"It's oh, to wear a coat so fine,
And with these older frogs to shine!
I wish their happy lot were mine,"
Said every little tadpole.

Then back again, with frowns and sighs,
And doubtless, very watery eyes,
Each to his native mud-bank hies-
A dozen humbled tadpoles.

They could not know the lot of frogs
Who sun themselves on lazy logs,
Fated to utter their "ker-chogs "-
These unsuspecting tadpoles.

They did not know that sticks and stones
Were hurled at frogs, to crack their bones,
Or much less sad had been the tones
Of all these little tadpoles.

But let me cut this tale off here,

As time cut theirs. The day drew near,
And full grown frogs they all appear,
No longer little tadpoles.

And are they happy? Ah! they sigh
That profitless their youth went by;
When tadpoles ask them, they reply—
"We wish now we were tadpoles !"

COMPOUND INTEREST.

MRS. M. V. VICTOR.

[Naturally and simply.]

Ben Ahdam had a golden coin one day,
Which he put out at interest with a Jew;

Year after year, awaiting him, it lay

Until the doubled coin two pieces grew,

And these two, four-so on, till people said,

"How rich Ben Ahdam is!" and bowed the servile head.

Ben Selim had a golden coin that day,

Which to a stranger, asking alms, he gave, Who went rejoicing on his unknown way.

Ben Selim died too poor to own a grave,

But when his soul reached heaven, angels, with pride, Showed him the wealth to which his coin had multiplied.

THE BAREFOOT BOY.

ADAPTED FROM J. G. WHITTIER.

{Deliver in a simple, descriptive style.]

Blessings on thee, little man,

Barefoot boy with cheeks of tan!
With thy turned up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lips, redder still
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Thro' thy torn brim's jaunty grace.
Prince thou art, the grown up man
Only is republican.

Let the million-dollared ride!

Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy
In the reach of ear and eye-
Outward sunshine, inward joy:
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

Every morn shall lead thee thro'
Fresh baptisms of the dew!
Every evening from thy feet

Shall the cool wind kiss the heat!
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt's, for work be shod,
Made to tread the mills of toil,
Up and down in ceaseless moil;
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground;
Happy if they sink not in

Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou could'st know thy joy
Ere it passes, barefoot boy 1

BE TRUE TO YOURSELF, YOUNG MAN.

ANON.

Be true to yourself at the start, young man,
Be true to yourself and God;

Ere you build your house mark well the spot,
Test well the ground, and build you not
On the sand or the sinking sod.

Dig, dig the foundation deep, young man,
Plant firmly the outer wall;

Let the props be strong and the roof be high,
Like an open turret toward the sky,

Through which heavenly dews may fail. Let this be the room of the soul, young man When shadows shall herald care-

A chamber with never a roof or thatch
To hinder the light, or door, or latch
To shut in the spirit's prayer.

Build slow and sure, 'tis for life, young man,
A life that outlives the breath,

For who shall gainsay the Holy Word?
"Their works do follow them," said the Lord;
"Therein there is no death."

Build deep, and high, and broad, young man,
As the needful case demands;

Let your title-deeds be clear and bright

Till you enter your claim to the Lord of Light
For the House not made with hands.

THE PRECIOUS FREIGHT.

EDWARD EVERETT.

[Give with force and spirit.]

Methinks I see it now, that one solitary, adventurous vessel, the Mayflower of forlorn hope, freighted with the prospects of a future state, and bound across the unknown sea. I behold it pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the uncertain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks and months pass, and winter surprises them on the deep, but brings them not the sight of the wished-for shore. I see them now scantily supplied with provisions, crowded almost to suffocation in their ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a circuitous route, and now driven in fury before the raging tempest, on the high and giddy waves.

The awful voice of the storm howls through the rigging. The laboring masts seem straining from their base; the dismal sound of the pumps is heard; the ship leaps as if it were, madly, from billow to billow; the ocean breaks, and settles with engulfing floods over the floating deck, and beats with deadening weight against the staggering vessel. I see them, escaped from these perils, pursuing their all but desperate undertaking, and landed at last, after five months' passage, on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth-weak and weary from the voyage-poorly armed, scantly provisioned, depending on the charity of their shipmaster for a draught of beer on

board, drinking nothing but water on shore-without shelter, without means-surrounded by hostile tribes.

Shut now the volume of history, and tell me, on any principle of human probability, what shall be the fate of this handful of adventurers? Tell me, man of military science, in how many months were they all swept off by the thirty savage tribes enumerated within the early limits of New England? Tell me, politician, how long did this shadow of a colony, on which your conventions and treaties had not smiled, languish on the distant coast?

Student of history, compare for me the baffled projects, the deserted settlements, the abandoned adventures of other times, and find the parallel of this. Was it the winter's storm beating upon the houseless heads of women and children; was it hard labor and spare meals; was it disease; was it the tomahawk; was it the deep malady of a blighted hope, a ruined enterprise and a broken heart, aching in its last moments at the recollection of the loved and left beyond the sea; was it some or all of these united that hurried this forsaken company to their melancholy fate?

And is it possible that neither of these causes, that not all combined were able to blast this bud of hope? Is it possible that from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy, not so much of admiration as of pity, there has gone forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, a reality so important, a promise, yet to be fulfilled, so glorious?

THE BRICKLAYERS.

G. H. BARNES.

[Speak these lines with energy and vim.]

"Ho, to the top of the towering wall!"
'Tis the master mason's rallying call

To the scaffolding boys. Now merrily climb;
'Tis seven o'clock by the town bell's chime!
Bring to your work good muscle and brawn,
And a keen, quick eye where the line is drawn-