Do thy little; God hath made
Million leaves for forest shade;
Smallest stars their glory bring-
God employeth every thing.

Do thy little, and when thou
Feelest on thy pallid brow,
Ere has fled the vital breath,

Cold and damp, the sweat of death,

Then the little thou hast done-
Little battles thou has won,
Little masteries achieved,

Little wants with care relieved,
Little words with love expressed,

Little wrongs at once confessed,
Little favors kindly done,

Little toils thou didst not shun,
Little graces meekly worn,

Little slights with patience borne

These shall crown thy pillowed head,

Holy light upon thee shed;

These are treasures that shall rise

Far beyond the smiling skies.

THE UNBELIEVER.

[With force.]

I pity the unbeliever-one who can gaze upon the grandeur, the glory and beauty of the natural universe and behold not the touches of His finger, who is over and with all and above all; from my very heart I do commiserate his condition.

The unbeliever! on whose intellect the light of revelation never penetrated; who can gaze upon the sun, and moon, and stars, and upon the unfading and imperishable sky, spread out so magnificently above him, and say all this is the work of

chance.

The heart of such a being is a drear and cheerless void. In him mind-the Godlike gift of intellect-is debased, destroyed, all is dark-a fearful, chaotic labyrinth, rayless, cheerless, hopeless!

A LITTLE GOOSE.

ELIZA S. TURNER.

[In a simple, descriptive vein.]

The chill November day was done,
The working world home faring,
The wind came roaring through the streets
And set the gas lamps flaring.

And hopelessly and aimlessly

The seared old leaves were flying,
When, mingled with the sighing wind,
I heard a small voice crying,

And shivering on the corner stood

! A child of four or over;

No hat or cloak her small soft arms

1 Or wind-blown curls to cover.

Her dimpled face was stained with tears;
Her round blue eyes ran over;

She crushed within her wee, cold hands
A bunch of faded clover.

And one hand round her treasures,

While she slipped in mine the other,
Half scared, half confidential, said
"Oh! please, I want my mother."

"Tell me your street and number, pet;
Don't cry, I'll take you to it,"
Sobbing, she answered, "I forget-
The organ made me do it."

"But what's your mother's name?

And what's the street? now think a minute." "My mother's name is mamma dear,

The street-I can't begin it."

"But what is strange about the house,
Or new-not like the others?"
"I guess you mean my trundle bed-
Mine and my little brother's.

Oh! dear, I ought to be at home
To help him say his prayers;
He's such a baby, he forgets,
And we are both such players.

And there's a bar between, to keep
From pitching on each other;
For Harry rolls when he's asleep-
Oh! dear, I want my mother."

The sky grew stormy, people passed,
All muffled, homeward faring;
"You'll have to spend the night with me,"
I said at last, despairing.

I spied a ribbon round her neck.

"What ribbon's this, my blossom?" "Why, don't you know?" she smiling asked, And drew it from her bosom.

A card with number, street and name!
My eyes, astonished, met it.

66 For,"
," said the little one, "you see
I might some time forget it.

And so I wear a little thing

That tells you all about it; For mother says she's very sure I might get lost without it."

THE OLD PROFESSOR.

[Give with tenderness.]

The old professor taught no more,
But lingered round the college walks
Stories of him we boys told o'er

Before the fire, in evening talks.
I'll ne'er forget how he came in
To recitation, one March night,
And asked our tutor to begin,

"And let me hear these boys recite." As we passed out we heard him say,

'Pray, leave me here awhile alone, Here in my old place let me stay,

Just as I did in years long flown."

Our tutor smiled, and bowed assent,

Rose courteous from his high-backed chair,

And down the darkening stairs he went,
Leaving the old professor there.

From out the shadows faces seemed
To look on him in nis old place,
Fresh faces that with radiance beamed-
Radiance of boyish hope and grace:
And faces that had lost their youth,
Although in years they still were young;
And faces o'er whose love and truth
The funeral anthem had been sung.

"These are my boys," he murmured then;
"My boys, as in the years long past;
Though some are angels, others men,
Still as my boys I hold them fast.
There's one don't know his lesson now,
That one of me is making fun,
And that one's cheating-ah! I see-
I see and love them every one.

Į Give in a tender manner, pausing before speaking the last word of the

last stanza.]

After the shower the tranquil sun;

After the snow the emerald leaves;
Silver stars when the day is done;
After the harvest golden sheaves.

After the clouds the violet sky;

After the storm the lull of waves;
Quiet woods when the winds go by;
After the battle, peaceful graves.

After the knell the wedding bells;
After the bud the radiant rose;
Joyful greetings from sad farewells;
After our weeping sweet repose.