THE BIRD AND ITS NEST.

I would not be a cruel boy

For all this world could give ;
Why should I take away the joy
Of those who happy live?

God made the bird, and gave it wings
To heave it through the air;
When on the tree it sits and sings,
He makes it happy there.

Her little nest, so soft and warm,
God teaches her to make it;
I would not dare to do her harm,
I would not dare to take it.

If God should say, "Where is my bird,
The pretty bird I made?"

I could not answer him a word,
For I should be afraid.

But children that are good and kind
Need never frighten'd be ;

When I do right, I always find
God very kind to me.

Go, pretty bird! and build your nest
With twigs, and straw, and moss;
There with your little nurslings rest,
You need not fear their loss.

Go, little birds! and fly away,
Be happy and be free;
And I may live to see the day,
When you shall sing to me.

THE BUTTERFLIES.

THE BUTTERFLIES.

Don't catch the pretty butterflies,
Glancing among the flowers;
Their life is short, it only lasts
A few brief summer hours.

The butterflies how gay they look,
With their finely-powder'd wings;
Cover'd all o'er with brilliant spots,
Or many colour'd rings.

Don't catch the pretty butterflies,
Now basking in the sun;
'Twould be their death, although to you,
Perhaps, 'tis sport and fun.

The butterflies, how gay they look,
With their pretty painted wings;
Oh, could you find it in your heart
To harm such happy things?

Don't catch the pretty butterflies,
But let them flutter on;
Caught in your fingers, very soon
Their beauty would be gone.

Their wings so delicate and fine,
Would crush and broken lie;
And they could never fly again,
But speedily would die.

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Don't catch the pretty butterflies;
But if you want to see

Their brilliant colours-there is one!
Come, softly step with me.

How beautiful it looks! how bright
Those stripes of scarlet are;

And each white spot on that dark ground
Looks like a little star.

Don't catch the pretty butterflies,
But let them live their day:
Poor joyous insects, we will watch
While here and there you stray:

Roving from flower to flower, to seek
Where drops of honey lie:
Only a cruel child would chase
The pretty butterfly.

M. M.

LOUISA'S BIRTH-DAY.

Louisa is a lively girl!

Just six years old to-day;
She sweetly sings, and like a lamb
Will skip about and play.

She loves her doll, her kitten too,

And tends them both quite well;

DON'T KILL THE BIRDS.

And often gets her little book,
And seeks to read and spell.
Her work-box, too, is nicely laid,
And all her work well done;

Her hymns and prayers she says at night,
And rises with the sun.

She loves her brothers very much,
And often joins in play ;
Yet never rudely runs to get
What they have laid away.
She dearly loves her father's smile,
And her kind mother's kiss ;
And when she wants a pretty thing,
Says, "Please, 'ma, give me this?"
May all her birth-days, year by year,
Pass by on golden wing;

And every one as sweet as this,

Its many blessings bring.

A. B.

DON'T KILL THE BIRDS.

Don't kill the birds-the little birds
That sing about your door:
Soon as the joyous spring has come,
And chilling storms are o'er.

The little birds-how sweet they sing-
Oh let them joyous live;

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And never seek to take the life
Which you can never give.

Don't kill the birds--the pretty birds
That play among the trees:
"Twould make the earth a cheerless place,
Should we dispense with these.

The little birds-how fond they play-
Do not disturb their sport;
But let them warble forth their songs
Till winter cuts them short.

Don't kill the birds-the happy birds
That cheer the field and grove;
So innocent to look upon,

They claim our warmest love.

The happy birds-the tuneful birds-
How pleasant 'tis to see;
No spot can be a cheerless place
Where'er their presence be.

THE CHILD AT HIS MOTHER'S GRAVE.

I'm kneeling by your grave, mother,

I'm thinking now of you;

The moon is on the wave, mother,
The grass is wet with dew.

I'm gazing on thy face, mother,
And in thy mild blue eye,