Thy children while they work or play; Thine arms enfold us tenderly,

O help us please Thee day by day!

Along the hillside and the dell,
With faces fair upturned to Thee,
Sweetly to us Thy goodness tell.

The little birds that love to trill
Their music over morn and night,
The breaking waves along the shore,
Teach us to praise Thee with delight.

The snowflakes dropping down from heaven
So swiftly and so silently,

The lilies gleaming on the lake,

Teach us Thy spotless purity.

Father, all things together sing

The earth below, the skies above,

And all the airs that round us breathe -
The fullness of Thy watchful love.

- Selected.

BIRD WITH BOSOM RED.

WHE

WHEN the winds of winter blow,
And the air is thick with snow,
Drifting over hill and hollow,
Whitening all the naked trees-
Then the bluebird and the jay
And the oriole fly away,

Where the bobolink and swallow
Flew before them, at their ease.

But we are not left alone,

Though the summer birds have flown;
Though the honey-bees have vanished,
And the katydids are dead;

Still a cheery, ringing note,

From a dear, melodious throat,

Tells that winter has not banished

Little bird with bosom red.

Pipe away, you happy bird,
Sweeter song I never heard;
For it seems to say "Remember
God, our Father, sits above-
Though the world is full of wrong,
Though the winter days are long-
He can fill the bleak December
With the sunshine of His love."

-Selecte

IN

THE FOUR WINDS.

N winter, when the wind I hear,
I know the clouds will disappear;
For 'tis the wind who sweeps the sky
And piles the snow in ridges high.

In spring, when stirs the wind, I know
That soon the crocus buds will show;
For 'tis the wind who bids them wake
And into pretty blossoms break.

In summer, when it softly blows,
Soon red, I know, will be the rose;
For 'tis the wind to her who speaks,
And brings the blushes to her cheeks.

In autumn, when the wind is up,
I know the acorn's out its cup;
For 'tis the wind who takes it out,
And plants an oak somewhere about.

- Frank Dempster Sherman.

WHAT THE WINDS BRING.

"WHICH is the wind that brings the cold?"

"The north wind, Freddy, and all the snow,

And the sheep will scamper into the fold
When the north begins to blow."

"Which is the wind that brings the heat?"
"The south wind, Katy; and corn will grow,
And peaches redden for you to eat,

When the south begins to blow."

"Which is the wind that brings the rain?"
"The east wind, Arty; and farmers know
That cows come shivering up the lane,
When the east begins to blow."

"Which is the wind that brings the flowers?" "The west wind, Bessy; and soft and low The birdies sing in the summer hours,

When the west begins to blow."

"W

THE FOG.

WHAT is the fog, mamma?"
"Sometimes the air is light,

And cannot bear up all the mists,
And then 'tis foggy, quite;
But when air heavier grows,

The fog is borne above,

And floated off, the cloudy stuff,

Just see it, graceful, move."

THE RAIN.

"WHAT makes the rain, mamma?”

"The mists and vapor rise

From land and stream and rolling sea,
Up toward the distant skies;

And there they form the clouds,
Which, when they're watery, dear,
Pour all the water down to earth,

And rain afar or near."

-Mother Truth's Melodies.

THE LITTLE ARTIST.

H, there is a little artist

Who paints in the cold night hours

Pictures for wee, wee children,

Of wondrous trees and flowers,

Pictures of snow-capped mountains
Touching the snow-white sky;
Pictures of distant oceans,

Where pygmy ships sail by;

Pictures of rushing rivers,

By fairy bridges spanned;
Bits of beautiful landscapes,
Copied from elfin land,