FATHER IS COMING.

THE clock is on the stroke of six,
The father's work is done;

Sweep up the hearth and mend the fire,

And put the kettle on:

The wild night-wind is blowing cold, 'Tis dreary crossing o'er the wold.

He is crossing o'er the wold apace,
He is stronger than the storm;
He does not feel the cold, not he,
His heart it is so warm :

For father's heart is stout and true
As ever human bosom knew.

He makes all toil, all hardship, light:

Would all men were the same!
So ready to be pleased, so kind,
So very slow to blame!

Folks need not be unkind, austere;
For love hath readier will than fear.

Nay, do not close the shutters, child;

For far along the lane
The little window looks, and he
Can see it shining plain :

I've heard him say he loves to mark

The cheerful firelight through the dark.

And we'll do all that father likes;

His wishes are so few:

Would they were more! that every hour
Some wish of his I knew:

I'm sure it makes a happy day,
When I can please him any way.

I know he's coming by this sign,
That baby's almost wild;

See how he laughs and crows and stares
Heaven bless the merry child:

He's father's self in face and limb,
And father's heart is strong in him.

Hark! hark! I hear his footsteps now;
He's through the garden-gate:
Run, little Bess, and ope the door,

And do not let him wait.

Shout, baby, shout! and clap thy hands,

For father on the threshold stands.

MARY HOWITT.

THE CHILD'S PRAYER.

THE little girl is wearied with play;
And now, like the closing flower,
Her eyelids droop with the fading day,

And she welcomes the vesper hour:

With sunshine and gladness the day has been blest,

And now, like the dove, she returns to her nest.

With tender love her frock is untied,
As she sits in her mother's lap;
Her slippers and stockings are laid aside,
And arrayed in nightgown and cap,
She is kneeling down with a reverent air,
And softly repeating her evening prayer.

"Our Father," she says, "I am tired to-night;
Please take care of brother and me;
And let us awake with the morning light,
Our garden and Kitty to see."

The child is asleep in her own little bed,

And the angel of peace keeps its watch o'er her

head.

STAR CHILD.

In a pleasant chamber, close beside
A lofty window, deep and wide,

Stood a little bed, in whose bosom deep
A young boy went to his nightly sleep.
The window was as a crystal door,
Opening out on the silent night;

And the radiance of the clear star-light
Lay in white streaks on the chamber-floor,
And shone on the pillow and the bed,
And brightened the sleeper's beautiful head.

And all the night, as one by one,

The shining stars went up the sky,

They paused, and looked through that window

high;

And as each and every star in turn,

Like a crown of silver lustre shone,

Round the head of the boy, more still and deep, More starry and bright, grew his innocent sleep.

One night he awoke, and one star alone. Through that lofty casement was shining down :

He gazed and he gazed, till it grew like an eye, Placid and clear, in the midnight sky;

Then the boy looked trustfully up and smiled, And the star looked brightly back to the child.

The morrow he went to his pictures and play;
But ever and often he turned him away,
And smiled to his thought, as though a fair dream
Were passing him and his sports between.
The mother questions him gently the while,
"Why does my boy look upward and smile?"
"O mother! O mother! I would you might see
The beautiful angel that's watching me."

STUDIES IN RELIGION.