THE BABY IN THE HOME.

Begood, dear child, and let who will be clever;Donoble things, notdreamthem all day long,And so make life, death, and thatvast forever,One grand, sweet song.CHARLES KINGSLEY.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

GEO. MAC DONALD.

WWheredid you come from, baby, dear?Out of the everywhere into here.Where did you get the eyes so blue?Out of the sky as I came through.Where did you get that little tear?I found it waiting when I got here.What makes your forehead so smooth and high?A soft hand stroked it as I went by.What makes your cheek like a warm, white rose?I saw something better than anyone knows.

Wheredid you come from, baby, dear?Out of the everywhere into here.Where did you get the eyes so blue?Out of the sky as I came through.Where did you get that little tear?I found it waiting when I got here.What makes your forehead so smooth and high?A soft hand stroked it as I went by.What makes your cheek like a warm, white rose?I saw something better than anyone knows.

FEET, WHENCE DID YOU COME.

"FEET, WHENCE DID YOU COME."

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss?Three angels gave me at once a kiss.Where did you get this pretty ear?God spoke, and it came out to hear.Where did you get those arms and hands?Love made itself into hooks and bands.Feet, whence did you come, you darling things?From the same box as the cherub's wings.How did they all come just to be you?God thought of me and so I grew.But how did you come to us, my dear?God thought about you, and so I am here."

N. P. WILLIS.

I love to look on a scene like this, Of wild and careless play, And persuade myself that I am not old, And my locks are not yet gray; For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart. And makes his pulses fly, To catch the thrill of a happy voice; And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walked the world for four score years,And they say that I am old—That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,And my years are well-nigh told.It is very true—it is very true—I am old, and I "bide my time;"But my heart will leap at a scene like this,And I half renew my prime.Play on! play on! I am with you there,In the midst of your merry ring;I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,And the rush of the breathless swing.I hide with you in the fragrant hay,And I whoop the smothered call,And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,And I care not for the fall.I am willing to die when my time shall come,And I shall be glad to go—For the world, at best, is a dreary place,And my pulse is getting low;But the grave is dark, and the heart will failIn treading its gloomy way;And it wiles my heart from its dreariness,To see the young so gay.

BARNEY CORNWALL.

IInthe hollow tree, in the old gray tower,The spectral owl doth dwell;Dull, hated, despised, in the sunshine hour,But at dusk he's abroad and well;Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him,All mock him outright by day;But at night, when the woods grow still and dim,The boldest will shrink away;O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl,Then, then, is the reign of the horned owl.

Inthe hollow tree, in the old gray tower,The spectral owl doth dwell;Dull, hated, despised, in the sunshine hour,But at dusk he's abroad and well;Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him,All mock him outright by day;But at night, when the woods grow still and dim,The boldest will shrink away;O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl,Then, then, is the reign of the horned owl.

THE KING OF THE NIGHT.

"THE KING OF THE NIGHT."

And the owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold,And loveths the woods deep gloom;And, with eyes like the shine of the moonstone cold,She awaiteth her ghastly groom;Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings,But when her heart heareth his flapping wings,She hoots out her welcome shrill;O, when the moon shines and the dogs do howl,Then, then, is the joy of the horned owl!Mourn not for the owl nor his gloomy plight;The owl hath his share of good:If a prisoner he be in broad daylight,He is lord in the dark green wood;Nor lonely the bird nor his ghastly mate,They are each unto each a pride;Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange, dark fateHath rent them from all beside;So, when the night falls and dogs do howl,Sing, ho! for the reign of the horned owl.We know not alwayWho are kings by day,But the king of the night is the bold brown owl.

THE KING OF THE NIGHT.

PHILLIP BAILEY.

OOH, ho, hum! my sakes alive!Where is my old 'rithmetic?Here 'tis: five times one are five.This most makes a fellow sick!Let me see: well, four times eight,Guess I'll have to take a look;I'mso sickof this old slate.Wish the scamp that made this bookHad to sleep on stacks of rules,Covered up with multiplication!Don't see who invented schools—Meanest things in all creation!

