When she put away her shawl,
Nicely laying by her book,
She had only once to look
In its place to find her doll
Snugly there:

She could shut her smiling eyes,
Sure to find her pretty prize.

See her books; - how clean they are!
Corners not turned down, I know.
There's a marker, made to show
In her lessons just how far.
Dog-eared books

Are a certain sign to me
That the girl must careless be.

She's as tidy as a pink!

Clean and neat, and gentle too; If you take her actions through, Just the same, I know, you'll think. School or home,

Tasks or play,

Books or toys,

Every way,

Order keeps this loving girl,

With her auburn hair a-curl.

W. O. BOURne.

LITTLE CHILD'S MORNING HYMN.

THE morning bright,

With rosy light,

Has waked me from my sleep;

Father, I own,

Thy love alone

Thy little one doth keep.

All through the day,

I humbly pray,

Be thou my guard and guide;

My sins forgive,

And let me live,

Blest Jesus! near thy side.

O make thy rest

Within my breast,
Great Spirit of all grace:

Make me like thee,

Then shall I be

Prepared to see thy face.

"SWEET MOLLY."

"SWEET Molly" is a favorite;
And, though but two years old,
Most beautiful the qualities.
Her opening days unfold.

And when her brother Charlie
His father dear annoys;
(For he is often troublesome,
Like other little boys;

And though an honest fellow,
A true, kind-hearted lad,
His best defenders must allow
His table-manners bad;)

So when, with merited reproof,

He sits in sad disgrace,

"Sweet Moll," with loving tenderness,

Will seek her father's face,

And say in lisping accents,
While o'er her sunny brow
There comes a shade of pity,
"Dear Charlie good boy now."

So when our sins are pressing
Upon our hearts like stone,
And conscience sends us sorrowing
To mourn our faults alone, -

May God's own Best-beloved

Repeat with love divine,

"He sorrows, and would sin no more: Forgive this child of thine.”

"HE THAT RULETH HIS SPIRIT IS BETTER THAN HE THAT TAKETH A CITY."

"I HAVE a quantity of sewing that must be done this spring. I wish you were well, and could assist me, my daughter," said Mrs. Weld to a pale, delicate, little girl, who was reading at her side. Amy sighed mournfully, "I sincerely wish I could, mother: how useless I am!" She sat gazing at her mother, who was examining a pile of unfinished work; the neglected book she had been reading fell to the floor; her mother looked up, and saw tears falling quick and fast from Amy's eyes.

"O mother!" she said, amid her sobs, "I am of no use to any one in the world; I have no bodily strength; I have no brilliant talents; doctor tells me, I must not sit and sew; what can I do, dear mother, to benefit one single being?" She did not hear the merry shout of little George, who entered the room from school, his satchel slung over his shoulder, the happiest of the happy. He stopped, and gazed a moment most sadly at