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LESSONS TO BE DERIVED FROM BIRDS.

WHAT is that, mother?

The lark, my child! The morn has but just looked out and smiled,

When he starts from his humble grassy nest, And is up and away, with the dew on his breast,

And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere,

To warble it out in his Maker's ear.

Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.

What is that, mother?

What is that, mother?

The eagle, boy!
Proudly careering his course of joy.
Firm on his own mountain vigour relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt de-
fying;

His wing on the wind, and his eye on the
sun;

He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.

Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thineOnward and upward, true to the line. What is that, mother?

The swan, my love! The dove, my son! He is floating down from his native

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For the ring of his laugh is a mirth-moving To the rosy-cheeked urchin that hangs on strain,

Which a choir of young creatures respond

to again.

The birds are all singing, each heart is elate

With the rosy-cheeked urchin that hangs on the gate.

The rosy-cheeked urchin that swings on the gate

the gate?

The rosy-cheeked urchin that swings on the gate

Waves proudly on high his sachel and slate;

The sky is all brightness-the fields are all gay;

Green branches are waving-the lambs are at play:

Hath Nature's own pages upon him to And where is the bosom that pines not to be

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THE CHILD AND THE STARS.

is the light

"THEY tell me, dear father, each gem in the | And the rays that they shed o'er the earth That sparkles at night is a star; [sky But why do they dwell in those regions so And shed their cold lustre so far? [high, I know that the sun makes the blossoms to spring,

That it gives to the flow'rets their birth, But what are the stars? do they nothing but fling

Their cold rays of light upon earth?"

"My child, it is said that yon stars in the sky

Are worlds that are fashioned like this,
Where the souls of the good and the
gentle, who die,
Assemble together in bliss;

Of His glory whose throne is above, That tell us, who dwell in these regions of night,

66

How great is His goodness and love."--

'Then, father, why still press your hand to your brow,

Why still are your cheeks pale with care? If all that was gentle be dwelling there now, Dear mother, I know, must be there.""Thou chidest me well," said the father with "Thy wisdom is greater by far: [pain, We may mourn for the lost, but we should not complain,

While we gaze on each beautiful star.” J. E. CARPENTER.

THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN.

"I AM & Pebble, and yield to none!" Were the swelling words of a tiny stone; "Nor change nor season can alter me,I am abiding while ages flee. The pelting hail and drizzling rain Have tried to soften me long in vain; And the tender dew has sought to melt, Or to touch my heart,—but it was not felt.

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None can tell of the Pebble's birth;

For I am as old as the solid earth!
The children of men arise, and pass
Out of the world like blades of grass;
And many a foot on me has trod
That's gone from sight and under the sod!
I am a Pebble ! but who art thou,
Rattling along from the restless bough?"

The Acorn was shocked at this rude salute,
And lay for a moment abashed and mute;
She never before had been so near
This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere;
And she felt for a while perplexed to know
How to answer a thing so low.

But to give reproof of a nobler sort Than the angry look or the keen retort, At length she said, in a gentle tone,

Since it has happened that I am thrown From the lighter element, where I grew, Down to another so bard and new, And beside a personage so august, Abased I will cover my head with dust,

And quickly retire from the sight of one Whom time nor season, nor storm nor sun, Nor the gentler dew nor the grinding wheel, Has ever subdued or made to feel."

And soon in the earth she sunk away From the comfortless spot where the Pebble lay;

But it was not long ere the soil was broke,
By the peering head of an infant oak;
And as it arose, and its branches spread,
The Pebble looked up, and, wondering,
said,

Ah, modest Acorn! never to tell
What was enclosed in her simple shell-
That the pride of the forest was then shut up
Within the space of her little cup!
And meekly to sink in the darksome earth,
To prove that nothing could hide her worth.
And, oh! how many will tread on me,
To come and admire that beautiful tree,
Whose head is towering towards the sky,
Above such a worthless thing as I.

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