OH, ho, hum! my sakes alive!Where is my old 'rithmetic?Here 'tis: five times one are five.This most makes a fellow sick!Let me see: well, four times eight,Guess I'll have to take a look;I'mso sickof this old slate.Wish the scamp that made this bookHad to sleep on stacks of rules,Covered up with multiplication!Don't see who invented schools—Meanest things in all creation!

KEPT IN FOR STUDY.

It must be done before I go!To-morrow's lesson's harder still.—What's that! the boys are balling snow.Oh, dear! I wonder if I ever will,Think out this sum, in time for tea!

presson! surmount the rocky steeps;Climb boldly o'er the torrent's arch;He fails alone who feebly creeps;He wins who dares the hero's march.Be thou a hero! let thy mightTramp on eternal snows its way,And through the ebon walls of night,Hew down a passage unto day.

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FAIRIES—OR FIRE-FLIES.

MRS. S. M. B. PIATT.

LLet's see. We believe in wings,We believe in the grass and dew,We believe in the moon—and other things,That may be true.But are there any? Talk low.(Look! What is that eery spark?)If thereareany—why, there they go,Out in the dark.

Let's see. We believe in wings,We believe in the grass and dew,We believe in the moon—and other things,That may be true.But are there any? Talk low.(Look! What is that eery spark?)If thereareany—why, there they go,Out in the dark.

Nay, speak no ill, but lenient beTo others' failings as your own;If you're the first a fault to see,Be not the first to make it known;For life is but a passing day,No lip may tell how brief its span;Let's speak of all the best we can.

AN ALLEGORY.

LUCIE COBBE.

Manyyears ago, two little branches grew in a hedgerow; they were brothers, but their tastes were different. The younger one was lazy, and liked to stay in the shade; but the elder one kept pushing steadily upwards, and making all the haste to grow that he could.

He had seven leaves each side, but his brother had only three.

"Why can't you stay where you are?" said the younger one; "you are well in the middle of the hedge."

"I want to get higher," sighed the elder twig; "there is plenty to be seen outside."

And he kept growing taller and taller.

"You are going beyond us," cried his sister twigs, "bend down a little, brother."

"If I bent my back I should stop growing," said the twig; and he listened to catch their voices.

"Conceited fellow! he is trying to grow the tallest!" said some of the twigs; and a murmuring swept through the hedge.

One day more of pushing and striving, and he was nearly at the top of the hedge. He could no longer see his brother, but he called to him down through the branches.

"Brother, where are you?" he cried, "and what do you see down there?"

"I am wrapped up in softness," said the fair younger brother; "the green boughs are round me, the wind does not touch me—all round me is nothing but green. Just down below me grows a round, white daisy—oh, such a beautiful daisy! All the day long I am looking at her."

The first brother felt a little lonely when he heard all this, but the sun still drew him upward. The next day he was quite at the top of the hedge, and a head and shoulders taller than any of his brothers. The voice of his younger brother came up to him, but it sounded very faint and far away.

"Are you happy, brother, and what can you see up there?"

"I see the sky," said the elder twig; "there is blue all round me instead of green. I see trees that are taller than our hedge a great deal, and hills that are higher than all. I see white clouds like pillows, and birds that are lost in the clouds. Ah, I have longed for this! I feel a great joy and rapture to the end of my smallest leaf!"

"We don't know what you mean," said the younger one, "and there can't be anything higher than this hedge. And why do you speak so softly? We cannot hear half that you say."

"Insolent fellow! he is taller than any of us!" cried some of the twigs; but by this time he was too far off to hear their voices at all.

"I shall have a prize," said the twig to himself, "because I have grown so tall. What will it be? I will ask the swallow. Swallow, shall I have a gold crown?"

"No, not a crown," said the swallow, but something as good, I dare say. Far away down in the country I know of a twig like you. He grew far away from his fellows—so tall, and so strong, and so fair. He saw the world and all that was passing. He stretched right over the stile, and shaded those who sat there. He was painted by an artist, because hewas so lovely. And last of all a fair wild rose came and rested on his bosom."

