Just put your hand upon its back,
Mamma; how nice and warm:
There, pretty lamb, you see I don't
Intend to do you harm.

Child's Book of Poetry.

WHAT WOULD PUSS SAY?

"What would our pussy say,

If she could only talk?"
She'd say she loved to play,

And scamper round the walk;
And when she's tired with play,
To lie upon the rug,
And sleep an hour away,

All cuddled up so snug.

When hungry, she would come
To ask me for her food;
Then eat till she was done,
And say 't was very good.
I'd tell her not to steal,

If she was left alone;
But guess that she can't feel
Sorry for doing wrong.

SUM OF THE COMMANDMENTS.

With all thy soul love God above,
And as thyself thy neighbor love.

RUN AND PLAY.

There, run away, you little things,
And skip, and jump, and play;
You have been quiet long enough,
So run away, I say.

John, you and Mary roll your hoops,
George on a stick can ride;

And Ann with Charlotte run a race,
Or any play beside.

The sweet, fresh air so softly blows,
So brightly shines the sun,
That active limbs and rosy cheeks
Will in the race be won.

For little boys and girls may sing,
And frisk, and jump, and play,
When work and lessons both are done;
So run away, I say.

SATURDAY NIGHT.

How pleasant is Saturday night,

When I've tried all the week to be good, Not spoken a word that was bad,

And obliged every one that I could. To-morrow the sweet Sabbath comes, Which our merciful Father hath given, That we may have rest from our work, And prepare for the Sabbath of heaven.

From "My Little Hymn-Book."

THE ORPHAN NOSEGAY-GIRL.

"A nosegay-who'll buy?" cried a sweet little child,

An orphan left friendless and poor;

"I've roses and pinks, and sweet-brier wild, And heaven will bless you thrice o'er.

Then pray buy my roses, indeed they're not dear;

Each bud shall be moistened with gratitude's tear.

"Oh pray buy my roses-for hard is my fate, My poor little sisters want bread;

Bestow but a mite, before 't is too late;

Our parents to heaven are fled.

Then pray buy my roses, indeed they're not dear;

Each bud shall be moistened with gratitude's tear.

THE LAMB'S LULLABY.

The pretty little lambs that lie
And sleep upon the grass,
Have none to sing them lullaby
But the night winds as they pass.

While I, a happy little maid,

Bid dear papa good-night;
And in my crib so warm am laid,
And tucked up snug and tight.

And then some pretty hymn Ann sings
Until to sleep I go;

But the young helpless lambs, poor things,
Have none to lull them so.

Haste, kind mamma, and call them here,
Where they'll be warm as I;

For in the chilly fields, I fear,
Before the morn they'll die.

MOTHER.

The lambs sleep in the fields, 't is true,

Without a lullaby;

And yet they are as warm as you
Beneath a summer sky.

They choose some dry and grassy spot,
Beneath the shady trees;

To other songs they listen not
Than the pleasant evening breeze.
And when the night is bitter cold,
The shepherd comes with care,
And leads them to his peaceful fold;
They 're safe and sheltered there.
How happy are the lambs, my love,
How safe and calm they rest;
But you a Shepherd have above,
Of all kind shepherds best.

His lambs he gathers in his arms,
And in his bosom bears:

How blest, how safe from all alarms,
Each child his love who shares!

Oh, if you'll be his gentle child,
And listen to his voice,
Be loving, dutiful, and mild,
How will mamma rejoice!

Mary Lundie Duncan.