And did her piece on the sampler
Each morn before she played.

You are safe in the crystal heavens,
"Elizabeth, aged nine,"

But before you went you had troubles
Sharper than any of mine.
The gold-brown hair with sorrow
Grew white as drifted snow,

And your tears fell here, slow-staining
This very plumed chapeau.

When you put it away, its wearer
Would need it never more, -

By a sword-thrust learning the secrets
God keeps on yonder shore.

But you wore your grief like a glory;
Not yours to yield supine,

Who wrought in your patient childhood, "Elizabeth, aged nine."

Out of the way in a corner,

With hasp and padlock and key, Stands the oaken chest of my fathers,

That came from over the sea.

The hillside herbs above it

Shake odors faint and fine,

And here on its lid is a garland

To "Elizabeth, aged nine."

For love is of the immortal,

And patience is sublime,

And trouble's a thing of every day,
That toucheth every time;
And childhood sweet and sunny,
Or womanly truth and grace,
In the dusk of the way light torches,
And cheer earth's lowliest place.

A BALLAD OF ST. SWITHUN'S DAY.

E. H. HICKEY.

THREE little noses are flattened against the pane ;
Three little rosy mouths are bemoaning the rain;
Saint Swithun is christening the apples with might and
with main.

"O Saint Swithun, Saint Swithun," the children say, "Surely you've christened the apples enough to-day."

66

Rain, rain," say the children, "be off to Spain!

Never, never, we charge you, come back again!

We want to run in the garden, and down comes the rain!

O Saint Swithun, Saint Swithun," the children plead, "We want our run in the garden, we do indeed.

"Dear Saint Swithun, our lessons have been so long; Dreadful sums, Saint Swithun, that would come wrong ! We wanted to dance a little or sing a song,

And now we are free, Saint Swithun, we're kept indoors,

For, because you are christening the apples, it pours and pours.

"Good Saint Swithun, our lessons are over and done; Kind Saint Swithun, we're longing to take a run; When you were young, Saint Swithun, you liked some

fun.

O Saint Swithun, Saint Swithun," the children cry,

66

Why should you christen the apples in mid-July?

"We don't mind the rain, not an atom. Away we should get

From the schoolroom, bare-headed, bare-footed, out into the wet,

If only they'd let us - but that they have never done

yet;

And you might as well ask them to cook us and eat

us, you see,

For in some things grown-up folk and children can't

Now hurrah for Saint Swithun! The rain is o'er;

Out comes the sun in his glory- they make for the door

Six little feet a-patter, a joyous uproar;

66

Hey! for Saint Swithun, Saint Swithun," the chil

dren shout;

"Hats and boots-not a moment to lose till we're out."

Hark to the birds and the children! Oh, merry and

sweet

Rings out the laugh of the children, and quick are their feet.

Hey, for the sunshine of summer, its light and its heat! Where are ye now, little children? Oh, far away, Though Saint Swithun is christening the apples again to-day!

CHILDREN ON THE SHORE.

ANONYMOUS.

WE are building little homes on the sands,
We are making little rooms very gay,
We are busy with our hearts and our hands,
We are sorry that the time flits away.
Oh, why are the minutes in such haste?
Oh, why won't they leave us to our play?
Our lessons and our meals are such waste!
We can dine very well another day.

We do not mind the tide coming in,
We can dig it a cunning little bed,
Or leave our pretty house and begin

Another pretty house in its stead;
We do not mind the sun in our eyes,

When it makes such a dazzle of the world
That we cannot tell the sea from the skies,

Nor look where the flying drops are hurl'd.

The shells that we gather are so fair,
The birds and the clouds are so kind,
And the wind is so merry with our hair,
It is only the People that we mind!
Papa, if you come so very near,

We can't build the library to-day;
We think you are tired of being here,

And, perhaps, you would like to go away.

There are just one or two we won't refuse,
If they come by, to help us now and then;
But we want only friends to be of use,
And not all those idle grown-up men;
Perhaps, if we hurry very much,

And don't lose an instant of the day,
There'll be time for the last lovely touch.
Before the sea sweeps it all away.

Oh, children- thus working with the heart!
There's nothing so terrible as rest;
Plan only how all may take a part:
It's easy for each to do his best.
The sea, sweeping up at set of sun,

Can never make your toil be in vain;
It covers the things that you have done,
But the joy of the doing shall remain!

LITTLE children, love one another.

-ST. JOHN IN PATMOS.