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[Simply and naturally.]

Little marten-boxes of homes are generally the most happy and cosy. Little villages are nearer to being atoms of a shattered Paradise than anything we know of. Little fortunes bring the most content, and little hopes the least disappointment.

Little words are the sweetest to hear. Little charities fly further, and stay the longest on the wing. Little lakes are the stillest, little hearts the fullest, and little farms the best tilled. Little books are the most read, and little songs the most loved. And when nature would make anything especially rare and beautiful, she makes it little-little pearls, little diamonds, little dews, little girls and boys!



[In a lively manner.]

Suppose the little cowslip

Should hang its golden cup,
And say, "I'm such a tiny flower
I'd better not grow up;"
How many a weary traveller

Would miss its fragrant smell;
How many a little child would grieve
To lose it from the dell!

Suppose the glistening dew-drops
Upon the grass should say,
"What can a little dew-drop do?
I'd better roll away"

The blade on which it rested,
Before the day was done,
Without a drop to moisten it,
Would wither in the sun.

Suppose the little breezes,
Upon a summer's day,

Should think themselves too small to cool
The traveller on his way;

Who would not miss the smallest
And softest ones that blow,
And think they made a great mistake
If they were talking so?

How many deeds of kindness
A little child may do,

Although it has so little strength,

And little wisdom, too.

It wants a loving spirit,

Much more than strength, to prove
How many things a child may do
For others by its love!



[Recite simply and naturally.]

Dainty, dainty little heads,

Peeping out with merry eyes,
Haste and leave your tiny beds;
Though it blows

And it snows,

You will come and get your breakfast if you're wise.

Well for you, my fly-a-ways,

Now the ground and trees are bare,

That, through all the weary days,

Snug and warm

From the storm,

You are sheltered from the cold and piercing air.

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Pretty brownies, you are blest:
Many beggars in the street
Have no home or place of rest;

Sick and sore,

From door to door

They must wander for a bit of bread to eat.

Better days will come again,

When the snow shall pass away,

And the soft and silvery rain

Patters down

On the town;

He who loveth all below will bring the May.



[To be recited by a little girl dressed as a house-maid, with
broom and duster.]

(Enter, talking.) Oh, dear, dear! Wonder if my mistress ever thinks I am made of flesh and blood? Five times within half an hour I have trotted up stairs to hand her things that were only four feet from her rocking chair. Then there's her son, Mr. George-it

does seem to me that a great able-bodied man like him needn't call a poor tired woman up four pairs of stairs to ask, "What's the time of day?" Heigh-ho! It's "Sally, do this," and "Sally, do that!" till I wish I never had been named at all; and I might as well go further back, while I am about it, and wish I had never been born.

Now, instead of ordering me round so, like a dray horse, if they would only look up smiling like, now and then, or ask me how my "rheumatiz" did, or say, "Good morning, Sally," or show some sort of interest in a fellow creature, I could pluck up a bit of heart to work for them A kind word would ease the wheels of my treadmill amazingly, and wouldn't cost them anything either.

Look at my clothes, all at sixes and sevens. I can't get a minute


to sew on a string or a button éxcept at night, and then I am so sleepy it is as much as ever I can find my way to bed; and what a bed it is, to be sure! Why, even the pigs are now and then allowed clean straw to sleep on; and as to bed-clothes, the less said about them the better; my old cloak serves for a blanket, and the sheets are as thin as a charity school soup.

Well, well; one wouldn't think it, to see all the fine glittering things down in the drawing room-Miss Clara's diamond ear-rings and mistress' rich dresses. I try to think it is all right, but it is no


To-morrow's Sunday-" day of rest" believe they call it. Humph! more cooking to be done-more company-more confusion than on any other day in the week. If I own a soul I haven't heard how to take care of it for many a long day. Wonder if my master and mistress calculate to pay me for that if I lose it? It is a question in my mind. Land of Goshen! I ain't sure I've got a mind. (Bell rings.) There's the bell again. [Exit.



[To be spoken by two little girls.]


I love to walk at twilight,
When sunset nobly dies,
And see the parting splendor

That lightens up the skies,
And call up old remembrances,
Deep, dim as evening gloom,
Or look to heaven's promises,
Like starlight on a tomb.


I love the hour of darkness,

When I give myself to sleep,
And I think that holy angels

Their watch around me keep.

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