They sketch upon the windows Such pictures as no power Of man can ever execute, And on them pearl-dust shower. All these, and myriad fancies That never can be told, My childhood days so new and sweet, But mother softly whispers, 'Tis old Dame Nature's song of songs, The Music of the Spheres.' "List ever for it, children, 'Twill bring you close to God! Each sound but echoes Him who made, Each motion is His nod." F THE SEASONS. OUR babies lay in their cradles new, So she put on a dress of freshest green, "How perfectly beautiful!" Summer said; Trimmed with roses and pinks and forget-me-nots." "Pooh!" said Autumn, "my dress will be With skirt of finest and yellowest wheat, Then Winter came silently tripping along, In a pure white dress with jewels spread, |