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BE KIND.

|E kind to thy father, for when thou wast young,
Who loved thee as fondly as he?
He caught the first accents that fell from thy
tongue,

* And joined in thine innocent glee.
Be kind to thy father, for now he is old,

His locks intermingled with gray,
His footsteps are feeble, once fearless and bold;

Thy father is passing away.

Be kind to thy mother, for, lo! on her brow

May traces of sorrow be seen:
Oh, well may'st you cherish and comfort her now,

For loving and kind hath she been.
Remember thy mother, for thee will she pray

As long as God giveth her breath;
With accents of kindness then cheer her lone way,

E'en to the dark valley of death.

Be kind to thy brother, his heart will have dearth,

If the smile of thy love be withdrawn;
The flowers of feeling will f:ide at their birth,

If the dew of affection be gone.
Be kind to thy brother, wherever you are,

The love of a brother shall be
An ornament, purer and richer by far,

Than pearls from the depths of the sea.

Be kind to thy sister, not many may know

The depth of true sisterly love;
The wealth of the ocean lies fathoms below

The surface that sparkles above.
Thy kindness shall bring to thee many sweet
hours,

And blessings thy pathway to crown, Affection shall weave thee a garland of flowers, More precious than wealth or renown.

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XpElIE sun shines bright in our old Kentucky home;

"Pis summer, the darkeys are gay; 'f!v The corn-top's ripe and the meadow's in the bloom,

While the birds make music all the day;
Tli^ young folks roll on the little cabin floor,

All merry, all happy, all bright;
By'in by hard times comes a knockin' at the door—

Then my old Kentucky home, good night!

Weep no more, my lady; O, weep no more
to-day!

We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home,
For our old Kentucky home far away.

They hunt no more for the 'possum and the coon,
On the meadow, the hill and the shore;

They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon,

On the bench by the old cabin door;
The day goes by, like a shadow o'er the heart,

With sorrow, where all was delight;
The time, has come when the darkeys have to partA

Then my old Kentucky home, good night!

The bead must bow, and the back will have to bend,

Wherever the darkey may go;
A few more days, and the troubles all will end,

In the fields where the sugar-cane grow;
A few more days to tote the weary load,

No matter, it will uever be light;
A few more days till we totter on the road,

Then my old Kentucky home, good night!

Stephen Collins Foster.

MOTHEES, SPARE YOURSELVES.

NY a mother grows old, faded, and feeble long before her time, because her boys and girls arc not thoughtfully considerate and helpful. When they become old enough to be of service in a household, mother has become so used to doino- all herself, to taking upon her shoulders all the care, that she forgets to lay off the burden little by little, on those who are so well able to bear it. It is partly her own fault, to be sure, but a fault committed out of love and mistaken kindness for her children.

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fP with the sun in the morning. Away to the garden he hies, %*% To see if the sleeping blossoms

Have begun to open their eyes.

T

Running a race with the wind,
With a step as light and fleet,

Under my window I hear
The patter of little feet.

Now to the brook he wanders,

In swift and noiseless flight. Splashing the sparkling ripples

Like a fairy water-sprite.

No sand under fabled river

Has gleams like his golden hair,

No pearly sea-shell is fairer
Than his slender ankles bare.

Nor the rosiest stem of coral,

That blushes in ocean's bed,
Is sweet as the flash that follows

Our darling's airy tread.

From a broad window my neighbor,

Looks down on our little cot, And watches the "poor man's blessing"—

I cannot envy his lot.

He has pictures, books, and music,
Bright fountains, and noble trees,

Rare store of blossoming roses,
Birds from beyond the seas.

But never does childish laughter
His homeward footsteps greet;

His stately halls ne'er echo
To the tread of innocent feet.

This child is our "sparkling picture,"
A birdling that chatters and sings,

Sometimes a sleeping cherub,
(Our other one has wings.)

