A-swimming, swimming all the day,
A-sleeping all the night,

And trying, though they were so gay,
To do just what was right.

A-growing, growing all the while,
Because they did their best;
But I'm afraid that you will smile
When I tell you the rest.

One morning, sitting on the log,
They looked in mute surprise;
Four legs had every polliwog,
Where two had met their eyes.

Their mother, letting fall a tear,
Said, "Oh, my polliwogs,

It can't be you that're sitting here!"

For all of them were frogs.

And with their legs they'd grown some lungs;
So you just wait and see;

In summer time their little tongues
Will sing "Ka-chink" with glee.

- Selected.

Rises to say,

In his low, painted pulpit

This calm Sabbath day.

Fair is the canopy

Over him seen,

Penciled by Nature's hand,
Black, brown and green.
Green is his surplice,
Green are his bands;
In his queer little pulpit
The little priest stands.
In black and gold velvet,
So gorgeous to see,

Comes with his bass voice
The chorister bee.

Green fingers playing
Unseen on wind-lyres

Low singing bird voices

These are his choirs.

The violets are deacons

I know by the sign

That the cups which they carry

Are purple with wine;

And the columbines bravely As sentinels stand

On the lookout with all their

Red trumpets in hand.
Meek-faced anemones,
Drooping and sad;

Great yellow violets,

Smiling out glad;
Buttercups' faces,

Beaming and bright;
Clovers, with bonnets-
Some red and some white;
Daisies, their white fingers
Half clasped in prayer;
Dandelions, proud of
The gold of their hair;
Innocents, children,

Guileless and frail,
Meek little faces

Upturned and pale;
Wildwood geraniums,
All in their best,
Languidly leaning,
In purple gauze dressed;
All are assembled

This sweet Sabbath day,
To hear what the priest
In his pulpit will say.
Look! white Indian pipes
On the green mosses lie!
Who has been smoking
Profanely so nigh?

Rebuked by the preacher,

The mischief is stopped;

But the sinners, in haste,
Have their little pipes dropped.
Let the wind, with the fragrance
Of fern and black birch,

Blow the smell of the smoking
Clean out of the church.

So much for the preacher;

The sermon comes next.

Shall we tell how he preached it

And what was his text?
Alas! like too many
Grown-up folks who play
At worship in churches.
Man-builded to-day,

We heard not the preacher
Expound or discuss;

But we looked at the people,
And they looked at us.

We saw all their dresses,
Their colors and shapes,
The trim of their bonnets,
The cut of their capes.
We heard the wind-organ,
The bee and the bird,

But of Jack in the Pulpit

We heard not a word.

- C. Smith

SUPPOSE.

UPPOSE the little cowslip

SUP

Should hang its golden cup,
And say, "I'm such a tiny flower,

I'd better not grow up";
How many a weary traveler

Would miss its fragrant smell;

And many a little child would grieve To lose it from the dell.

Suppose the little breezes,
Upon a summer's day,

Should think themselves too small
To cool the traveler on his way;

Who would not miss the smallest
And softest ones that blow,

And think they made a great mistake,

If they were talking so?

Suppose the little dewdrop

Upon the grass should say,

"What can a little dewdrop do?

I'd better roll away."

The blade on which it rested,

Before the day was done,

Without a drop to moisten it,

Would wither in the sun.

How many deeds of kindness

A little child can do,

Although it has but little strength

And little wisdom, too!