THE LITTLE BUSY BEE.

H°

OW doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day,
From every opening flower!

How skilfully she builds her cell!

How neat she spreads her wax,
And labors hard to store it well

With the sweet food she makes!

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.

MY

A COMPLAINT.

Y name is Grasshopper; high as I can,
Here I hop, there I hop, little old man!
Look at my countenance, aged and thin;
Look at my crooked legs, all doubled in.
Is not my face long and sober and wan?
Do I not look like a little old man?
Yet all the summer I play in the grass,
Jump up
and stick to whatever may pass.
Where I then hide myself they cannot guess,
Never know where I am till they undress;
Finger and thumb, then, they snap me away,

Though they might know how much rather I'd stay.
Nobody cares what becomes of poor me;

Flung out of window I'm certain to be,

E'en though the hen might be there with her brood! A grasshopper's feelings, they're not understood!

I

CHRISTMAS BELLS.

HEARD the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet,

The words repeat

Of peace on earth, good will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along

The unbroken song

Of peace on earth, good will to men!
Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,

A chant sublime,

Of peace on earth, good will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth,
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound

The carols drowned

Of peace on earth, good will to men!
It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn

The households, born

Of peace on earth, good will to men!
And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said;
"For hate is strong,

And mocks the song

Of peace on earth, good will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep, "God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!

The Wrong shall fail,

The Right prevail,

With peace on earth, good will to men!"

THE TRUTHFUL BOY.

NCE there was a little boy,

ONCE

With curly hair and pleasant eye, —
A boy who always told the truth,

And never, never told a lie.
And when he trotted off to school,
The children all about would cry,
"There goes the curly-headed boy,
The boy that never tells a lie."

And everybody loved him so,

Because he always told the truth, That every day, as he grew up,

'Twas said, "There goes the honest youth."

And when the people that stood near
Would turn to ask the reason why,
The answer would be always this:
"Because he never tells a lie."

THE GRAVES OF OUR HEROES.

How

OW sleep the Brave who sink to rest,
By all their Country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mould,
She then shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honor comes, Pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And Freedom shall awhile repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

A

NOWADAYS.

LAS! how everything has changed,
Since I was sweet sixteen,

When all the girls wore homespun frocks,

And aprons nice and clean.

With bonnets made of braided straw,

That tied beneath the chin,

The shawls laid neatly on the neck,
And fastened with a pin!

I recollect the time when I
Rode father's horse to mill,
Across the meadows, rock and field,
And up and down the hill;

And when our folks were out at work,
As sure as I'm a sinner,

I jumped upon a horse bare-back,
And carried them their dinner.

Dear me! young ladies, nowadays,
Would almost faint away

To think of riding all alone

In wagon, chaise, or sleigh;
And as for giving "pa" his meals,
Or helping "ma" to bake,

O, saints! 'twould spoil their lily hands,
Though sometimes they make cake.

When winter came, the maiden's heart
Began to beat and flutter;

Each beau would take his sweetheart out,

Sleigh-riding in the cutter.

Or, if the storm was bleak and cold,

The girls and beaux together,

Would meet and have most glorious fun, And never mind the weather.

But now indeed, it grieves me much,

The circumstance to mention,

However kind the young man's heart,
And honest his intention,
He never asks the girls to ride,
But such a war is waged!
And if he sees her once a week,
Why, surely, "they're engaged."