And now the little children dare,
Unseen, unheard, to climb the stair,
And gaze on all the marvels there;

Where, as if bound by wizard's spell,
Yawned roofward every wide-mouthed bell,
On stays of iron balanced well.

And ever as the moonlight streams
They see dark wheels and massy beams,
Like dens of torture in our dreams.

Not long their little heads were strained
Within the door with courage feigned,
When all the terror was unchained.

Unknowing, the stout ringing men
Rose to the ropes, and whirled amain
The grim, dark-waisted bells again.

Ten thousand clamours seem to rise
And struggle outward to the skies;
The swift wheels daze the children's eyes.

Alan and Frank, though trembling, bore
The horror of that deafening roar;
But little Rose dropped on the floor.

Down the dark staircase Alan gropes,
He yet may be in time, he hopes:
He stands before the dancing ropes.

The ringers ceased and stared. He said,
My little sister Rose is dead:

The bells have killed her overhead."

They found her on the belfry floor,
She spoke and moved not any more;
One gentle sigh, and all was o'er.

But, lo! when now the little maid
In everlasting rest was laid,

And the good parson, sorrowing, prayed,—

Soft sounds of bells the valley fill,
And reach the churchyard on the hill,-
So very distant, calm, and still.

"These are the sweet and distant bells
Of Heaven; she sits by springing wells
Of joy, and to an angel tells

"Her little tale of life, and sings
Half folded in that seraph's wings,
And rapt on all his golden strings."

These things they whispered soft and low;
Then laid the tender corpse below
The hallowed turf, and turned to go.

Thenceforward, if in children's sight
Across a storm-cloud dark as night
The gilded vane may glimmer bright,
""Tis Rosie's spirit!" the children cry,
And hold their listening heads awry
To hear the bell beyond the sky,

Where Rosie's little soul is blest;
By holy angels' arms caressed;

Rung through wild snows to heavenly rest.

Horace Moule.

An old woman, who lived close by the side of a river, having washed her brass pot and her earthen water-pot, put them in the sun to dry.

The tide all at once rose so high that both were carried into the middle of the stream.

As they were sailing along, the earthen pot was in great trouble for fear he should be broken in pieces.

"Never fear," said the brass pot; "keep near to me, I will take care of you.'

Ah, my friend!" said the earthen pot, "I know that you mean to serve your old companion; but the greatest kindness you can do me is to keep as far off as possible; for, whether the stream dashes you against me, or me against you, I am sure to be the only sufferer.'

Choose your friends among your equals rather than among those above you.

THE PEDLAR'S CARAVAN.

Delf, earthenware, made

at Delft in Holland.

I wish I lived in a caravan,

Ranged, set out.
Border, rim.

With a horse to drive like the pedlar-man!
Where he comes from nobody knows,
Or where he goes to, but on he goes!

His caravan has windows two,

And a chimney of tin that the smoke comes through;

He has a wife, with a baby brown,

And they go riding from town to town.

Chairs to mend, and delf to sell!

He clashes the basins like a bell;
Tea-trays, baskets ranged in order,

Plates with the alphabet round the border!

The roads are brown, and the sea is green,
But his house is just like a bathing-machine;
The world is round, and he can ride,
Rumble and splash, to the other side!

With the pedlar-man I should like to roam,
And write a book when I came home;
All the people would read my book,-
Just like the travels of Captain Cook!

Long, long ago, when the Vine was but little known, and its culture not very well understood, a man named Jacques had a very fine one growing all over the front of his cottage. He was proud of the tree; but his neighbour, Victor, whose vine scarcely reached the window-sill, was envious of his friend. As Victor was a mean, cowardly man, he went out one dark night and cut Jacques's vine till it was

C

only about half its former size. Jacques was greatly grieved when he saw his beautiful vine destroyed, as he thought, while the envious. Victor chuckled with delight. Jacques never found out who had done him this wrong; but in the autumn he was overjoyed to see his tree loaded with grapes. Being a shrewd fellow, he decided that the reason for this rich crop lay in the pruning the vine had received; and he ever afterwards used his knife freely upon it in the autumn.

Victor was greatly annoyed when he discovered that Jacques had profited rather than lost by his mischief; while the abundant clusters of grapes formed a more beautiful sight than the mass of green leaves and twigs that had first excited his envy.

MY PUSSY.

Gambols, plays.

Guile, deceit.

Candid, frank.
Ween, think, deem.

You may wander up, you may wander down,

But

you won't find a prettier cat in the town Than my dear little Pussy that gambols with meThis Pussy of mine, whom I call my Jennie. She knows what is right, and I teach her no guile, But she's met with a kind word, a pat, and a smile. She's no thief, and 'twere well other cats were the same; Then the family would bear a more honourable name. See her stretched on the rug; how she winks, how she

purrs,

As cosily there as if lying on furs,