fairy tales were ended, " Good night," she softly said,

And kiss'd and laid me down to sleep, within my tiny bed;

And holy words she taught me there—methinks I yet can see

Her angel eyes, as close I knelt beside my Mother's knee.

In the sickness of my childhood; the perils of my prime;

The sorrows of my riper years; the cares of ev'ry

time;

When doubt and danger weigh'd me down-then pleading all for me,

It was a fervent pray'r to Heaven that bent my Mother's knee,

SAMUEL LOVER,

EARLY PIETY.

HAPPY the child whose tender years
Receive instruction well;

Who hates the sinner's path, and fears
The road that leads to hell.

When we devote our youth to God,
'Tis pleasing in His eyes :
A flower, when offer'd in the bud,
Is no vain sacrifice.

'Tis easier work if we begin

To serve the Lord betimes; While sinners that grow old in sin Are harden'd in their crimes.

'Twill save us from a thousand snares, To mind religion young:

Grace will preserve our following years, And make our virtue strong.

Let the sweet work of prayer and praise
Employ my youngest breath;

Thus I'm prepared for longer days
Or fit for early death.