"I shall get my reward," said the little twig; "my white rose will come at last."

Just then there came walking around the garden, the gardener with his great long shears.

"The hedge is growing uneven," he said; "here's a twig much longer than the rest."

Clip, clip, clip, went the great big shears, and the tallest twig lay broken in the dust!

"They are all of one size now, I am glad to see," said the gardener, and he went away contented to his work.

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Thatvery law which moulds the tear,And bids it trickle from its source,That law preserves this world a sphere,And guides the planets in their course!SAMUEL ROGERS: "TO A TEAR."

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THE TURK AND THE FIDDLER.—— GRIMM. There was once a rich farmer who had a faithful and diligent servant named Fritz. He was always the first up in the morning and last in bed at night, and whenever there was any hard work that others were averse to, he was always willing to do it. He was a good-natured fellow, but was content with everything, and was always cheerful. At the end of the first year his master gave him no wages, thinking to himself that thus he would not only save something, but would

not only save something, but would alsoretain the man in his service. To this Fritz never said a word, but stayed another year with him, working as hard as he had the first; and when at the close of the second twelve-month he still received no wages, he submitted to that too, and continued to serve on.

At the end of the third year his master bethought himself, and put his hand into his pocket as if to give him something, but took out nothing. Then Fritz said, "Master, I have worked hard for you these three years; pray give me now what is right for my trouble; I want to go out into the wide world, and look about me," The miser answered, "Yes, my good man, you have served me honestly and faithfully, and for this I will now reward you generously."

He then put his hand into his pocket, and took out three farthings, which he gave him, saying, "Here is a farthing for each year; this is a great and generous reward, such as you would not have got from any other master." The simple-hearted fellow, who knew very little about money, put the sum into his pocket, thinking to himself, "Now that my pocket is full of money, why should I plague myself with hard work any longer?"

So he set out, and roamed over hill and dale, singing and dancing with joy. One day, when passing by a bush, a dwarf popped out of it, andaccosted him, saying, "Whither away my merry fellow? I see your load of cares is not heavy to bear."

"Why should I be melancholy?" answered Fritz; "I have plenty of money; I have my three years' earnings safe in my pocket."

"How much may your treasure be?" said the dwarf. "How much? Three whole farthings," replied Fritz. "I wish you would give them to me," said the other; "I am very poor and needy, and can earn nothing; but you are young, and can easily work for your bread."

Then Fritz, who was very kind-hearted, took pity on the dwarf, and gave him his three farthings, saying, "Take them, I shall not be the worse off for the want of them," The dwarf then said, "As you have such a kind heart, I will grant you three wishes, one for each farthing; so choose whatever you like."

"My first wish," said Fritz, "is to have a fowling-piece that will bring down everything I shoot at; secondly, a fiddle that will set everyone dancing that hears me play on it; and thirdly, I should like to be able to make everyone grant me whatever I ask."

"All your wishes shall be fulfilled," said the dwarf. He thrust his hand into the bush, and only think! there lay the fiddle and the fowling-piece ready, as if they had been put there on purpose. So hegave them to Fritz, adding, "And whatever you ask for, nobody in the world shall ever refuse you."

"What else can my heart wish for?" said Fritz to himself; "I now have everything that I can desire;" and so he journeyed merrily on his way. He had not gone far before he met an old Turk, bearded like a goat, who was standing near a tree, listening to the sprightly song of a bird perched on its topmost branch.

"Oh, what a wonderful bird!" exclaimed the Turk; "how can such a little creature have such a powerful voice? Oh, if he were only mine! If one could but put salt on his tail and catch him!"

"If that's all," said Fritz, "I will soon bring him down."

So he took up his fowling-piece, and fired, when down came the bird into the thorn bushes that grew at the foot of the tree. "I will pick it up and keep it for myself, as you have hit it," said the Turk; and, laying himself down upon the ground, he began to work his way into the bush. But as soon as he had got into the middle of it, a fit of wanton playfulness seizing Fritz, he took up his fiddle, and gave him a tune, and the Turk began to dance and spring about; and the more lively thefiddler scraped, the more lively grew the dance.

