HOW THE GATES CAME AJAR. FROM THE ITALIAN. It was whispered one morning in heaven In the shade of the great, white portal, "O angel, sweet angel! I pray you, Only a little, I pray you, Set the beautiful gates ajar! "I can hear my mother weeping; Spoke low and answered: "I dare not Then rose up Mary the Blessed, Fell ringing the golden bar; And lo! in the little child's fingers "And this key, for further using, Tenderest heart in heaven. GOOD CHEER. CHARLOTTE BRONTÉ. LIFE, believe, is not a dream, Sometimes there are clouds of gloom, If the shower will make the roses bloom, Oh, why lament its fall? Rapidly, merrily, Life's sunny hours fit by; Gratefully, cheerily, Enjoy them as they fly. THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY. W. M. THACKERAY. THE rose upon my balcony, the morning air perfuming, Was leafless all the winter time and pining for the Spring. You ask me why her breath is sweet and why her cheek is blooming, It is because the sun is out, and birds begin to sing. The nightingale, whose melody is through the greenwood ringing, Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds were blowing keen. And if, Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing, It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are green. Thus each performs his part, Mamma, the birds have found their voices, The blowing rose a flush, Mamma, her bonny cheek to dye; And there's sunshine in my heart, Mamma, which wakens and rejoices, And so I sing and blush, Mamma, and that's the reason why. NESTS. JOHN RUSKIN. MAKE yourselves nests of pleasant thoughts! None of us yet know, for none of us have been taught in early youth, what fairy palaces we may build of beautiful thoughts, proof against all adversity; bright fancies, satisfied memories, noble histories, faithful sayings, treasure-houses of precious and restful thoughts, which care cannot disturb, nor pain make gloomy, nor poverty take away from us; houses built without hands, for our souls to live in. "ELIZABETH, AGED NINE." MAGARET E. SANGSTER. OUT of the way in a corner An oaken chest is standing With hasp and padlock and key- When the winter days are dreary, From the attic corner dim, Where the chest holds fast its treasure, Robes of an antique fashion — Linen and lace and silk That time has tinted with saffron, Though once they were white as milk; Wonderful baby garments, Broidered, with loving care, By fingers that felt the pleasure A sword, with the red rust on it, And all by itself the sampler, Faded the square of canvas, But I think of white hands dimpled, For here in cross and tent stitch, In and out in the sunshine The little needle flashed, And out and in on the rainy day When the sullen drops down plashed, |