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Rap-pi-ty-rap! This will never do,
The girls are peeping and laughing too,

So the sexton tripped over the creaking floor,
Lifted the latch and opened the door;
In there trotted, as big as a bear,

A great black dog; with a solemn air,

Right up the center aisle he pattered-
People might laugh, it little mattered.
Straight he went to a little maid,
Who blushed and hid as though afraid,
And there sat down as if to say,-
"I'm sorry I was late to-day.

But better late than never, you know;
Beside I waited an hour or so,

"And couldn't get them to open the door,
Tho' I banged my tail, and knocked the floor.
Now, little mistress, I'm going to stay
And hear what the minister has to say."
The poor little girl hid her face and cried,
But the big dog nestled close to her side
And kissed her, dog fashion, tenderly,
Wondering what the matter could be!

The dog being large, and the sexton small,
He sat through the sermon and heard it all,
As solemn and wise as any one there,
With a very dignified scholarly air,

And, instead of scolding, the minister said,
As he laid his hand on the sweet child's head
After the service, "I never knew

Two better listeners than Rover and you."

- Selected.

PLANTED HIMSELF TO GROW.

EAR, little, bright-eyed Willie,

DEAR

Always so full of glee,

Always so very mischievous,

The pride of our home is he.

One bright summer day we found him
Close by the garden wall,
Standing so grave and dignified
Beside a sunflower tall.

His tiny feet he had covered

With the moist and cooling sand;
The stalk of the great, tall sunflower
He grasped with his chubby hand.

When he saw us standing near him,
Gazing so wonderingly

At his babyship, he greeted us
With a merry shout of glee.

We asked our darling what pleased him;
He replied with a face aglow,
"Mamma, I'm going to be a man;
I've planted myself to grow."

BIRD TRADES.

HE swallow is a mason,

THE

And underneath the eaves

He builds a nest, and plasters it

With mud and hay and leaves.

Selected.

Of all the weavers that I know,
The oriole is the best;

High on the branches of the tree
She hangs her cosy nest.

The woodpecker is hard at work-
A carpenter is he-

And you may hear him hammering
His nest high up a tree.

Some little birds are miners:
Some build upon the ground:

And busy little tailors, too,
Among the birds are found.

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HIGH

THE LITTLE DOVES.

young ones three.

IGH on the top of an old pine-tree
Broods a mother-dove with her
Warm over them is her soft, downy breast,
And they sing so sweetly in their nest.
"Coo," say the little ones, "Coo," says she,
All in their nest on the old pine-tree.

Soundly they sleep through the moonshiny night,
Each young one covered and tucked in tight;
Morn wakes them up with the first blush of light,
And they sing to each other with all their might.
"Coo," say the little ones, "Coo," says she,
All in their nest on the old pine-tree.

When in the nest they are all left alone,

While their mother far for their dinner has flown,

Quiet and gentle they all remain,

Till their mother they see come home again.

Then "Coo," say the little ones, "Coo," says she, All in their nest on the old pine-tree.

When they are fed by their tender mother,
One never pushes nor crowds another;

Each opens wide his own little bill,

And he patiently waits, and gets his fill.
Then "Coo," say the little ones, "Coo," says she,
All in their nest on the old pine-tree.

Wisely the mother begins by and by,
To make her young ones learn to fly;
Just for a little way over the brink,

Then back to the nest as quick as a wink.

And "Coo," say the little ones, "Coo," says she,
All in their nest on the old pine-tree.

Fast grow the young ones, day and night,
Till their wings are plumed for a longer flight;
Till unto them at last draws nigh

The time when they all must say "Good-by."
Then "Coo," say the little ones, "Coo," says she,
And away they fly from the old pine-tree.

- Selected.

A

CHANGELINGS.

LONG the orchard's fragrant way

I walked in flower-embroidered May;

The apple-trees were all alight

With opening buds of rose and white.

On the same path I pass again;

The faded grass is wet with rain;
The sweet young year is growing old;
My flowers are changed to globes of gold.

Within the polished spheres there be
Rare honey and rich spicerie;

From sun and wind and blossom bell

The patient days have wrought the spell.

— M. F. B. — Youth's Companion.

A

RAGGED ROBIN.

MAN of taste is Robinet,

A dandy, spruce and trim! Whoe'er would dainty fashions set, Should go and look at him.

Rob scorns to wear his crimson coat,
As common people do,

He folds and fits it in and out,
And does it bravely, too.

Oh! Robin loves to prank him rare,
With fringe, and flounce, and all;
Till you'd take him for a lady fair
Just going to a ball.

Robin's a roguish, merry lad,

He dances in the breeze,

And looks up, with a greeting glad,
To the rustling hedge-row trees.

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