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ting and grumbling. I know somebody who is much happier, and this is the way she contrives to be so-thinking of others-satisfied with what her Heavenly Father has judged best for her. Which somebody are you?

GIVE THE LITTLE BOYS A CHANCE.

GEORGE COOPER.

[Deliver in a spirited, proud manner.]

Here we are! don't leave us out

Just because we're little boys!
Though we're not so bold and stout,
In the world we make a noise.
You're a year or two ahead,

But we step by step advance;
All the world's before you spread-
Give the little boys a chance!

Never slight us in your play

You were once as small as we;
We'll be big, like you, some day,

Then, perhaps, our power you'll see.
We will meet you, when we've grown,
With a brave and fearless glance;
Don't think all this world's your own-
Give the little boys a chance!

Little hands will soon be strong

For the work that they must do;
Little lips will sing their song

When these early days are through.
So, you big boys, if we're small,

On our toes you needn't dance;
There is room enough for all-
Give the little boys a chance!

THE JOVIAL FARMER BOY.

ANON.

[Speak with boldness and spirit.] A jovial farmer boy I'll be,

As free as birds that sing;

I'll carol forth my songs of glee

Among the flow'rs of spring.

With "Whoop-ho-hoy!" to drive my team
Before the rising sun;

To drink, and lave in the silver stream-
This is my morning fun.

No place for me the crowded town,
With pavements hard and dry-
With lengthened streets of dusty brown,
And gloomy houses high.

I'll go and 'come a farmer's boy,

From city perils free;

I'll crack my whip, and cry, "Whoop-hoy!" A farmer boy I'll be.

ROBIN REDBREAST.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

[Deliver expressively and tenderly.]
Good-bye, good-bye to summer!

For summer's nearly done;
The garden smiling faintly,

Cool breezes in the sun,
Our thrushes now are silent,

Our swallows flown away-
But Robin's here, in coat of brown
And scarlet breast-knot gay.
Robin, Robin Redbreast-
Oh, Robin, dear!
Robin sings so sweetly

In the falling of the year.

Bright yellow, red and orange
The leaves come down in hosts;
The trees are Indian Princes,

But soon they'll turn to ghosts.
The leathery pears and apples

Hang russet on the bough;
It's autumn, autumn, autumn late-
"Twill soon be winter now.
Robin, Robin Redbreast-
Oh, Robin dear!

And what will this poor Robin do
When pinching days are near?

The fireside for the cricket,

The wheat stack for the mouse,
When trembling night winds whistle
And moan all round the house;
The frosty ways like iron,

The branches plumed with snow-
Alas! in winter dead and dark,

Where can poor Robin go?
Robin, Robin Redbreast-
Oh, Robin dear!

And a crumb of bread for Robin,
His little heart to cheer.

WHO I LIKE.

W. O. C.

[Speak simply.]

"I am a little boy and don't know much; but I can tell P from Q, and I know who I like. I like Uncle Jabez, because he always has peanuts in his pockets, and gives me some. But my Uncle Jeremiah always looks cross out of his eyes, and says: "Out of the way there, little boy!" And I like my grandma, because her cheeks smell like pineapples, and she always gives me ginger snaps when I go to see her. When I speak next time I'll tell you who I like best -it's my mother!

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A VERY NICE PAIR.

ANON.

[Render this in as droll a manner as possible.]

Two magpies sat on a garden rail,

As it might be Wednesday week; And one little magpie wagged his tail In the other little magpie's beak.

And, doubling like a fist his little claw-hand,
Said this other, "Upon my word,

This is more than flesh and blood can stand
Of magpie or any other bird.

So they pecked and they scratched each other's little eyes, Till all that was left on the rail

Was the beak of one of the little magpies
And the other little magpie's tail!

WHEN I AM BIG.

M. E. H. EVERETT.

[To be recited in a bold, manly way.]
When I am big, what do you think
I'll have the first thing then?
Now, if I give you guesses three,
You'll have to guess again.

Why, I shall have a splendid house-
All rich men do, I s'pose-
With carpets fine, and pictures, too,
And lots of things like those.

All in the very nicest room
I'll have the nicest chair,

And sitting in it, smiling sweet,

The nicest woman-there!

Th

She's pretty; but it isn't that—
She is so good she'll shame
The bad right out of a fellow's heart,
And Mother is her name!

THE LITTLE SAILOR.

GEORGE COOPER.

[Deliver this in a natural manner, swinging the right hand to express the motion of a cradle.]

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