The thorns soon began to tear the Turk's shabby clothes, comb his goat's beard, and scratch and wound him all over. "Oh, dear!" cried he, "mercy, mercy, master! pray stop your fiddling! I do not want to dance." But Fritz paid no heed, and only struck up another tune, thereby making the Turk cut and caper higher than ever, so that pieces torn out of his clothes, hung about the thorn.

"Oh, mercy!" cried the Turk, "do stop your fiddling, master! I will give you whatever you ask, a bagfull of gold, if you only will!"

"Ah! if you are as generous as that," said the man, "I will put up my fiddle; but I must say you are a capital dancer." He then took the offered purse, put up his fiddle, and traveled onward.

The Turk stood still looking after his tormentor for some time, and when he was almost out of sight, began to cry as loud as he could, "You miserable fiddler! you ale-house scraper! take care, if I get hold of you I will make you take to your heels; you beggarly knave! you ragamuffin!" And he went on loading him with all manner of abuse.

After having thus given vent to his feelings, he went to the judge, saying, "See, your honor, how I have been robbed and ill-used by arascal on the highway! the very stones might pity me. Do but look at the deplorable state I am in. My clothes are torn, my body is wounded and scratched; the little money I had is gone, purse and all! nothing but ducats, one piece finer than the other. For Heaven's sake, do have the fellow caught and imprisoned!"

The judge then asked him whether it was a soldier who had put him in that plight with his sword. "By no means," said the Turk; "he had no sword, but he had a fowling-piece hanging on his back, and a fiddle round his neck. The fellow may easily be recognized."

So the judge sent out his bailiffs in search of the man. They met the honest fellow walking slowly and carelessly on, and, on searching him, found the money-bag in question.

When he was taken before the judge he said, "I have not touched the Turk, nor have I taken away his money; he offered it me of his own free will, if I would but leave off playing the fiddle, as he could not bear my music."

"Not a word of truth in it!" cried the Turk, "those are bare-faced lies." And the judge not believing it either, said, "That is a very poor excuse;" and sentenced the poor man to the gallows for highwayrobbery.

As he was being taken away, the Turk cried after him, "You lubber! you shall now get your well-deserved punishment!" The poor man ascended the ladder very composedly, accompanied by the executioner; but when he had got up to the top of it, he turned round and addressed the judge, saying, "May it please your honor to grant me but one last request before I die!"

"Anything but your life," replied the other.

"I do not ask my life," said Fritz; "only let me play one tune upon my fiddle for the last time."

The Turk cried out, "Oh, no, no! for pity's sake don't let him! don't let him!" But the judge said, "Why should I not grant him this last request? He shall do so." The fact was, hecould notsay no, because the dwarf's third gift enabled Fritz to make everyone grant whatever he asked. Then the Turk said, "Bind me fast, bind me fast, bind me fast, for pity's sake!" But the condemned man seized his fiddle and struck up a merry tune; and at the first note, judge, clerks, and jailor were set agoing; at the second note, all began capering and the hangman let his prisoner go, and prepared to dance; at the third note all were dancing and springing together, and the judge and the Turk took the lead andsprang the highest.

In a little while all the market people who were looking on, old and young, stout and lean, were dancing together; even the very dogs that had come along with them were up on their hind legs, and were leaping along with the rest. And the longer the fiddler played, the higher the dancers capered, so that they knocked their heads together and began to cry out piteously.

At last the judge exclaimed, quite out of breath, "I grant you your life; do but give over playing." Then Fritz suffered himself to be persuaded, stopped playing, and, hanging his fiddle round his neck, came down the ladder. Then, stepping up to the Turk, who was lying breathless on the ground, he said, "You scoundrel! now confess where you got that money from, or I will take my fiddle down and make you dance to another tune." "I stole it, I stole it!" cried he; "but it is you who have won it fairly." The judge then had the Turk taken to the gallows and hung as a thief.

Thesober second thought is always essential, and seldom wrong.