His heart is a charmed casket,

Full of all that's cunning and sweet,

And no harpstring holds such music
As follows his twinkling feet.

When the glory of sunset opens
The highway by augels trod,

And seems to unbar the city

Whose builder and maker is God—

Close to the crystal portal,

I see by the gates of pearl, The eyes of our other angel—

A twin-born little girl.

And I ask to he taught and directed
To guide his footsteps aright;

So to live that I may be ready
To walk in sandals of light—

And hear, amid songs of welcome,
From messengers trusty and fleet,

On the starry floor of heaven,
The patter of little feet.

CATCHING SHADOWS.

jj^HEN the day and dark are blended,
\ti And the weary tasks are ended,
Sits the little mother humming,
Waiting sound of his dear coming.
Who, the lord of love's domain,
Yet to her yields all again.

Then the winsome, wee one, nestling
In her bosom, spies the wrestling,
Dancing shadows rise and fall,
Phantom-like upon the wall,
As the flickering firelight flashes
From among the flames and ashes.

Loud he laughs, in baby glee.

At their elfm revelry;

At the lilting, lithe, elastic,

Airy, fairy forms fantastic,

Now receding, now advancing.

Coy as love from young eyes glancing.

Not eclipse and umbrage dim.
These are sentient things to him;
Wherefore, wistful welcome lending,
Tiny hands are soon extending.
Snatching, catching, quick and eager.
At the shapes that him beleaguer.

Oft he clasps them, grasps them, yet
They but fool him, they coquet;
Vain his striving and endeavor,
They elude and mock him ever,
They delude and still deceive him.
They perplex and vex and grieve him.

Much he wonders, ponders why
When they beckon yet they fly,
And the tear in his blue eye
Shines as rain from sunny sky.
Soon he turns—the cruel seeming
Fades away, and he lies dreaming.

E. IlANNAJORD.

A CRADLE HYMN.

(SypUSH! my dear, lie still, and slumber.

S*JK Holy angels guard thy bed! 5%*'*Heavenly blessings without number §j;§ Gently falling on thy head.

Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment,
House and home thy friends provide;

All without thy care or payment.
All thy wants are well supplied.

How much better thou 'rt attended
Than the Son of God could be,

When from heaven he descended,
And became a child like thee.

Soft and easy is thy cradle:
Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay:

When his birthplace was a stable,
And his softest bed was hay.

See the kinder shepherds round him.
Telling wonders from the sky!

There they sought him. there they found him. With his virgin mother by.

See the lovely Babe a-dressing;

Lovely Infant, how he smiled! When he wept, the mother's blessing

Soothed and hushed the holy Child.

Lo! he slumbers in his manger,

Where the horned oxen fed;
Peace, my darling, here's no danger,

Here's no ox anear thy bed.

Mayst thou live to know and fear him,

Trust and love him all thy days; Then go dwell forever near him,

See his face, and sing his praise!

I could give thee thousand kisses,

Hoping what I most desire; Not a mother's fondest wishes

Can to greater joys aspire.'

Isaac Watts

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JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.

|OITN AXDERSON, my jo, Johu, John Anderson, my jo, John.
When we were first acquent, We clamb the hill thegither;

jpfYour locks were like the raven, And monie a canty day, John,
Your bonnie brow was brent; We've had wi' ane anither.

But now your browr is bald, John, Now we maun totter down, John,
Your locks are like the snow; But hand In hand we'll go;

But blessings ou your frosty pow. And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo.

Robert Burns.

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*ERE the stockings were swung in their red, When we braved the ban; floor with our little bare white, and blue, feet — All fashioned to feet that were light as the No shrine to a pilgrim was ever so sweet. J.^ dew. When each heart and each stocking was burdened Ah, the fragrant old faith when we watched the with blisscold gray On the verge of two worlds there is nothing like this Reluctantly line the dim border of day, But a mother's last smile and a lover's first kiss!

Benjamin F. Taylor.

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