Talk not of the town, boys, — give me the broad prairie, Where man, like the wind, roams impulsive and free ; Behold how its beautiful colors all vary,

Like those of the clouds, or the deep-rolling sea! A life in the woods, boys, is even as changing. With proud independence we season our cheer; And those who the world are for happiness ranging Won't find it at all, if they don't find it here. Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest; I'll show you the life, boys, we live in the West.

Here, brothers, secure from all turmoil and danger,
We reap what we sow; for the soil is our own:
We spread hospitality's board for the stranger,
And care not a fig for the king on his throne.
We never know want, for we live by our labor,
And in it contentment and happiness find;
We do what we can for a friend or a neighbor,

And die, boys, in peace and good-will to mankind.
Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest;
You know how we live, boys, and die, in the West!

Ex. 128. ONE BY ONE. Miss Procter.

ONE

NE by one the sands are flowing;
One by one the moments fall.

Some are coming, some are going;
Do not strive to grasp them all.

One by one thy duties wait thee;

Let thy whole strength go to each;

Let no future dreams elate thee;

Learn thou first what these can teach.

One will fade as others greet t
Shadows passing through th

Do not look at life's long sorro
See how small each moment
God will help thee for to-morr
So each day begin again.

Every hour that fleets so slowl
Has its task to do or bear;
Luminous the crown, and holy
When each gem is set with

CHER

HEER up! my friend, cheer u Give not thy heart to gloom Though clouds enshroud thy path t The sun will shine again to-morr

O, look not with desponding sigh Upon these little trifling troubles Cheer up! you 'll see them by and Just as they are,—like empty b

So come, cheer up! my friend, chee This is a world of love and beaut

gloom and sadness far away,
nd, smiling, bid good by to sorrow;
clouds that shroud your path to-day
ill let the sunlight in to-morrow.

- LITTLE LIFTERS.

Leslie's Boys and Girls.

ID you know, my darling children, There was work for you to do, ou tread Life's flowery pathway, eath skies of brightest blue ? r tiny hands so feeble ay powerless appear, they often lighten burdens, he strongest scarce can bear.

all are "Little Lifters," ho with loving zeal will try elp the weak and weary, nd dry the tearful eye; though you lift but little, aint not, but lift again, hardest rock is worn the constant dripping rain.

when you sing to baby 11 he gently falls asleep; omfort little sister

ll her blue eyes cease to weep; e up Johnnie's shoe-strings,

SELECTIONS IN POETRY.

129

You are lifting mother's burdens,
And shielding her from care.

And when father, tired and weary,
Comes home to rest at night,
Draw up for him the easy-chair,
And make the fire burn bright.
Though small the deeds of kindness,
And low the words of love,
The Recording Angel writes them
In glowing lines above.

Then love and help each other,
For to you this charge is given;
And in lifting other's burdens,
You lift your soul to heaven.

Ex. 131.

SATURDAY AFTERNOON.

Willis.

LOVE to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play,

And persuade myself that I am not old,
And my locks are not yet gray;
For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,
And it makes his pulses fly,

To catch the thrill of a happy voice,
And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walked the earth for fourscore years,
And they say that I am old;

And my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,
And my years are wellnigh told.

I'm old, and "I 'bide my time";

6*

I

But my heart will leap at a scene like this,
And I half renew my prime.

Play on, play on; I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring;
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing.
I hide with you in the fragrant hay,
And I whoop the smothered call,
And my feet slip on the reedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come, And I shall be glad to go;

For the world, at best, is a weary place,

And my pulse is getting low.

But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail
On treading its gloomy way;

And it wiles my heart from its dreariness
To see the young so gay.