In weepers and scarves came the Butterflies all,
And six of their number supported the pall;

And the Spider came there in his mourning so black,
But the fire of the Glow-worm soon frightened him back.

The Grub left his nutshell to join the sad throng,
And slowly led with him the Bookworm along,
Who wept his poor neighbour's unfortunate doom,
And wrote these few lines to be placed on his tomb-

EPITAPH.

At this solemn spot, where the green rushes wave,
In sadness we bend o'er the Butterfly's grave;

'Twas here the last tribute to beauty we paid,
And we wept o'er the mound where her ashes are laid.

And here shall the daisy and violet blow,
And the lily discover her bosom of snow;

While under this leaf, in the evenings of spring,

Still mourning his friend, shall the Grasshopper sing.

Alice. May we not finish with the real history of the Silk-worm, from Dr. Neale's Songs of the Trades?

THE SILK THROWSTERS.

A song for the Mulberry-tree so fair,
And its leaves so fresh and gay,

And a song for the worm that feasteth there

In the pleasant month of May.

You may tell me of jewels with sparkling light,
You may tell me of pearls in braid-

There never was king nor lady bright
Like that poor worm arrayed!

He buildeth him up a silken cell,
Wherein to take his rest,

As yellow as furze on a mountain fell,
And as soft as a robin's nest.

He creepeth in when his task is done

His quiet bed to make,

And he bids good-night to the pleasant sun,

And we never let him wake!

There's the clatter of wheels, and the buzz of reels,

And the layers that steadily go,

And the bobbins that catch the silk above,

From the swifts that fly below.

Great need of an eye like a hawk's on high,
As we wind the silk amain;

To manage the lead, and to join the thread,
And to fill the emptied skein.

Now to the mill! Of wondrous skill
Our English throwsters be;

Full thirty times their swifts whirl round,
While foreigners turn but three.

The flyers hum on, and the spindles rise,

And never a wheel works wrong,

[the eyes,

And the thread from the bobbins runs fast through And the twist comes close and strong.

Then gladly his work the throwster shifts,
To the doubling the silk must go;

So now for the bobbins instead of the swifts,
By two and by three in a row.

'Tis rough to the touch, and 'tis foul to the view,
But the rails are soft and clean;

Our train for the weft may fairly do,
But the warp must have organzine.

And are we not like the silk we throw ?
Each thread by itself is nought;
Through many a wheel it hath to go
Before it comes out as it ought.
And we have to press on a weary race,
And a troublesome course to run,
To make us meet in a Better Place,
To be woven together in one!

J. M. NEALE.

Alice.

Small things are best--grief and unrest
To pride and wealth are given;
But little things on little wings

Bear little souls to Heaven.

F. W. FABER.

Aunt C. That was written in a little girl's album, and it makes a good beginning to our subject to-night. Grace. I know "Little by Little."

LITTLE BY LITTLE.

"Little by little," an acorn said,
As it slowly sank in its mossy bed,
"I am improving every day,
Hidden deep in the earth away."
Little by little each day it grew;
Little by little it sipped the dew;