LOVE YOUR LITTLE BROTHER.

I had a little friend;

And every day he crept

In sadness to his brother's tomb,
And laid him down and wept.

And when I asked him why
He mourned so long and sore,

He answered through his tears," Because
I did not love him more.

"Sometimes I was not kind,

Or cross, or coldly spake;"

And then he turned away, and sobbed
As though his heart would break.

Brothers and sisters are a gift
Of mercy from the skies;
And may I always think of this
Whene'er they meet my eyes,

Be tender, good, and kind,

And love them in my heart,
Lest I should sigh with bitter grief,
When we are called to part.

Mrs. Sigourney.

THE ANTS.

A little black ant found a large grain of wheat, Too heavy to lift or to roll;

So he begged of a neighbor he happened to meet, To help it down into his hole.

I've got my own work to look after, said he'; You must shift for yourself, if you please; So he crawled off as selfish and cross as could be, And lay down to sleep at his ease.

Just then a black brother was passing the road,
And seeing his brother in want,

Came up and assisted him in with his load,
For he was a good-natured ant.

Let all who this story may happen to hear,
Endeavor to profit by it;

For often it happens that children appear'
As cross as the ant, every bit.

And the good-natured ant who assisted his brother

May teach those who choose to be taught, That if little insects are kind to each other, Then children most certainly ought.

Oh, Anna, this will never do,

This work is sadly done, my dear;

And then so little of it, too—

You have not taken pains, I fear. Oh, no, your work has been forgotten; Indeed, you hardly thought of that: I saw you roll your spool of cotton About the floor, to please the cat.

See, here are stitches straggling wide,
And others stretching down so far,
I'm very sure you have not tried
In this, at least, to please mamma.
The little girl who will not sew,

Must neither be allowed to play;
And now I hope, my love, that you
Will take more pains another day.

MY FATHER BLESSED ME.

My father raised his trembling hand,
And laid it on my head;

"God bless thee, O my son, my son!"
Most tenderly he said.

He died, and left no gems or gold :
But still I was his heir;

For that rich blessing which he gave
Became a fortune rare.

Still, in my weary hours of toil

To earn my daily bread,

It gladdens me in thought to feel
His hand upon my head.

Though infant tongues to me have said, "Dear father," oft since then,

Yet when I bring that scene to mind,

I'm but a child again.

THE ARK AND DOVE.
There was a noble ark,
Sailing o'er waters dark
And wide around;

Not one tall tree was seen,
Nor flower, nor leaf of green-
All, all was drowned.

Then a soft wing was spread,
And o'er the billows dread
A meek dove flew;
But on that shoreless tide,
No living thing she spied
To cheer her view.

So to the ark she fled,
With weary, drooping head,

To seek for rest:

Christ is thy ark, my love,

Thou art the tender dove;

Fly to his breast.

WHAT I HATE.

I hate to see a little girl

Mrs. Sigourney

That does not love to rise,

And have the water, fresh and sweet, Cover her face and eyes.