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النشر الإلكتروني

THE SPRING-TIME OF LIFE

THE PURPOSE OF LIFE

THE BUILDING OF THE HOUSE

THE SCULPTOR BOY

A PSALM OF LIFE

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THE FORSAKEN

THE FAIRY'S GIFT

DON'T FRET
THANKFULNESS

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LABOR.

TRUE HAPPINESS

FREEDOM.

THE HERITAGE

PRIDE

THE NOBLY BORN

THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN.

LITTLE THINGS

THE KING'S EXAMPLE.

EACH CAN DO SOMETHING

EVERY LITTLE HELPS
LITTLE DEEDS

THE MOUNTAIN TORRENT
WHO IS MY NEIGHBOR?
THE LITTLE MATCH-SELLERS
FORGIVE THY BROTHER
THE BEGGAR'S REVENGE.
SPEAK GENTLY

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Charles Mackay.

Peabody.

Choice Poems.

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Disciples' Hymn-Book.

H. F. Gould..

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George Bennett..
Sacred Offering.

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IN SICKNESS

THE CRIPPLE

THE BOY AND THE FLOWER

CŒUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER Mrs. Hemans.

THE OLD FOLKS' ROOM
GOOD FROM EVIL.

BEAUTY AND DUTY

EXCELSIOR

A FAREWELL

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CONTENTS.

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DEATH OF THE NEWLY BAPTIZED

LITTLE BESSIE .

THE LOST LITTLE ONE

RESIGNATION

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THE ALPINE SHEPHERD

GOING HOME

"OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN" Mrs. Gilman.

J. Edmeston.

LITTLE PILGRIMS.
CHILDREN'S PRAISES

THE SICK CHILD.

A MOTHER'S RECOMPENSE

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Keble.

Melodies for Childhood.

Rev. W. Calvert.
Longfellow.
Maria Lowell.

Barry Cornwall.

Rev. W. Calvert.

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CHILDREN.

COME to me, O ye children!

For I hear you at your play,

And the questions that perplexed me
Have vanished quite away.

Ye

the eastern windows,

open That look towards the sun, Where thoughts are singing swallows

And the brooks of morning run.

In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,
In your thoughts the brooklet's flow,

But in mine is the wind of Autumn
And the first fall of the snow.

Ah! what would the world be to us
If the children were no more?
We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before.

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CHILDREN.

What the leaves are to the forest,
With light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices
Have been hardened into wood, -

That to the world are children;
Through them it feels the glow
Of a brighter and sunnier climate
Than reaches the trunks below.

Come to me, O ye children!

And whisper in my ear

What the birds and the winds are singing
In your sunny atmosphere.

For what are all our contrivings,
And the wisdom of our books,
When compared with your caresses,
And the gladness of your looks?

Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said;

For ye are living poems,

And all the rest are dead.

LONGFELLOW.

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