PICTURES IN THE GLASS.

ROSY-FACED, fair-headed

Laughing boy and girl;
Dolly with the china eyes,
Hair all out of curl;
Baby in the cradle,

Lamb so fair and white

'Tis a pretty picture,

'Tis a pleasant sight.

Children sweetly smiling,
Cherubs full of glee,
Very precious darlings
Are you both to me;
May God keep you ever
In His loving care,

Pure as little angels,

Tender, good, and fair!

PETER AND THE POKER.

POOR Peter was burnt by the poker one day,
When he made it look pretty and red;
The beautiful sparks made him think it fine play
To lift it as high as his head.

But somehow it happened his finger and thumb
Were dreadfully scorched with the heat;

So he screamed out aloud for his mother to come, And stamped on the floor with his feet.

Now if Peter had minded his mother's command, His fingers would not have been sore;

So he promised again, as she bound up his hand, To play with hot pokers no more.

IMPORTANCE OF TRIFLES.

LITTLE drops of water,
Little grains of sand,
Make the mighty ocean,
And the beauteous land.

And the little moments,
Humble though they be,
Make the mighty ages
Of eternity.

So our little errors
Lead the soul away

From the paths of virtue,
Oft in sin to stray.

Little deeds of kindness,

Little words of love, Make our earth an Eden, Like the heaven above. Little seeds of mercy,

Sown by youthful hands, Grow to bless the nations, Far in heathen lands.

THE POET, THE OYSTER,

SENSITIVE PLANT.

AN oyster, cast upon the shore,

AND THE

Was heard, though never heard before,
Complaining in a speech well worded,
And worthy thus to be recorded:-
"Ah, hapless wretch! condemned to dwell
For ever in my native shell;

Ordained to move when others please,

Not for my own content or ease;
But tossed and buffeted about,
Now in the water, and now out.
"Twere better to be born a stone,
Of ruder shape, and feeling none,
Than with a tenderness like mine,
And sensibilities so fine!

I envy that unfeeling shrub,
Fast rooted against every rub."
The plant he meant grew not far off,
And felt the sneer with scorn enough;

Was hurt, disgusted, mortified,
And with asperity replied-
"You shapeless nothing in a dish,
You that are but almost a fish,
I scorn your coarse insinuation,
And have most plentiful occasion
To wish myself the rock I view,
Or such another dolt as you ;
For many a grave and learned clerk,
And many a gay unlettered spark,
With curious touch examines me,
If I can feel as well as he;

And when I bend, retire, and shrink,
Says, 'Well, tis more than one would think!'
Thus life is spent (oh, fie upon 't!)

In being touched, and crying, 'Don't!'".
A poet, in his evening walk,

O'erheard and checked this idle talk..
"And your fine sense," he said, “and yours,
Whatever evil it endures,

Deserves not, if so soon offended,,

Much to be pitied or commended..

Disputes, though short, are far too long,
Where both alike are in the wrong;
Your feelings in their full amount,
Are all upon your own account.
You, in your grotto work enclosed,
Complain of being thus exposed;
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,.
Save when the knife is at your throat,
Wherever driven by wind or tide,,
Exempt from every ill beside..

And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
Who reckon every touch a blemish,
If all the plants, that can be found
Embellishing the scene around,

Should droop and wither where they grow,