CHILDREN.

CHILDREN, lift your voices,
For ever round me sing;
My grey-grown heart rejoices,
Blooms out like meads of spring
When you, singing, flit around me,
Like linnets on the wing.

You are sweet-voiced teachers,
Unknowing bit of art;
Heaven-inspired preachers
Whose pulpit is the heart;
Oh, nought of good were left on earth,
Should you from it depart.

Would that sorrow never

Should dim your laughing eyes!

Pity that time ever

Should make you worldly wise, Bow and bind to earth pure souls, Whose home is in the skies.

When wee white feet chase me
Round my old arm-chair;
When white arms embrace me,
And white hands smooth my hair,
I think I hear the angels' wings
A-rustling in the air.

Sing, dear children, ever,

Around my weary feet,

To strengthen my endeavour

To reach Christ's sweet retreat

The happy Land of Promise,

Where all of us shall meet.

THE SQUIRREL.

SQUIRREL, Squirrel, hop and hop,
Up and up, to the green tree top;
Ah, I can see you up there on that bough,
Sitting right over my head you are now,
What have you there in your little red paws?

Is it a beech-nut, or acorn, or what? ·

Is it a tempting brown filbert you've got?
Sharp eyes, you bushy tail, chattering up there,
You and your wife live well, up in the air;
That you know better than I, I suppose;
Ah, I don't want the shells down on my nose!
Oh, what a jump! don't you fear that you'll fall?
Well done, that's better, and that best of all!
Where do you live? merry squirrel, tell me,
In some great hollow in this great tree?
In it, pa says, a nice warm bed you form;
With moss you stuff it so cosy and warm;
And that you've stores of nice nuts in holes near,
For breakfasts and dinners when winter is here.
And while I'm talking your bright eyes I see;
What are you thinking now, squirrel of me?
W. C. BENNETT.