MARTIN VAN BUREN.

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PAUL H. HAYNE.

MMamma's in Heaven! and so, you see,My sister Bet's mamma to me.Oh! yes, I love her!...that's to say,I love her well the whole brightday;For Sis is kind as kind can be,Until, indeed, we've finished tea—Then (whydidGod make ugly night?)She never,nevertreats me right.But always says, "Now Sleepy-Head,'Tis getting late! come up to bed!"Just when the others, Fred and Fay,Dolly and Dick, are keen for play,—Card-houses, puzzles, painted blocks,Cat-corner, and pert Jack-in-the-box—I must (it's that bad gas, I think,That makes me, somehow,seemto wink!)Mustleave them all, to seek the gloomOf sister Bet's close-curtained room,Put on that long, stiff gown I hate,And go to bed—oh, dear! at eight!

Mamma's in Heaven! and so, you see,My sister Bet's mamma to me.Oh! yes, I love her!...that's to say,I love her well the whole brightday;For Sis is kind as kind can be,Until, indeed, we've finished tea—Then (whydidGod make ugly night?)She never,nevertreats me right.But always says, "Now Sleepy-Head,'Tis getting late! come up to bed!"Just when the others, Fred and Fay,Dolly and Dick, are keen for play,—Card-houses, puzzles, painted blocks,Cat-corner, and pert Jack-in-the-box—I must (it's that bad gas, I think,That makes me, somehow,seemto wink!)Mustleave them all, to seek the gloomOf sister Bet's close-curtained room,Put on that long, stiff gown I hate,And go to bed—oh, dear! at eight!

GHOSTS.

"GHOSTS."

Now, is it fair that I who standTaller than Dolly by a hand,(I'll not believe, howe'er 'tis told,That Cousin Doll is ten years old!)And just because I'm only seven,Should be so teazed, yes, almostdriven,Soon as I've supped my milk and bread,To that old drowsy, frowsy bed?I've lain between the dusky posts,And shivered when I thought of ghosts;Or else have grown so mad, you know,To hear those laughing romps below,While there I yawned and stretched (poor me!)With one dim lamp for company.I've longed for courage, just to dareDress softly—then trip down the stair,And in the parlor pop my headWith "No, I will not stay a-bed!"I'll do it yet, all quick and bold,No matter how our Bet may scold,For oh! I'm sure it can't be rightTo keep me here each dismal night,Half scared by shadows grimly tallThat dance along the cheerless wallOr by the wind, with fingers chill,Shaking the worn-out window sill—One might as well be sick, or dead,As sent, by eight o'clock, to bed!

THERE IS NO DEATH..

LORD LYTTON.

TThereis no death! The stars go downTo rise upon some fairer shore;And bright in Heaven's jeweled crownThey shine forevermore.There is no death! The dust we treadShall change beneath the summer showersTo golden grain or mellowed fruit,Or rainbow-tinted flowers.The granite rocks disorganize,And feed the hungry moss they bear;The forest leaves drink daily life,From out the viewless air.There is no death! The leaves may fall,And flowers may fade and pass away;They only wait through wintry hours,The coming of the May.There is no death! An angel formWalks o'er the earth with silent tread;He bears our best loved things away;And then we call them "dead."He leaves our hearts all desolate,He plucks our fairest, sweetest, flowers;Transplanted into bliss, they nowAdorn immortal bowers.The bird-like voice, whose joyous tones,Made glad these scenes of sin and strife,Sing now an everlasting song,Around the tree of life.Where'er he sees a smile too bright,Or heart too pure for taint and vice,He bears it to that world of light,To dwell in Paradise.Born unto that undying life,They leave us but to come again;With joy we welcome them the same—Excepttheir sin and pain.And ever near us, though unseen,The dear immortal spirits tread;For all the boundless universeIs life—there are no dead.

