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A NICE little Sunflower, just over the way,
Is blooming, some four inches tall, I should say;
And what is the reason it blossoms so low ?
Has bright little Sunflower forgotten to grow ?

Oh, no! but the season is getting quite late;
The frosts will be coming, and so it can't wait;
It seems to be saying, the Sunflower so small,
Better blossom thus low than not blossom at


A lesson I learn from the Sunflower so neat,
That seems to “make glorious the place of His

feet," Who called it to bloom; and may you and may I The place that we fill with our lives beautify.

And this, too, I read in the Sunflower's sweet

face: To fill well a low place is never disgrace. Make the most of your time and your talents, tho'

small; Better bloom in a low place than not bloom at all.

S. M. Parker.


LITTLE Mollie and Faith, in the arbor at play,

Were making a marigold crown, When a noise on the lawn made the little ones jump

And scatter the gold flowers down.

And fast toward the bower of blossoms and vines

Came a quadruped, bristling and big, With sharp-pointed toes, and a queer, grunty nose,

In short, 'twas a terrible pig.

Oh, mercy!” screamed Faith, “where, where

shall we go? Oh, mamma, oh, papa, come here! He's going to tear us to pieces, I know,"

And she jumped up and down in her fear.

But Mollie, more brave, raised the old crooked

gate, And slammed it quite hard to its place; Then Faith, kneeling down on the moss-covered

ground, Toward the sky turned her little pale face.

“Now, Mollie, I'll pray to our Father in heaven

To save us and drive him away. That's the very best thing in the world to be done;

You hold the gate strong while I pray.

Dear mamma's blue eyes twinkled bright through

her tears,
When the marvellous story was told
Of the prayerful escape of her two little girls
From the monster so savage and bold.

William H. Montgomery.

I'm losted! Could you find me, please?”

Poor little frightened baby!
The wind had tossed her golden fleece,
The stones had scratched her dimpled knees;
I stooped, and lifted her with ease,

And softly whispered, “ Maybe.”
Tell me your name, my little maid :

I can't find you without it.” “My name is Shiny-eyes,” she said. Yes; but your last name?” She shook her head: “Up to my house 'ey never said

A single word about it.” “But, dear," I said, “what is your name ?”

“Why, didn't you hear me told you? Dust Shiny-eyes.” A bright thought came: “Yes, when you're good. But when they blame You, little one,- is it just the same

When mamma has to scold you?”

“My mamma never scolds,” she moans,

A little blush ensuing, "'Cept when I've been a-frowing stones; And then she says [the culprit owns),• Mehitabel Sapphira Jones, What has you been a-doing?'"

Anna E. Burnham,


High and low the children hunted,

Rosy-cheeked and eager-eyed,
Peeping into every cranny

Where the tiniest mouse might hide,
Finding eggs of blue and yellow,

Crimson, purple, pink, and green;
Such a store of Easter treasures

Surely is not often seen.

But wee Bessie's eyes were cloudy;

Not a single egg she'd found,
While the rest laid merry claim to

Half-a-dozen, all around.
“ Because, grandma,” Teddy whispered,

“ She is such a little mite
That she couldn't seem to see them,

Though we put them plain in sight."

“Never mind;" and grandma, smiling,

Raised the drooping, golden head, Coaxing back the merry dimples,

“Never mind, my dear,” she said. “Hark! I heard a biddy cackling,

There's an Easter-egg for you." Waiting for no second telling,

To the barn the children flew.

Back again, a moment later,

Rushed the joyous little band; “Well, and did you find the egg, dear ?"

Bess unclosed her chubby hand. “ Didn't biddy know 'twas Easter ?”

Questioned she, in serious way, "'Cause, you see, she's laid a white one, Dust the same as any day!”

Ada Carleton.


THE baby's rosy fingers found

So oft their curious way
Among our books and bric-a-brac,

We had to tell her nay.
“ You must not touch, remember, dear," -

She knew the words full well.

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