"Why should you task yourself to toil, And gather heaps of useless spoil, Still of the future dreaming?

Look up, and see how fair the flowers,
How green and leafy are the bowers
On which the sun is beaming!

"But I forgot-poor, helpless thing!
You cannot flutter on the wing,
As I do, through existence;
To you, slow, dull, and downward-eyed,
That gravel walk of six feet wide
Must seem a dreadful distance.

"Why, you might just as well have been Shut out from gardens gay and green, An inmate of the city,

As live in this delightful spot :-
Poor thing! the more I view your lot,
The more your case I pity."

The Ant heard all he had to say;
Then, ere he journey'd on his way,
Replied, in ant-like fashion:
"To me 'tis pleasure thus to live;
Therefore, your taunts I can forgive,
And need not your compassion.

"You think my toilsome lot is hard;
To me it brings its own reward;—
And so, my pretty neighbour,
Since you have nothing else to do,
Your happier lot you may pursue,
And leave me to my labour.".

They parted:-in a few months more,
Descended rains, and rime-frosts hoar,
Had swept off bud and blossom;
The Butterfly on earth lay dead,
The happier Ant was housed and fed
Securely in its bosom.

And there he kept, all snug and warm,
'Till snow and ice, and wind and storm,
Had fertiliz'd each furrow;

Then, with the blithe and busy bee,
As busy and as blithe as he,

He came out from his burrow!

BERNARD BARTON.

THE WET SPARROW.

"How heavy the rain is that falls on the ground! How cold is the wind through the garden that blows!

It shakes the large drops from the branches around

And see it has torn all the leaves from the rose.

"I'm glad I'm within doors, so warm and so dry,

Where the rain cannot wet me, that beats on the pane;

But what is that, hopping so quietly by? 'Tis a poor little sparrow that's out in the rain.

"It cannot find shelter, for wet is each tree, And no clothing it has to protect it at all. Ah! poor little creature, how cold it must be! Mamma, may I take the poor sparrow a shawl?"

"A shawl would but trouble the sparrow, my child;

It has clothing still softer and warmer than

yours;

Which never wears out, nor by wetting is spoil'd;

For through winter and summer its beauty endures.

"Now, look at it closer, and see how 'tis drest; It is cover'd with feathers of many a shade; Its tail sober brown is, and white is its breast, And in coat black and grey it is neatly array'd.

"For God, who so kindly gives comfort to you, Takes care of the sparrow, and clothes it, and feeds;

He warmly protects it from rain and from dew, And gives it the shelter and rest that it

needs.

"And see! it has flown to its home in the tree, 'Mong the thick bow'ry leaves, where secure it can hide,

Or can soar on its pinions, all joyous and free,

As happy as you, when you sport at my side."

LUNDIE MARY DUNCAN.

BE KIND TO EACH OTHER.

Be kind to each other,

The night's coming on
When friend and when brother
Alike may be gone!
Then 'midst our dejection,

How sweet to have earn'd

The blest recollection

Of kindness return'd!
When day hath departed,
And Memory keeps
Her watch, broken-hearted,
Where all she loves sleeps!
Let falsehood assail not,
Nor envy disprove;
Let trifles prevail not
Against those ye love!
Nor change with to-morrow,
Should fortune take wing;
But the deeper the sorrow,
The closer still cling!
Oh, be kind to each other!
That night's coming on
When friend and when brother

Alike may be gone!

CHARLES SWAIN.

THE FIRESIDE.

"SAY, what have you brought to our own fireside?"

'Twas a mother's voice that spake; "The wintry tempest doth loudly chide, But peace and joy shall with us abide : Oh cherish them for my sake.

A common stock is our happiness here,
Each heart must contribute its mite,
The bliss to swell, or the pain to cheer;
Husband and son, and daughter dear,
What have you brought to-night?"

Then the studious boy from his storied page
Look'd up with a thoughtful eye:
That knowledge gleam'd there which doth
charm the sage,

And shine like a flame through the frost of
With warmth and majesty.

A girl was there, like a rose on its stem,
And her sacred song she pour'd,
Beauty and music, a blended gem,
Shook from their sparkling diadem,
To enrich the evening hoard.

age

By a pale, sick child, was a treasure brought, The smile of patient trust,

For disease had a precious moral wrought, And quiet and pure was her chasten'd thought, As a pearl by the rude sea nurs'd.