EARLY RISING.

GET up, little sister: the morning is bright,
And the birds are all singing to welcome the

light;

The buds are all opening; the dew 's on the flower:

If you shake but a branch, see there falls quite a shower.

By the side of their mothers, look, under the trees, How the young lambs are skipping about as they please;

And by all those rings on the water, I know,
The fishes are merrily swimming below.

The bee, I dare say, has been long on the wing
To get honey from every flower of Spring;
For the bee never idles, but labors all day,
And thinks, wise little insect, work better than
play.

The lark's singing gaily; it loves the bright sun, And rejoices that now the gay Spring is begun;

For the Spring is so cheerful, I think 'twould be

wrong

If we do not feel happy to hear the lark's song.

Get up; for when all things are merry and glad, Good children should never be lazy and sad; For God gives us daylight, dear sister, that we May rejoice like the lark, and may work like the bee.

LADY FLORA HASTINGS.

THE TREES.

How slowly do the tall trees grow,—
A little every day;

And yet they soon grow large enough

To shade us in our play.

Then let us try each day some truth,
However small, to gain;

Then shall we grow more good and wise,
Nor spend our life in vain.

JULIA.

"COME THIS WAY, FATHER.”

DURING a short visit to the sea-shore of our State, some two years since, with a party of friends, it was proposed one bright afternoon, that we should make up a party, and go down the harbor on a fishing excursion. We accordingly started; and, after sailing about three miles, a young lady of the company declined going farther, and requested us to land her on one of the small islands in the harbor, where she proposed to stay until our return. My little boy, then about four years old, preferred remaining with her. Accordingly we left them, and proceeded some six miles farther. We remained out much longer than we intended; and, as night approached, a thick fog set in from the sea, entirely enshrouding us. Without compass, and not knowing the right direction to steer, we groped our way along for some hours, until finally we distinguished the breaking of the surf on the rocks of one of the islands, but were at a loss to know which one of them. I stood up in the stern of the boa

where I had been steering, and shouted with all my strength. I listened a moment, and heard, through the thick fog and above the breaking of the surf, the sweet voice of my boy calling, " Come this way, father!-steer straight for me;- I'm here waiting for you!" We steered by that sound, and soon my little boy leaped into my arms with joy, saying, "I knew you would hear me, father!" and nestled to sleep on my bosom. The child and the maiden are both sleeping now. They died in two short weeks after the period I refer to, with hardly an interval of time between their deaths. Now tossed on the rough sea of life, without compass or guide, enveloped in the fog and surrounded by rocks, I seem to hear the sound of that cherub-voice calling from the bright shore," Come this way, father!-steer straight for me!” When oppressed with sadness, I take my way to our quiet cemetery; still, as I stand by one little mound, the same musical voice echoes from thence: "Come this way, father! I'm waiting for thee!"

I remember a voice

Which once guided my way,
When, lost on the sea,
Fog-enshrouded I lay ;
"Twas the voice of a child,
As he stood on the shore,

I remember my joy
When I held to my breast
The form of that dear one,
And soothed it to rest;
For the tones of my child, -
"I called you, dear father,
And knew you would hear
The voice of your darling
Far o'er the dark sea,
While safe on the shore
I was waiting for thee!"

That voice now is hushed
Which then guided my way;
The form I then pressed

Is now mingling with clay :