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,
In memory infold.

But mother softly whispers,
"'Tis not the fays, my dears,

'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."

SONGS OF AUTUMN.

F

THE SEASONS.

OUR babies lay in their cradles new,
Beginning to think of "What shall I do
The world to brighten and beautify?"
The Spring baby first said, "Let me try."

So she put on a dress of freshest green,
With trimmings the loveliest ever seen
Trimmings of tulips and hyacinths rare
And trailing arbutus looped everywhere.

"How perfectly beautiful!" Summer said;
"But wait till you see my dress of red
And darker green with golden spots,

Trimmed with roses and pinks and forget-me-nots."

"Pooh!" said Autumn, "my dress will be
A more substantial one, you'll see;

With skirt of finest and yellowest wheat,
A girdle of grapes and squash turban neat."

Then Winter came silently tripping along,
Chanting softly a Christmas song,

In a pure white dress with jewels spread,
Holding a basket of books on his head.