Once again Orion,

Seaward with his flail, Set, and Ursus Major Whisked about his tail.

But the tempest raging,
Hid the stars from sight,
And the falling snowflakes
Blotted out the light.

At the time for stirring
Woke the little lad,
Cuddled in his blankets,
Shivering and sad.

"Must I on this morning

Leave my bed so warm,
To struggle to the churchyard,
Through the snow and storm?

"Father John, I'll warrant,
Lapped in slumber lies,
Twice hath failed already-
Wherefore should I rise?"

Yet from bed he started,

And the church-bell rung, Oped the Psalms of David, And the office sung.

All the while in vision
Lay the Priest, and saw,
Robed in light, the Saviour,
In the heavenly store,

Whence He had extracted
That He now did hold
In His hand, three jewelled
Burnished crowns of gold.

"These for me, my Master?"
Cried the Priest, with joy;
"No, my son," He answered,
"For the serving boy.

"Thrice he hath been tried,
Thrice has he prevailed;
Crowns become the victor,
But not him who failed."

S. BARING GOULD.

Alice. Some of the lines don't rhyme rightly.

Aunt C. No; but we cannot take liberties with Mr. Baring Gould's poem.

Grace. What was the riddle?

Edmund. A sieve. This excellent choir-boy liked

trapping little birds, you see.

Aunt C. He was a boy like other boys, except that he knew how to conquer his wishes.

Grace. What was that about Orion and Ursa Major?

Alice. They are constellations of stars. Come to the window, Gracie. Don't you see those seven stars, like four legs and a tail? They are Ursa Major, the Great Bear. And there-look at these. There are three for a sword-belt, another three for the sword; then, further off, two bright stars for shoulders, two more for heels, and a circle of little stars for a shield. Those make up Orion, the hunter, who comes out on a winter night, and sets in the morning; while the Bear is so high, as only to turn round the Pole, and

never set.

Grace. Think of one never having had any verses about flowers yet!

Alice. Edmund would not have cared about them. Aunt C. Well, as he has not favoured us to-night, we will take a few choice bits, old and new, beginning with the little May-day song that Mr. Keble put into the mouths of his village children.

MAY-DAY SONG.

April's gone, the king of showers;
May is come, the queen of flowers;
Give me something, gentles dear,
For a blessing on the year.
For my garland give, I pray,

Words and smiles of cheerful May;
Birds of spring, to you we come,
Let us pick a little crumb.

J. KEBLE.

Aunt C. Next I will read you a pretty dream which Miss Shipley has kindly given me for you.

LITTLE MABEL'S DREAM OF THE FLOWERS.

Where the April flowers were fairest,

Little Mabel wandered free,
Laughing, skipping, shouting, dancing,
With a heart so full of glee,

That before the sweet spring morning
Half its hours had smiled away,
Little Mabel stopped her sporting,
Tired with her happy play.

Where the daffodils were tallest,
And the violets most sweet,
On the moss sank little Mabel,
Glad to rest her weary feet;
And the perfume of the flowers,
And the stock-dove's murmur deep,

Lulled the little tirèd maiden,

Till, at last, she fell asleep.

Slept, and, dreaming, thought of arches-
Churches' arches, high and tall;
Dreamt she knelt on purple cushions-
Saw a blue roof over all;