They take the sickle from the wall

When morning dews shine pearly; And the mower whets the ringing scythe, To cut the bearded barley.

Come, then, into the harvest fields;
The robin sings his song;,
The corn stands yellow on the hills,
And autumn stays not long.
They'll carry the sheaves of corn away,
They reaped to-day so early,
Along the lane, with a rustling sound,
Their loads of bearded barley!

MARY HOWITT.

PROVIDENCE.

EACH little mouse with eye so clear,
He hath his little mother dear,

Who keeps him warm and brings him bread, He doth nor cold nor hunger dread.

No

poor dear little bird we see
In garden hop from tree to tree,
But his warm feather clothes has got,
That rain and snow can harm him not.

There is no painted butterfly,
No meanest worm 'neath summer sky,
But knows his leaf, or fragrant flower,
And happy spends his little hour.

No creature in the world we find
But has his portion due assigned,
His clothing, bed, and little home,
Where he may freely go and come.

And who such care for all doth take?
The good God who did all things make,
Who looks on all so tenderly,

And careth night and day for me.

FROM THE GERMAN.

THE FROST.

THE frost looked forth one still clear night, And whispered, "Now I shall be out of sight; So thro' the valley, and over the height,

In silence I'll take my way.

I will not go on like that blustering train,
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain,
But I'll be as busy as they."

Then he flew to the mountain and powdered its crest;

He lit on the trees, and their boughs he drest In diamond beads-and over the breast

Of the quivering lake, he spread

A coat of mail that need not fear
The downward point of many a spear,
That he hung on its margin far and near,
Where a rock could rear its head.

He went to the window of those who slept,
And over each pane like a fairy crept;
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stept,
By the light of the moon were seen

Most beautiful things-there were flowers and trees;

There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees; There were cities with temples, and towers and these

All pictured in silver sheen!

But he did one thing that was hardly fair;
He peeped in at the cup-board, and finding

there

That all had forgotten for him to prepare, "Now just to set them a thinking, I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he, "This costly pitcher I'll burst in three ; And this glass of water they've left for me, Shall 'tchiek' to tell them I'm drinking." GOULD.

THE BIRD OF PASSAGE.

SWEET wanderer! the gentle Spring
Hath strew'd the earth with flowers;
Oh! haste thee! plume thy fairy wing,
Bird of the summer hours.

Nay, tarry not! the primrose pale
Hath rais'd her starry eye;
And the soft, balmy, southern gale
Hath breath'd where violets lie.

The trees that were so dead and sere,
Clad in their vernal dress-
Oh! they are smiling gladly here,
In very loveliness.

Where art thou lingering? in some clime,
Some dreamy clime of flowers;
Where it is ever summer time,
Amid the fragrant bowers?

There, in some scented orange grove,
Beneath a cloudless sky,

How sweetly, wanderer, canst thou rove, And pour thy melody!

Or, gliding o'er the crystal stream,
Fed by some rippling spring,
How canst thou rest thyself awhile,
And lave thy weary wing!