The house dog lay stretched on the floor,
Where the shade afternoon used to steal;
The busy old wife by the open door

Was turning the spinning wheel,

And the old brass clock on the mantel tree
Had plodded along to almost three.

Still the farmer sat in his easy chair,
While close to his heaving breast
The moistened brow, and the cheek so fair
Of his sweet grandchild were pressed;
His head, bent low, on her soft hair lay;
Fast asleep were they both, that summer day!

LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT.

REV. ORVILLE DEWEY.

[With force and energy.]

"Unto the pure all things are pure."

Life is what we make it. To some this may appear to be a very

You look upon this life

singular if not extravagant statement. and upon this world, and you derive from them, it may be, a very different impression. You see the earth, perhaps, only as a collection of blind, obdurate, inexorable elements and powers. You look upon the mountains that stand fast forever; you look upon the seas that roll upon every shore their ceaseless tides; you walk through the annual round of the seasons; all things seem to be fixed, summer and winter, seed time and harvest, growth and decay; and so they are.

But does not the mind spread its own hue over all these scenes? Does not the cheerful man make a cheerful world? Does not the sorrowing man make a gloomy world? Does not every mind make its own world? Does it not, as if indeed a portion of the Divinity were imparted to it, almost create the scene around it? Its power, in

fact, scarcely falls short of the theories of those philosophers who have supposed that the world had no existence at all but in our own minds.

So again with regard to human life; it seems to many, probably, unconscious as they are of the mental and moral powers that control it, as if it were made up of fixed conditions, and of immense and impassable distinctions. But upon all conditions presses down one impartial law. To all situations, to all fortunes, high or low, the mind gives their character. They are in effect not what they are in themselves, but what they are to the feelings of their possessors.

The king upon his throne and amidst his court may be a mean, degraded, miserable man; a slave to ambition, to voluptuousness, to fear, to every low passion. The peasant in his cottage may be the real monarch-the moral master of his fate—the free and lofty being, more than a prince in happiness, more than a king in honor. And shall the mere names which these men bear blind us to the actual position which they occupy amidst God's creation? No; beneath the all powerful law of the heart, the master is often the slave, and the slave the master.

SEVEN TIMES ONE ARE SEVEN.

JEAN INGELOW.

[Speak as if imitating the child herein.]

There's no dew left on the blossoms and clover;
There's no rain left in heaven;

I've said my 66 seven times" over and over

Seven times one are seven.

I am old

—so old I can write a letter;

My birthday lessons are done;

The lambs play always—they know no better—
They are only one times one.

Oh, moon! in the night I have seen you sailing

And shining so round and low;

You were bright, oh, bright! but your light is failing,
You are nothing now but a bow.

You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven,

That God has hidden your face?

I hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven,

And shine again in your place.

Oh, velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow;
You've powdered your legs with gold!
Oh, brave marshmary buds, rich and yellow,
Give me your money to hold!

Oh, columbine open your folded wrapper,
Where two twin turtle doves dwell!
Oh, cuckoo-pint toll me the purple clapper
That hangs in your clear green bell,

And show me your nest, with the young ones in it—

I will not steal it away.

I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet

I am seven times one to-day.

LIVE FOR SOMETHING.

ANON.

[With vigor.]

Live for something, be not idle-
Look about thee for employ!
Sit not down to useless dreaming-
Labor is the sweetest joy.

Folded hands are ever weary,

Selfish hearts are never gay;
Life for thee hath many duties—
Active be, then, while you may !
Scatter blessings in thy pathway!
Gentle words and cheering smiles
Better are than gold and silver,

With their grief dispelling wiles.

As the pleasant sunshine falleth
Ever on the grateful earth,
So let sympathy and kindness

Gladden well the darkened hearth.

Hearts there are oppressed and weary:

Drop the tear of sympathy!
Whisper words of hope and comfort,
Give, and thy reward shall be
Joy unto thy soul returning;

From this perfect fountain head,
Freely, as thou freely givest,

Shall the grateful light be shed.

LEARNING TO WALK.

GEORGE COOPER.

[Recite in a tender way.]

Only beginning the journey,
Many a mile to go;
Little feet how they patter,
Wandering to and fro.

Trying again so bravely,

Laughing in baby glee;

Hiding its face in mother's lap
Proud as a baby can be

Talking the oddest language
Ever before was heard;

Yet mother-you'd hardly think so—
Understands every word.

Tottering now and falling;

Eyes that are going to cry; Kisses and plenty of love words, Willing again to try.

Father of all, oh, guide them

The pattering little feet

While they are treading the uphill road,
And braving the dust and the heat!

Aid them, when they grow weary,
Keep them in pathways blest;
And when the journey is ended,
Saviour, oh, give them rest!

THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS.

CLEMENT C. MOORE.

[To be spoken in a lively and forcible way.]

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all thro' the house Not a creature was stirring-not even a mouse.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap;
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow
Gave the lustre of midday to objects below;
When, what to my wondering sight should appear,
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,