THE BEST USE OF A PENNY.

Should you wish to be told the best use of a penny,
I'll tell you a way that is better than any:
Not on apples, or cakes, or play things to spend it,
But over the seas to the heathen to send it.
Come, listen to me, and I'll tell, if you please,
Of some poor little children far over the seas.
Their color is dark, for our God made them thus;
But he made them with bodies and feelings
like us:

A soul, too, that never will die, has been given, And there's room for these children with Jesus

in heaven.

But who will now tell of such good things as these To the poor little heathen far over the seas?

Little boys in this land are well off indeed : They have schools every day, where they sing, write, and read;

To church they may go, and have pastors to teach

How the true way to heaven through Jesus to

reach:

Yet, sad to remember, there are few of these For the poor little heathen far over the seas.

O, think then of this when a penny is given, "I can help a poor child on his way home to heaven;"

Then give it to Jesus, and he will approve, Nor scorn e'en the mite, if 't is offered in love: And Oh, when in prayer you to him bend your knees,

Remember the children far over the seas.

Tell me, mamma, if I must die
One day, as little baby died,
And look so very pale, and lie

Down in the graveyard by his side?

Shall I leave dear papa and you,
And never see you any more?
Tell me, mamma, if this is true;
I did not know it was before.

MOTHER.

'Tis true, my love, that you must die; The God who made you says you must: And every one of us shall lie,

Like the dear baby in the dust.

These hands, and feet, and busy head Shall waste and crumble quite away; But though your body shall be dead, There is a part which can't decay.

"I MUST DIE."

I am young, but I must die;
In my grave I soon shall lie:
Am I ready now to go,
If the will of God be so?

Lord, prepare me for my end,
To my heart thy Spirit send;
Help me, Jesus, thee to love,
Take my soul to heaven above.

Then I shall with Jesus be,
Then I shall my Saviour see;
Never more have any pain,
Never more shall sin again.

DEATH AND THE RESURRECTION.

How still the baby's lying,

I cannot hear its breath:
They told me he was dying;
They tell me this is death.
My little song-book bringing,
I sat down by his bed

To soothe his pains by singing—
They hushed me: he was dead.

They say that he will, rising,
More beautiful appear:
The story is surprising;
Explain it, mother dear.
"Dear daughter, you remember
The cold, dark thing you brought,
One morning in September-
A withered worm, you thought.

"I told you God had power
That withered shell to break,

And from it in an hour

A lovely form to take.
And now you see before you
The empty casement lies,
And, robed in splendor, o'er you

The new-born being flies."