BIRDSNEST.

A little bird built a warm nest in a tree,
And laid some blue eggs in it, one, two, three.
And then very glad and delighted was she.

And after a while, but how long I can't tell,
The little ones crept, one by one, from the shell,
And their mother was pleased, for she loved
them all well.

She spread her soft wings o'er them all the day long

To warm them and guard them, her love was

so strong;

Her mate sat beside her,

and sung her a song.

One day the wee birds were all crying for food, So off flew their mother away from her brood; And up came some boys who were wicked and rude.

They pulled the warm nest down away from the tree;

The little ones cried, but they could not get free;
So at last they all died away, one, two, three.

When back to the nest the poor mother did fly,
Oh then she set up a most piteous cry;
And she mourned a long while, then lay down
to die.

Who often with me kindly played,
And all my little playthings made,
My kite and ball-though still unpaid?
My brother.

Who made a sled when winter came,
With little ropes to draw the same,
And on its sides carved out my name?
My brother.

And who was it that taught to me.

The way to read my A, B, C,

And marked them on the slate for me?

My brother.

Who gathered apples from the tree,
Chestnuts and walnuts too, for me:
Who cheerful did all this? but thee,
My brother.
Then may I ever grateful be

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And ne'er withdraw my love from thee,

My brother.

A GOOD-NIGHT SONG.

Taylor.

To bed, to bed, my curly head,
To bed, and sleep so sweetly;
Merry and bright, with the morning light
Be up, and dressed so neatly.

Then for a walk, and a pleasant talk

About the birds and flowers; And all the day, in work and play, We'll pass the happy hours. And then to bed, to rest the head, And sleep until the morrow: May every day thus glide away, Without a shade of sorrow.

THE FLY.

'Twas God that made the little fly;

My mother tells me, God has said
We must not hurt what God has made;
For God is very kind and good,

And gives e'en little flies their food;
And he loves every little child

Who is kind-hearted, good, and mild.

THE BUTTERFLY.

The butterfly, an idle thing,

Nor honey makes, nor yet can sing,
Like busy bee, and bird;

Nor does it, like the prudent ant,
Lay up the grain for times of want-
A wise and cautious hoard.

My youth is but a summer's day;
Then like the bee and ant, I'll lay

A store of learning by;

And while from flower to flower I rove,
My stock of wisdom I'll improve,
Nor be a butterfly.

Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber;
Holy angels guard thy bed;
Heavenly blessings without number,
Gently falling on thy head.

Sleep, my babe, thy food and raiment,
House and home, thy friends provide;

All without thy care, or payment,
All thy wants are well supplied.