He knew the time was coming
When he must needs be fed;
But, idling through the summer,
The sparrow now wants bread.

Child, feed him, he is hungry,
But take for thee this truth-
The spring of life is childhood,
Its summer day is youth.

Lay up in spring and summer
A store from learning's page,
For the autumn hour of manhood,

The winter time of age.

CHILD'S OWN Book.

A SUNDAY HYMN.

THIS is God's most holy day,
We must neither work nor play;
But we'll try to play and sing,
And to serve our heavenly King.

Oh, 'tis pleasant now to go
To our Saviour's house below;
And we hope to sing and love
In our Saviour's house above.

MRS. PARSON.

My dearest baby, go to sleep,
For now the bright round moon doth peep
On thy little snow-white bed,

And upon thy pretty head.

The silver stars are shining bright,

And bid my baby dear "Good night!"

And every bird has gone to rest

Long since in its little nest.

The lambs no longer run and leap,

But by the daisies lie asleep;

The flowers have closed their pretty eyes

Until the sun again shall rise.

H

HYMNS AND RHYMES.

DON'T KILL THE BIRDS,

DON'T kill the birds, the little birds
That sing about your door,
Soon as the joyous spring has come,
And chilling storms are o'er.

The little birds, how sweet they sing!
Oh, let them joyous live!

And do not seek to take their life,
Which you can never give.

Don't kill the birds, the pretty birds,

That play among the trees; 'Twould make the earth a cheerless place

To see no more of these.

The little birds-how fond they play;
Do not disturb their sport;
But let them warble forth their songs,
Till winter cuts them short.

Don't kill the birds, the happy birds,
That cheer the field and grove;
Such harmless things to look upon,
They claim our warmest love.

SONGS FOR LITTLE ONES.

OH, HARK! THE BABY CRIES,

Он, hark! Oh, hark! the baby cries, As on his little bed he lies:

He looks around, and mother's gone,

And he don't like to be alone.

But mother is coming,

Oh see how she's running,

To learn what the matter can be ;

But she soon will find out

What it is all about;

And how very sorry is she.

My little babe must never fret,
And put himself in such a pet;
But play with his fingers and his toes,
And lie very still when mother goes.

Now sister is coming,

I hear her running

To see what the matter can be ;
She has heard the loud cries,
And away how she flies,

For a dear loving sister is she.

Our little boy must never fret,

And put himself in such a pet,
But give us kisses, one, two, three:
Here, come! I'll take you on my knee.
Now see your dear mother,

And sister and brother,

Who always are loving and true;

And when they're away.

Lie still, laugh, and play,

They'll soon come again back to you.

SONGS FOR LITTLE ONES.