And shine out in happy overflow,
From her blue, bright eyes.

By her snow-white cot at close of day,
Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to pray:
Very calm and clear

Rose the praying voice to where, unseen,
In blue heaven, an angel shape serene
Paused awhile to hear.

"What good child is this," the angel said,
"That, with happy heart, beside her bed
Prays so lovingly?"

Low and soft, oh! very low and soft, Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft, "Bell, dear Bell!" crooned he.

"Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair Murmured, "God doth bless with angels' care; Child, thy bed shall be

Folded safe from harm. Love, deep and kind, Shall watch around, and leave good gifts behind, Little Bell, for thee."

PRAYING AND LOVING.

S. T. COLERIDGE. FROM "THE ANCIENT MARINER."

He prayeth best who loveth best

All things, both great and small,
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.

THE ANGEL'S WHISPER.

SAMUEL LOVER.

A BABY was sleeping;

Its mother was weeping;

For her husband was far on the wild raging sea;
And the tempest was swelling

Round the fisherman's dwelling,

And she cried, "Dermot, darling, Oh, come back to me!"

Her beads while she numbered

The baby still slumbered,

And smiled in her face as she bended her knee. "Oh, blest be that warning,

That sweet sleep adorning,

For I know that the angels are whispering to thee!

"And while they are keeping
Bright watch o'er thy sleeping,

Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me!
And say thou wouldst rather

They'd watch o'er thy father,

For I know that the angels are whispering to thee."

The dawn of the morning

Saw Dermot returning,

And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see; And closely caressing

66

Her child with a blessing,

Said, "I knew that the angels were whispering with

thee."

THE LITTLE NURSE.

FROM THE FRENCH OF MME. TASTU. TRANSLATED AND ARRANGED BY THE EDITORS.

My mother has but just gone out;
She'll come back soon, she said,
And bade me stay till then about,
To watch your curly head.

Indeed I wish that she were here;

Why won't you smile, oh, why?
Don't cry, my little brother dear;
O baby, don't you cry!

What is there that you'd like of mine?
Look, see the carriage come!

Or shall I knock the window pane
And beat it like a drum?

Oh, dear! will nothing make you good?
Stop quick, or I shall fly!
Don't cry, my little brother dear,
O baby, please don't cry!

I know a story, nice and long;

I'll tell it if

you will!

I know a lovely, lovely song;

I'll sing if you'll be still!

No; nothing yet but scream and tear:

Oh, fie upon you, fie!

Don't cry, my little brother dear;

O baby, don't you cry!

You naughty, naughty little child!
Alas! what shall I do?
I'll pray to Holy Mary mild,
She had a baby too-

Oh, joy! here comes our mother!
Oh, how relieved am I!
Don't cry, dear little brother,
Please, baby, don't you cry!

THE COMMON QUESTION.

JOHN G. WHIttier.

BEHIND us at our evening meal
The gray bird ate his fill,
Swung downward by a single claw,
And wiped his hooked bill.

He shook his wings and crimson tail
And set his head aslant,

And, in his sharp, impatient way,
Asked, "What does Charlie want?"

"Fie, silly bird!" I answered, "tuck
Your head beneath your wing,
And go to sleep";-but o'er and o'er
He asked the self-same thing.

Then, smiling, to myself I said:
How like are men and birds!
We all are saying what he says,
In action and in words.

The boy with whip and top and drum,
The girl with hoop and doll,

And men with lands and houses, ask
The question of poor Poll.

However full, with something more
We fain the bag would cram ;
We sigh above our crowded nets
For fish that never swam.

No bounty of indulgent Heaven
The vague desire can stay;
Self-love is still a Tartar mill,
For grinding prayers alway.

The dear God hears and pities all,
He knoweth all our wants;
And what we blindly ask of Him,
His love withholds or grants.

And so I sometimes think our prayers

Might well be merged in one;

And nest and perch, and hearth and church, Repeat, "Thy will be done!"

A LITTLE GOOSE.

ELIZA SPROAT TURNER.

THE chill November day was done,

The working world home faring;

The wind came whistling through the streets And set the gas-lamps flaring;