With a message to us, dear Willie,
That He loves us every day;

And that the flowers in his green bowers
Will never fade away.

There you would make us wreaths, Willie,
Such as you wear in heaven:

Oh! will you not come, and bring us some,
This holy Sunday even?

But now I have a thought, Willie,

As if our mother spoke

With her gentle spirit: I seemed to hear it,
Just as my thought awoke:

"God sent you flowers, sweet darlings, Sent them to Annie and you;

And I am beside you, and Willie shall guide you To where his flowers grew."

ANGER.

F. E. H.

ANGER is like a cloud that comes
And shades a pleasant sky:
No smiling sunbeam shineth o'er
A storm so dark and high.

FRESH FLOWERS.

TO LITTLE EDDIE.

God bless you, little Eddie!
Your mother's only boy;
The centre of your father's hopes,
The spring-tide of his joy.

You are a darling baby ;

Your eyes are brightly blue:

How pretty is your dimpled hand, And sweet your lips as dew!

How gently are you sleeping
Upon your mother's breast!
A pretty picture are ye two,
Of perfect Love and Rest.

As sweetly may you slumber,

When tired of childhood's play; As graceful may that mother look, When years have passed away!

And if, in life's bright noonday,
You breast the waves of care,
Oh! may your heart repose on God,
Borne up on wings of prayer.

And then, in life's last evening,
You'll calmly sink to rest,
To wake with rapture all untold,
And live for ever blest.

OBEDIENCE.

LITTLE children, who endeavor
Like our blessed Lord to be,
As you try, remember ever

How obedient was he.

If, like Jesus, pure and holy,

You your parents will obey,

You will grow more meek and lowly,

And more like him every day.

CHILD'S FRIEND.

CROFT

EXTRACT FROM CROFTON BOYS.

A CONVERSATION BETWEEN A MOTHER AND HER SON, A BOY OF EIGHT YEARS, WHOSE FOOT HAD BEEN SO SERIOUSLY INJURED BY THE CARELESSNESS OF A SCHOOLMATE, THAT IT WAS NECESSARY TO AMPUTATE IT.

"O MOTHER! if I am so lame, I can never be a soldier or a sailor: I can never go round the world!' 99 And Hugh burst into tears, now more really afflicted than he had been yet. His mother sat on the bed beside him, and wiped away his tears as they flowed; while he told her, as well as his sobs would let him, how long and how much he had reckoned on going round the world, and how little he cared for any thing else in the future; and now this was just the very thing he should never be able to do. He had practised climbing ever since he could remember, and now that was of no use; he had practised marching, and now he should never march again. When he had finished his complaint, there was a pause; and his mother said, "Hugh, do you remember Richard Grant?" "What, the cabinetmaker, the man who carved so beautifully?" "Yes. He had planned a most beautiful set of

carvings in wood for a chapel belonging to a nobleman's mansion. He was to be well paid, his work was so superior; and he would be able to make his parents comfortable, as well as his wife and children. But the thing he most cared for was the honor of producing a noble work which would outlive him. Well, at the very beginning of his task, his chisel flew up against his wrist; and the narrow cut that it made, not more than half an inch wide, made his right hand entirely useless for life. He could never again hold a tool; his work was gone; his business in life seemed over; the support of the whole family was taken away; and the only strong wish Richard Grant had in the world was disappointed." Hugh hid his face with his handkerchief, and his mother went on. "You have heard of Huber." "The man who found out so much about bees?" "Bees and ants. When Huber had discovered more than had ever been known before about bees and ants, and when he was sure he could learn more still, and was more and more anxious to peep and pry into their tiny homes, and their cunning ways, Huber became blind." Hugh sighed, and his mother went on. "Did you ever hear of Beethoven? He was one of the greatest musical composers that ever lived. His great, sole delight was in music.