In works of labor or of skill,

I would be busy, too;

For Satan finds some mischief still

For idle hands to do.

In books, or work, or healthful play,
Let my first years be past,

That I may give for every day

Some good account at last.

- Isaac Watts

THE MOCKING-BIRD'S SONG.

E

ARLY on a pleasant day,

In the poet's month of May
Field and forest looked so fair,
So refreshing was the air,
That in spite of morning dew,

Forth I walked where tangling grew

Many a thorn and breezy bush;

When the redbreast and the thrush

Gayly raised their early lay,
Thankful for returning day.

Every thicket, bush, and tree
Swelled with grateful harmony;
As it mildly swept along,

Echo seemed to catch the song;
But the plain was wide and clear
Echo never whispered near;
From a neighboring mocking-bird
Came the answering notes I heard.

Soft and low the song began
I scarcely caught it as it ran
Through the melancholy trill
Of the plaintive whip-poor-will;
Through the ring-dove's gentle wail,
Chattering jay and whistling quail,
Sparrow's twitter, catbird's cry,
Redbreast's whistle, robin's sigh;
Blackbird, bluebird, swallow, lark,
Each his native note might mark.

Oft he tried the lesson o'er,
Each time louder than before;
Burst at length the finished song,
Loud and clear it poured along;
All the choir in silence heard,
Hushed before this wondrous bird.
All transported and amazed,
Scarcely breathing, long I gazed.

Now it reached the loudest swell;
Lower, lower, now it fell,

Lower, lower, lower still,

Scarce it sounded o'er the rill,
Now the warbler ceased to sing;
Then he spread his russet wing,
And I saw him take his flight,
Other regions to delight.

-7. R. Drake.

SUPPOSE.

[OW dreary would the meadows be

H In the pleasant summer light,

Suppose there wasn't a bird to sing,
And suppose the grass was white!

And dreary would the garden be
With all its flowery trees,
Suppose there were no butterflies,
And suppose there were no bees.

And what would all the beauty be,
And what the song that cheers,
Suppose we hadn't any eyes,

And suppose we hadn't ears?

For though the grass were gay and green,
And song-birds filled the glen,

And the air were purple with butterflies,
What good would they do, then?

Ah, think of it, my little friends,

And when some pleasure flies,

Why, let it go, and still be glad
That you have your ears and

eyes.

Alice Cary.

OUT-OF-DOOR ARITHMETIC.

DD bright buds, and sun and flowers,

A New green leaves, and fitful showers

To a bare world, and the sum

Of the whole, to spring will come.

Multiply these leaves by more,
And the flowers by a score,
The result, if found aright,
Will be summer, long and bright.

Then divide the flowers, and soon
By gray clouds and storms begun,
And the quotient sure will be
Autumn over land and sea.

From this, then, subtract the red

Of the leaves up overhead.

Also every flower in sight,

And you've winter, cold and bright.

-Selected.

LETTING THE OLD CAT DIE.

OT long ago I wandered near

NOT

A playground in the wood;

And there heard words from a youngster's lips

That I never quite understood.

"Now let the old cat die!" he laughed.
I saw him give a push,

Then gayly scamper away as he spied
A face peep over the bush.

But what he pushed, or where he went,

I could not well make out,

On account of the thicket of bending boughs
That bordered the place about.

L

"The little villain has stoned a cat, Or hung it upon a limb,

And left it to die all alone," I said;

'But I'll play the mischief with him."

I forced my way through the bending boughs old cat to seek;

The poor

But what did I find but a swinging child,

With her bright hair brushing her cheek!

Her bright hair floated to and fro,
Her little red dress flashed by;
But the loveliest thing of all, I thought,
Was the gleam of her laughing eye.

Swinging and swinging, back and forth,
With the rose-light in her face,

She seemed like a bird and flower in one,
And the forest her native place.

Steady! I'll send you up, my child;"
But she stopped me with a cry,

--

"Go 'way, go 'way! don't touch me, please; I'm letting the old cat die."

"You're letting him die!" I cried aghast;
"Why, where's the cat, my dear?”
And, lo! the laugh that filled the wood
Was a thing for the birds to hear.

"Why, don't you know," said the little maid, The sparkling, beautiful elf, —

"That we call it letting the old cat die

When the swing stops all itself?"