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“Tell me a story, please,” my little girl
Lisped from her cradle. So I bent me down,
And told her how it rained and rained and rained,
Till all the flowers were covered, and the trees
Hid their tall heads, and where the houses stood
And people dwelt a fearful deluge rolled ;
Because the world was wicked, and refused
To heed the words of God. -

But one good man, Who long had warned the wicked to repent, Obey, and live, taught by the voice of Heaven, Had built an ark; and thither, with his wife And children, turned for safety.

Two and two, Of beasts and birds and creeping things, he took, With food for all; and, when the tempest roared, And the great fountains of the sky poured out A ceaseless flood, till all beside were drowned, They in their quiet vessel dwelt secure.

And so the mighty waters bare them up,
And o’er the bosom of the deep they sailed
For many days. But then a gentle dove
'Scaped from the casement of the ark, and spread
Her lovely pinion o'er that boundless wave.

All was desolation. Chirping nest,
Nor face of man, nor living thing she saw ;
For all the people of the earth were drowned,
Because of disobedience.

Nought she spied
Save wide, dark waters, and a frowning sky,
Nor found her weary foot a place of rest.
So, with a leaf of olive in her mouth,
Sole fruit of her drear voyage, which perchance

Upon some wrecking billow floated by,
With drooping wing the peaceful ark she sought.

The righteous man that wandering dove received, And to her mate restored, who, with sad moans, Had wondered at her absence.

Then I looked Upon the child, to see if her young thoughts Wearied with following mine. But her blue eye Was a glad listener, and the eager breath Of pleased attention curled her parted lip.

And so I told her how the waters dried,
And the green branches waved, and the sweet buds
Came up in loveliness, and that meek dove
Went forth to build her nest, while thousand birds
Awoke their songs of praise, and the tired ark
Upon the breezy breast of Ararat
Reposed, and Noah with glad spirit reared
An altar to his God.

Since, many a time, When to her rest, ere evening's earliest star, That little one is laid, with earnest tone, And pure cheek pressed to mine, she fondly says, "Tell me the story of the Dove."



Poor little Willie,

With his many pretty wiles;
Worlds of wisdom in his look,

And quaint, quiet smiles ;
Hair of amber, touched with

Gold of heaven so brave;
All lying darkly hid

In a workhouse grave.

You remember little Willie,

Fair and funny fellow! he Sprang like a lily

From the soil of poverty. Poor little Willie !

Not a friend was nigh, When from the cold world

He crouched down to die.

In the day we wandered foodless

Little Willie cried for “bread ;" In the night we wandered homeless

Little Willie cried for “bed.”
Parted at the workhouse door,

Not a word we said ;
Ah! so tired was poor Willie!

And so sweetly sleep the dead !

'Twas in the dead of winter

We laid him in the earth; The world brought in the new year

On a tide of mirth.
But for lost little Willie

Not a tear we crave;
Cold and hunger cannot wake him

In his workhouse grave.

We thought him beautiful,

Felt it hard to part; We loved him dutiful :

Down, down, poor heart! The storms they may beat,

The winter winds may rave; Little Willie feels not

In his workhouse grave.

No room for little Willie-

In the world he had no part; On him stared the Gorgon-eye

Through which looks no heart.

“ Come to me,” said Heaven ;

And if Heaven will save,
Little matters though the door
Be a workhouse grave.



Fly away, Ladybird, fly away

Away, away, away ! Fly from the wind of the wintry day; Why do you linger ?-away, away! The flower and the tree have no home for thee; The gay and the fair are lonely and bare : Then fly away, Ladybird, fly away.-

Away, away, away!

Fly away, Ladybird, fly away

Away, away, away! Go with the happy, the glad, and the gay ; Gem of the garden, away, away! The flower and the tree, what are they to thee ? Alone let them die, and far away flyFly away, Ladybird, fly awayAway, away, away!



DEAR, unhappy, fretful child,

Come and let us talk a while;
Tears your face have sadly spoiled,

And I cannot see a smile.

Brows are frowning, eyes are sad,
· Lips are sullen, words are sour;-
Ah! my darling, this is bad,

Thus to mar the fleeting hour.

God hath given you every good

Home, kind friends, who love you well, Light and clothing, health and food

Blessings more than I can tell.

Oh, it is an evil thing

For youth, upon its happy way,
Thankless, to be murmuring,
When it should be glad and gay!



My chaise the village inn did gain,

Just as the setting sun's last ray Tipped with refulgent gold the vane

Of the old church across the way.

Across the way I silent sped,

The time till supper to beguile In moralizing o'er the dead

That mouldered round the ancient pile.

There many a humble green grave showed

Where want, and pain, and toil did rest; And many a flattering stone I viewed

O'er those who once had wealth possest. A faded beech its shadow brown

Threw o'er a grave where sorrow slept, On which, though scarce with grass o'ergrown,

Two ragged children sat and wept.

A piece of bread between them lay,

Which neither seemed inclined to take; And yet they looked so much a prey

To want, it made my heart to ache.

“My little children, let me know

Why you in such distress appear,

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