HOE YOUR OWN ROW.

I think there are some maxims
Under the sun

Scarce worth preservation;
But here, boys, is one
So sound and so simple

'Tis worth while to know-
And all in the single line,
"Hoe your own row!"

If you want to have riches,
And want to have friends,
Don't trample the means down
And look for the ends;
But always remember,
Wherever you go
The wisdom of practising
"Hoe your own row!"

EGGS AND BIRDS.

"Where is the little lark's nest,
My father showed to me?
And where the pretty lark's eggs?"
Said Master Lori Lee.

At last he found the lark's nest,
But eggs were none to see.

"Why are you looking down there?'
Sang two young larks on high:
"We've broke the shells that held us,
And found a nest on high."

And the happy birds went singing
Far up the morning sky!

FANNY'S MUD PIES.

Under the apple-trees, spreading and thick,
Happy with only a pan and a stick,

On the soft grass in the meadow that lies,
Our little Fanny is making mud pies.

On her bright apron, and bright drooping head;
Showers of pink and white blossoms are shed;
Tied to a branch, that seems just meant for that,
Dances and flutters her little straw hat.

Gravely she stirs, with a serious look,
Making believe she's a true pastry cook;
Sundry brown plashes on forehead and eyes
Show that our Fanny is making mud pies.

But all the soil of her innocent play
Clean soap and water will soon wash away;
Many a pleasure in daintier guise

Leaves darker traces than Fanny's mud pies.

Dash, full of joy in the bright summer day,
Zealously chases the robins away,

Barks at the squirrels, or snaps at the flies,
All the while Fanny is making mud pies.

Sunshine and soft summer breezes astir,
While she is busy, are busy with her,-

Cheeks rosy glowing, and bright sparkling eyes,
Bring they to Fanny while making mud pies.

Dollies and playthings are all laid away,
Not to come out till the next rainy day;
Under the blue of those sweet summer skies
Nothing so pleasant as making mud pies.

ELIZABETH SILL.

MORNING HYMN.

My God, who makes the sun to know
His proper hour to rise,

And, to give light to all below,
Doth send him round the skies.

When from the chambers of the east
His morning race begins,
He never tires, nor stops to rest,
But round the world he shines.

So, like the sun, may I fulfill
The business of the day;
Begin my work betimes, and still
March on my heavenly way.

Give me, O Lord, Thy early grace;
Nor let my soul complain,

That the young morning of my days

Has all been spent in vain.

ISAAC WATTS, 1715.

TWELVE GOLDEN RULES FOR BOYS.

Observe good manners.

Hold integrity sacred.
Endure trials patiently.
Be prompt in all things.

Make good acquaintances.

Dare to do right, fear to do wrong.

Never be afraid of being laughed at.
Watch carefully over your temper.
Fight life's battle manfully, bravely.
Sacrifice money rather than principle.
Use your leisure moments for study.
Shun the company of loafers.

SILOAM'S SHADY RILL.

By cool Siloam's shady rill,

How sweet the lily grows;

How sweet the breath beneath the hill
Of Sharon's dewy rose!

And such the child, whose early feet
The paths of peace have trod;
Whose secret heart with influence sweet
Is upward drawn to God.

By cool Siloam's shady rill,

The lily must decay;

The rose that blooms beneath the hill

Must shortly fade away;

And soon, too soon, the wintry hour

Of man's maturer age

May shake the soul with sorrow's power,
And stormy passions rage.

THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD.

What's the best thing in the world?
June-rose, by May-dew impearled;
Sweet south wind, that means no rain;
Truth, not cruel to a friend;
Pleasure, not in haste to end;
Beauty, not self-decked and curled
Till its pride is over-plain;

Light, that never makes you wink;
Memory, that gives no pain;
Love, when, so, you're loved again.

What's the best thing in the world?—
Something out of it, I think.

ANONYMOUS,

SONG OF SPRING.

Laud the first spring daisies;

Chant aloud their praises;

Send the children up

To the hill's high top;

Tax not the strength of their young hands

To increase your lands.

Gather the primroses,

Make handfuls into posies;

Take them to the little girls who are at work in mills; Pluck the violets blue

Ah! pluck not a few!

Knowest thou what good thoughts from Heaven the violet instills?

Give the children holidays

(And let these be jolly days),

Grant freedom to the children in this joyous spring; Better men, hereafter,

Shall we have, for laughter

Freely shouted to the woods till all the echoes ring. Send the children up

To the high hill's top,

Or deep into the wood's recesses,

To woo spring's caresses.

J. L. YOUL.

MORNING PRAYER.

O Thou who mak'st the sun to rise,

Beam on my soul, illume mine eyes,

And guide me through this world of care:

The wandering atom thou canst see.

The falling sparrow's marked by thee,

Then, turning Mercy's ear to me,

Listen! listen!

Listen to an infant's prayer!