And I'll not look to see what the kitten is doing, Nor yet think of any thing else but my sewing. I'm sorry I've idled so often before,

But I hope I shall never do so any more: Mamma will be pleased when she sees how I mend,

And have done this long seam from beginning

to end.

PRETTY BEE.

Taylor.

Pretty bee, pray tell me why

Thus from flower to flower you fly,
Culling sweets the livelong day,

Never leaving off to play.

Little child, I'll tell you why
Thus from flower to flower I fly:
Let the truth thy thoughts engage
From thy youth to riper age.

Summer flowers will soon be o'er;
Winter comes, they bloom no more:
Fairest days will soon be past;
Brightest suns will set at last.

Little child, now learn of me:
Let thy youth thy seed-time be;
Then, when wintry age has come,
Richly bear thy harvest home.

I asked a sweet robin, one morning in May, Who sung in the apple-tree over the way, What 't was she was singing so sweetly about, For I'd tried a long time, but could not find out : "Why, I'm sure," she replied, "you cannot guess wrong;

Don't you know I am singing a temperance song?

"Teetotal-O that's the first word of my lay; And then don't you see how I twitter away?

'Tis because I've just dipped my beak in the

spring,

And brushed the fair face of the lake with my

wing.

Cold water, cold water, yes, that is my song, And I love to keep singing it all the day long.

"And now, my sweet miss, wont you give me a crumb;

For the dear little nestlings are waiting at home?

And one thing besides; since my story you've

heard,

I hope you'll remember the lay of the bird; And never forget, while you list to my song, All the birds to the cold-water army belong."

E. P. Hood's Temperance Melodies.

THE CHILD IN HEAVEN.

A little child who loves to pray,
And read his Bible too,

Shall rise above the sky one day,

And sing as angels do;

Shall live in heaven, that world above,

Where all is joy and peace and love.

Look up, dear children, see that star,
Which shines so brightly there;
But you shall brighter shine by far,
When in that world so fair:

A harp of gold you each shall have,
And sing the power of Christ to save.

THE MERRY FLY.

My merry little fly, play here,
And let me look at you;

I will not touch you, though you're near,
As naughty children do.

I see you spread your pretty wings,
That sparkle in the sun:

I see your legs-what tiny things;
And yet how fast they run!
You walk along the ceiling now,
And down the upright wall:
I'll ask mamma to tell me how
You walk and do not fall.

'T was God that taught you, little fly,
To walk along the ground,
And mount above my head so high,
And frolic round and round.

I'll near you stand, to see you play;
But do not be afraid:

I would not lift my little hand

To hurt what God has made.

Mary Lundie Duncan

WE ARE SEVEN.

I met a little cottage girl,

She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head.

"Sisters and brothers, little maid,

How many may you be?" "How many? seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me.