A little child looked wondering on,
As larger flakes fell near,
And clutching at her sister's hand,
Exclaimed with hushing fear:
"O do not, Mary, do them harm—
There's angels in them, dear!"

cr a child's conceit;"

""Twas but," sayst thou,
But ah, the lesson prize-
High instinct is best reasoning,

The pure are still the wise:

Man's vaunted head what poor exchange
For childhood's heart and eyes!

Things are to us as we to them;
Thought is but feeling's wing;
And did but our cold withered hearts
To earth less closely cling,
We might see angels everywhere,
And God in everything!

-S. W. PARTRIDGE.

THE BLOOMING OF VIOLETS.

AY! cast those gloomy thoughts aside,

The genial spring is here:
She comes with all her violets

To bless another year.

Lo! rising at her welcome voice,
They steal in gladness out,

And, wished for long, the light warm south

Is harping all about.

By garden walk and rustic fence,
Fair bush and rude gray stone,
They laugh among the leaves and grass,
In starry clusters strewn.

Retiring from the gaze of men,

They lurk, a bashful race,

But

every breeze that wanders by

Reveals their hidingplace.

While, heedless of their own sweet worth,

They quaff the shining dew,

Or catch, from God's eternal arch,

Its deep and stainless blue.

Go, mark thou well the scents and dyes,

To them so freely given,

And own that weak and lowly things

Are yet most loved of Heaven.

Then drop this weary

load of care,

Be meekly glad as they,

Nor fear to live on earth unseen,

To pass unseen away.

Learn thou with joy to stand or fall,
Where sacred duty leads;
And prize, above renown or gold,
Pure faith and holy deeds.

-REV. JAMES GILBORNE LYONS, LL.D.

THE BUTTERFLY.

Is this the type, as poets paint, of man's immortal doom,

When into life and light he springs victorious from the

tomb?

Alas, poor fly! a fleeting hour is thine, thy struggles vain,

And sinking soon, the child of dust returns to dust again.

Of human weakness rather thou the type dost seem to

me,

Of thoughts that from the grovelling earth take wing and upwards flee,

But, unsustained by heavenly power, yield to the passing storm,

And from a wing'd and glorious thing descend a sordid

worm.

Father! to thee for help I call, to aid my insect flightInvite me heavenward by thy love, sustain me by thy might:

But since the taint will still remain that waits on mortal

birth,

Hasten, O Lord, and break the chain that binds me to the earth!

-LEITCH RITCHIE.

TO MY GODCHILD, ALICE.

ALICE, Alice, little Alice,

My new-christened baby Alice!

Can there ever rhyme be found

To express my wishes for thee
In a silvery flowing, worthy

Of that silvery sound?
Bonnie Alice, Lady Alice!

Sure that sweetest name must be

A true omen to thee, Alice,

Of a life's long melody.

Alice, Alice, little Alice,
Mayst thou prove a golden chalice
Filled with holiness, like wine;
With rich blessings running o'er,
Yet replenished evermore
From a fount divine!

Alice, Alice, little Alice,

When this future comes to thee, In thy young life's brimming chalice Keep some drops of balm for me.

Alice, Alice, little Alice,

Mayst thou grow up a fair palace,
Fitly framed from roof to floor,

Pure unto the very centre,

While high thoughts like angels enter,
At the open door.
Alice, Alice, little Alice,

When this goodly sight I see,

In thy woman-heart's rich palace
Keep one nook of love for me!

Alice, Alice, little Alice,

Sure the verse fails out of malice

To the thoughts it feebly bears;

And thy name's sweet echoes, ranging
From quaint rhyme to rhyme, are changing,
Unto voiceless prayers.