Thereis no death! The stars go downTo rise upon some fairer shore;And bright in Heaven's jeweled crownThey shine forevermore.There is no death! The dust we treadShall change beneath the summer showersTo golden grain or mellowed fruit,Or rainbow-tinted flowers.The granite rocks disorganize,And feed the hungry moss they bear;The forest leaves drink daily life,From out the viewless air.There is no death! The leaves may fall,And flowers may fade and pass away;They only wait through wintry hours,The coming of the May.There is no death! An angel formWalks o'er the earth with silent tread;He bears our best loved things away;And then we call them "dead."He leaves our hearts all desolate,He plucks our fairest, sweetest, flowers;Transplanted into bliss, they nowAdorn immortal bowers.The bird-like voice, whose joyous tones,Made glad these scenes of sin and strife,Sing now an everlasting song,Around the tree of life.Where'er he sees a smile too bright,Or heart too pure for taint and vice,He bears it to that world of light,To dwell in Paradise.Born unto that undying life,They leave us but to come again;With joy we welcome them the same—Excepttheir sin and pain.And ever near us, though unseen,The dear immortal spirits tread;For all the boundless universeIs life—there are no dead.

THERE IS NO DEATH..

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OR THE STORY OF THE WOODEN HORSE.

Troywas one of the most noted cities of ancient times, and was situated in the northwestern part of Asia Minor.

Much of its history is obscured by uncertainty and mystery, yet Homer in his Iliad has told the most interesting part of the history of this great city.

At the time of which Homer wrote, Priam was king of Troy, and Paris, his son, was, like many young men, always getting his father into trouble; the one of which we now write resulting in the complete destruction of Troy.

Paris went to visit the Grecian princes and kings, all of whom treated him in the most hospitable manner.

Helen, the most beautiful woman of the age, was the wife of Men-a-la-us, king of Sparta, and one day when her husband was away, she eloped with the handsome Paris, who took her to Troy.

When Men-a-la-us discovered what Paris had done, he called upon all the Greek princes and heroes to make war upon Troy and assist him in recovering the faithless Helen.

The command of the expedition was given to Ag-a-mem-non, brother of Men-a-la-us. The whole army set sail in twelve hundred ships and soon arrived at the port of Troy. The war lasted for ten years, and it was not till the last year that the Greeks succeeded in taking the city, and then only by strategy.

Paris was killed long before the war was over, but the Trojans would not then give up Helen, for two of his brothers had fallen in love with her, and so the war went on.

There was in Troy animagecalled the Pal-la-di-um, and the gods, some of whom helped the Greeks and some the Trojans, had decreed that so long as this image remained within the walls, Troy should never betaken.

When the Greeks found this out, they set to work to obtain the image. One night, Ulysses, the great hero, scaled the wall and stole the wonderful Pal-la-di-um. Still the city held out and it seemed impossible to take it.

At last the Greeks pretended to abandon the siege; their ships sailed away and it really seemed as though the long and bloody war was at an end.

The Trojans were filled with joy, and rushed out of the city and down to the shore. Judge of their surprise at finding an immensewooden horse, built of strong timbers and so large that it would require several thousand men to move it. Of course they did not understand it, but an old man named Sinon, who had been left on purpose by the Greeks, falsely said that the wooden horse was a sacred image and that if it were taken into Troy it would be the same to them as the image Ulysses stole at night.

Though warned of this man Sinon, they set to work and by means of rollers and pulleys the great horse was taken inside the walls.

Then followed one of the most dreadful massacres. The horse was full of Greeks armed with torches and lances. As soon as night fell, theyopened a secret door in the horse and were quickly upon the sleeping Trojans. The Greek ships, which really were hiding along the coast, returned, and the soldiers poured in at the gates, which had been opened by their allies from the great horse. With torch and lance the city was soon in flames, and its defenders struggling against fearful odds.

The morning found Troy in ashes, her wealth in the hands of the Greeks, and her inhabitants dead or in slavery.

Priam was slain at his own family altar, and the beautiful but perfidious Helen, the cause of so much bloodshed and misery, the cause of the overthrow of one of the greatest cities of ancient times, was taken captive by her former people.

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Think for thyself—one good idea,But known to be thine own,Is better than a thousand gleanedFrom fields by others sown.WILSON.

WILSON.

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