THE FADED FLOWERS.

THEY are fading, all fading! those beautiful flowers, That I gathered this morning from Flora's gay bowers,

One after another they droop on the stem,

But I mourn not, I grieve not, I weep not for them.

But they bring to my memory, friends that were

near,

Companions of childhood, beloved and dear,

Who drooped like these flowers, and faded and died,

As one after another, was torn from my side.

They are fading, all fading! the bright things of

time,

Like flowers and companions, cut off in their

prime;

But one thing more lasting, remains undecayed, 'Tis the joy of religion which never shall fade.

Then since all these bright things, refusing to stay,
Like the hues of the rainbow, are hasting away;
We set our affections, on joys that will last,
When the pleasures of earth, shall be faded and
past.

THE COTTAGE DOOR.

WHAT a different thing is the cottage-door from the door of a house in the city! And never is the difference seen to be greater than when we call out the children from both, and compare the scene. In the city we shall find the white and polished door, with its silver-plated handles at the lock and bell, opening at the top of a flight of marble steps; all as clean and bright as if no foot had trodden upon them, or hands touched them. The door is kept shut too, and fastened; so that if one wishes to go in, the bell must be pulled, to bring a servant to open and close it.

But the cottage door is quite a different thing. No paint hides the rough wood of which it is made. No careful work has joined the boards together, so as to make it appear like one solid piece. It stands open in summer all the day: and in winter, you have only to lift a latch and walk in; taking but one step from the ground into a warm

room.

Let us call the children out this fine day. Per