"For them to fear us is but natʼral and just,

Who in less than a moment could tread them to

dust;

But certainly we have no cause for alarm,

For e'en if they tried they could do us no harm.

"Now look—it has got to its home, do you see?
What a fine curious web it has wove in the tree!
Now this, my dear Ann, is a lesson for you,
Only see what Industry and Patience can do!

"So when at your bus'ness you idle and play, Recollect what you've seen of this insect to-day, For fear it should even be found to be true

That a poor

little spider is better than you."

JANE TAYLOR.

TO A HEDGE-SPARROW.

LITTLE flutt'rer! swiftly flying,

Here is none to harm thee near;
Kite, nor hawk, nor schoolboy prying;
Little flutt'rer! cease to fear.

One who would protect thee ever

From the schoolboy, kite, and hawk,

Musing, now obtrudes, but never

Dreamt of plunder in his walk.

He no weasel, stealing slyly,
Would permit thy eggs to take;
Nor the polecat, nor the wily
Adder, nor the writhed snake.

May no cuckoo, wandering near thee,
Lay her egg within thy nest;
Nor thy young ones, born to cheer thee,
Be destroy'd by such a guest!

Little flutt'rer! swiftly flying,

Here is none to harm thee near; Kite, nor hawk, nor schoolboy prying; Little flutt'rer! cease to fear.

ANTHOLOGY.

THE RISING MOON.

THE moon is up! How calm and slow She wheels above the hill!

The weary winds forget to blow,

And all the world lies still.

The way-worn travellers with delight
The rising brightness see,
Revealing all the paths and plains,
And gilding every tree.

It glistens where the hurrying stream

Its little ripple leaves;

It falls upon the forest shade,
And sparkles on the leaves.

So once on Judah's evening hills
The heavenly lustre spread;
The gospel sounded from the blaze,
And shepherds gazed with dread.

And still that light upon the world
Its guiding splendour throws:
Bright in the opening hours of life,
But brighter at the close.

The waning moon in time shall fail
To walk the midnight skies;

But God hath kindled this bright light

With fire that never dies.

W. O. P. PEABODY.

THE FAIRIES' SONG.

COME, follow, follow me,
Ye fairy elves that be;
Light tripping o'er the green
Come, follow Mab, your queen!
Hand in hand we'll dance around,
For this place is Fairy ground.

When mortals are at rest
And snoring in their nest,
Unheard and unespied

Through keyholes we do glide;
Over tables, stools, and shelves
We trip it with our Fairy elves.

Then o'er a mushroom's head
Our table-cloth we spread;
A grain of rye or wheat
The diet that we eat;

Pearly drops of dew we drink
In acorn-cups fill'd to the brink.

The grasshopper, gnat, and fly,
Serve for our minstrelsy.

Grace said, we dance awhile,

And so the time beguile :

And if the moon doth hide her head,
The glow-worm lights us home to bed.

O'er tops of dewy grass

So nimbly do we pass,

The young and tender stalk

Ne'er bends where we do walk;

Yet in the morning may be seen

Where we the night before have been.

SHAKESPEARE.

I

GUESS WHAT I HAVE HEARD.

DEAR Mother, guess what I have heard!
Oh, it will soon be spring!
I'm sure it was a little bird:
Mother, I heard him sing.

Look at this little piece of green peeps out from the snow,

That

As if it wanted to be seen,—

'Twill soon be spring, I know.

And oh, come here, come here and look!
How fast it runs along!-
Here is a cunning little brook;
Oh, hear its pretty song!

I know 'tis glad the winter's gone
That kept it all so still,

For now it merrily runs on,

And goes just where it will.

I feel just like the brook, I know;
It says, it seems to me,-

"Good-by, cold weather, ice, and snow;

Now girls and brooks are free,"