And then how was the staging raised?
Painters do not stand on air.

And is the sun a lake of fire,

So rosy made by drinking rum? Or, if he goes out every night,

Who kindles him when morning's come? And then the fuel, what is that? I'm sure it must be very droll To see him ere he rises up,

Still taking in a stock of coal.

The moon too, does she really have
Eyes, nose, and mouth, and ruddy phiz?
Why does she only show her head?
And who knows where her body is?
Or, if it's but a common cheese,
Why do they call it green? And who
Makes it and eats it every month?
He likes cheese better than I do.

The stars, I wonder if they're nails
Driven in the firmament of blue,
Or gimlet holes, as poets say,

Made to let the glory through?
Are they only sparks of fire

That snap out from the burning suns? Mother says they're angel's eyes Watching o'er her little ones.

If I travel till I reach

Where the land doth touch the sky,
Are there any steps by which

I can go to worlds on high?
Where is the end, too, of the world?
Is it a steep like that of Dover ?
And if a child should go too near,
What hinders him from falling over?

I wonder how I came a boy,

When I first put my breeches on?
I wonder why my clothes don't grow
As fast as I shall grow anon?
I wonder whether you are tired
To hear my speculating tongue?
No! Then I wonder more than all
How your patience holds so long.

LESSON XXXV.

A NAME IN THE SAND.

This piece needs no explanation. It comes under the head of Sentimental poetry; and has all the simplicity and purity that characterize the poetry of the author, MISS H. F. GOULD.

Alone I walked the ocean strand,
A pearly shell was in my hand :
I stooped and wrote upon the sand
My name-the year-the day.
As onward from the spot I passed,
One lingering look behind I cast :
A wave came rolling high and fast,
And washed my lines away.

And so, methought, 't will shortly be
With every mark on earth from me ;
A wave of dark oblivion's sea

Will sweep across the place
Where I have trod the sandy shore
Of time, and been, to be no more,—
Of me-my day—the name I bore,
To leave nor track, nor trace.

And yet, with Him who counts the sands,
And holds the waters in his hands,

I know a lasting record stands,
Inscribed against my name,

Of all this mortal part has wrought;
Of all this thinking soul has thought,
And from these fleeting moments caught
For glory, or for shame.

LESSON XXXVI.

THE LADY-BUG AND THE ANT.

The following Fable, by our Mrs. SIGOURNEY, has been much admired for the sweetness of the poetry, as well as for the beauty of the moral. It may be spoken by a little girl.

The lady-bug sat in the rose's heart,
And smiled with pride and scorn,
As she saw a plain-dressed ant go by,
With a heavy grain of corn.

So she drew the curtains of damask round,

And adjusted her silken vest,

Making her glass of a drop of dew

That lay in the rose's breast.

Then she laughed so loud, that the ant looked up,
And seeing her haughty face,

Took no more notice, but travelled on
At the same industrious pace :-
But a sudden blast of Autumn came,
And rudely swept the ground,

And down the rose with the lady-bug bent,
And scattered its leaves around.

Then the houseless lady was much amazed,
For she knew not where to go;
And hoarse November's early blast
Had brought with it rain and snow.

Her wings were chill'd, and her feet were cold,
And she wished for the ant's warm cell;
And what she did in the wintry snow,
I'm sure I can not tell.

But the careful ant was in her nest,
With her little ones by her side;
She taught them all, like herself to toil,
Nor mind the sneer of pride :-
And I thought, as I sat at the close of day,
Eating my bread and milk,

It was wiser to work and improve my time,
Than be idle and dress in silk.

LESSON XXXVII.

OUR VILLAGE.

It would be difficult to class the following poem, by THOMAS HOOD, the comic poet of England. The quaintness of the description, and the enumeration of particulars, if distinctly pronounced, produce an amusing effect. The pupil should know that the village described is English, and not American.

Our village, that's to say, not Miss Mitford's village, but our village of Bullock Smithy,

Is come into by an avenue of trees, three oaks, one poplar, two elders, and a withy;

And in the middle there's a green of about not exceeding an acre and a half;

It's common to all, and fed off by ninety cows, six ponies, three horses, five asses, two foals, seven pigs, and a calf!

Besides a pond in the middle, which is held by a similar sort of common law lease,

And contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three ganders, two dead dogs, four drowned kittens, and twelve geese.

Of course the green's cropped very close, and does famous for bowling when the little village boys play at cricket;

Only some horse, or pig, or cow, or great jackass, is sure to come and stand right before the wicket. There's but one parish church for all the people, whatsoever may be their ranks in life or their degrees, Except one very damp, small, dark, freezing-cold, uncomfortable chapel of ease;

And close by the churchyard, there's a stone-mason's yard, that when the time is seasonable,

Will furnish with crossed marrow bones, and marble urns and cherubim very low and reasonable.

There's a shop of all sorts, that sells every thing, kept by the widow of Mr. Task,

But when you go there it's ten to one she's out of every thing you ask.

That's the doctor's with a green door, where the gar den pots in the window are seen;

A weakly monthly rose that don't blow, and a dead geranium, and a tea-plant with five black leaves and one green.

As for holly hocks at the cottage doors, and honeysuckles, and jasmines, you may go and whistle ; But the tailor's front garden grows two cabbages, a dock, a ha'pnyworth of pennyroyal, two dandelions, and a thistle.

There are three small orchards-Mr. Busby's the schoolmaster's is the chief—

With two pear trees that don't bear, one plum and one apple, that every year is stripped by a thief. There's another small day-school too, kept by a respectable Mrs. Gaby,

A select establishment, for six little boys and one big, and four little girls and a baby.

There's a barber's, once a-week well filled with rough, black-bearded, shock headed churls,