But as I reached to take it, mother,

I heard you speaking my name ;
And I woke to see my own dear home,

With everything the same.

0, I wish I had gained the rose, mother,

And known for what it was meant;
I wish I could finish the dream, mɔther,

For then I should be content.

*

*

*

The mother wept as she answered low,

“'Twas a strange, strange dream thou wert given; But ah, my child, I would bid thee know

'Twill only be finished in heaven.”'

III.-CHRISTMAS.
LORD JOHN MANNERS.

OI

LD Christmas comes about again, Red berries bright, and holly green, The blessed day draws near,

Proclaim'd o'er hall and bower Albeit our faith and love do wax

That holy Church ruled all the land More faint and cold each year.

With undisputed power. Oh! but it was a goodly sound,

O’er wrekin wide, from side to side, In th' unenlighten'd days,

From graybeard, maid, and boy, To hear our fathers raise their song Loud

rang the notes, swift flow'd the tide Of simple-hearted praise.

Of unrestrain'd joy. Oh! but it was a goodly sight,

And now, of all our customs rare, The rough-built hall to see,

And good old English ways, Glancing with high-born dames and men, This one, of keeping Christmas-time, And hinds of low degree.

Alone has reach'd our days. To holy Church's dearest sons,

Still, though our hearty glee has gone, The humble and the poor,

Though faith and love be cold, To all who came, the seneschal

Still do we welcome Christmas-tide Threw open wide the door.

As fondly as of old.
With morris-dance, and carol-song, Still round the old paternal hearth
And quaint old mystery,

Do loving faces meet,
Memorials of a holy-day

And brothers parted through the year Were mingled in their glee.

Do brothers kindly greet.
Oh! may we aye, whate'er betide,

In Christian joy and mirth,
Sing welcome to the blessed day

That gave our Saviour birth!

IV.-THE SQUIRREL'S LESSON.
I ,
WO little squirrels, out in the sun,

One gathered nuts, and the other had none;
"Time enough yet,” his constant refrain ;
“Summer is still only just on the wane."

Listen, my child, while I tell you his fate :
He roused him at last, but he roused him too late;
Down fell the snow from a pitiless cloud,
And gave little squirrel a spotless white shroud.

Two little boys in a school-room were placed, One always perfect, the other disgraced; “Time enough yet for my learning," he said ; “I will climb, by and by, from the foot to the head.”

“0, mother, I feel so sorry,

For I know you are weeping now.
I feel the hot tears falling
Upon my cheeks and brow.
“Now I know that you are thinking
Of that sad Christmas day
When my father tenderly kissed us
Before he went away.
“We watched and waited—waited,
But he never came back again,
He does not know of your sorrow,

He does not know of my pain.
“Then, too, it was Christmas morning,
It was just one year ago,
When I slipped on the icy pavement,
And fell and hurt me so.

"Never since that dreadful morning

Have I left this little bed,
When they brought me home to you fainting,
And you thought poor Bessie was dead.

“O, I know I've been so much trouble,

And made you so much care,
Beside, all the time, my poor mother,
You've had little to eat and to wear.

“And I know you have no money,

For you've had no time to sew;
'Twould be better if I were with Jesus,
He has bidden me come, you know.

"I'm going to sleep, for I'm easy,

And I don't feel any pain,
I hope I shall see, when I'm sleeping,
That beautiful dream again.

“Tell me, what shall I do, dear mother,

If Jesus should call me again?
I will stay with him, if you're willing,
'Twould not be so hard for

you

then.''

She slept, and I heard the low moaning

Of a sorrowful voice in prayer. “O, heavenly Father, Thou gavest,

To Thee I surrender my care,

"My treasure, my last and my only,

I give her, () Lord, unto Thee.
Forsaken, and widowed, and lonely,
Have pity, O Lord, upon me.”

The dark room was radiant with glory;
Soft music seemed stirring the air,
And a faint, low rustling of pinions
Like angels hovering there.

Then I knew, as I entered half fearful,
And stood by the comfortless bed,
And looked on the worn, wasted figure,
That Bessie the cripple was dead.

VI.-BRUCE AND THE SPIDER.

ELIZA COOK.

KINO

ING BRUCE of Scotland flung himself down in a lonely mood to think ! 'Tis true he was monarch, and wore a crown, but his heart was beginning

to sink. For he had been trying to do a great deed to make his people glad; He had tried and tried, but could'nt succeed, and so he became quite sad. He flung himself down in low despair, as grieved as man could be ; And after a while, as he pondered there, "I'll give it all up," said he. Now just at that moment a spider dropped, with its silken cobweb clue; And the king, in the midst of his thinking stopped--to see what the spider would do! 'Twas a long way up to the ceiling dome ; and it hung by a rope so fine, That how it would get to its cobweb home, King Bruce could not divine. It soon began to cling and crawl straight up with strong endeavor,But down it came with a slipping sprawl, as near to the ground as ever. Again the spider swung below, but again it quickly mounted; Till up and down, now fast, now slow, nine brave attempts were counted. “Sure,” cried the king, “that foolish thing will strive no more to climb, When it toils so hard to reach and cling, and tumbles every time." Up again it went, inch by inch, higher and higher he got ; And a bold little run at the very last pinch, put him into his native spot. “Bravo, bravo !" the king cried out, “all honor to those who try : The spider up there defied despair; he conquered—and why should'nt I?” Again King Robert roused his soul; and history tells the tale, That he tried once more,—'twas at Bannockburn,—and that time he did not fail !

6

VII.-A LITTLE BOY'S TROUBLES.

CARLOTTA PERRY.
I THOUGHT when l'd learned my

letters
That all of my troubles were done;
But I find myself much mistaken-

They only have just begun.
Learning to read was awful,

But nothing like learning to write;
I'd be sorry to have you tell it,

But my copy-book is a sight!

The ink gets over my fingers ;

The pen cuts all sorts of shines,
And won't do at all as I bid it;

The letters won't stay on the lines,