VACATION.

VACATION is coming,

We all will be gay,

To leave our worn school-books,
For sports and for play.

We'll off to the country,
To visit our friends,
And spend our time finely
Till vacation ends.

We'll roam o'er the fields
To gather sweet flowers,
And chase the bright songsters
From bower to bower.

But quickly time passes,
Our play-hours will end,
And back to the school-room
Our footsteps must bend.

And then to our studies

We'll cheerfully tend, Performing our duties,

Thus please our dear friends.

For all their kind efforts

That we may improve, We will seek a report Deserving their love.

THE FIGHTING BIRDS.

Two little birds, in search of food,

Flew o'er the fields, and skimmed the flood, -
At last a worm they spy;

But who should take the prize they stróve;
Their quarrel sounded through the grove
In notes both shrill and high.

But now, a hawk, whose piercing sight
Had marked his prey, and watched their fight,
With certain aim descended;

And pouncing on their furious strife,
He stopped their battle with their life,
And so the war was ended.

Thus, when in discord brothers live,
And frequent blows of anger give,
With hate their bosoms rending;
In life, with rogues perchance they meet,
To take advantage of their heat,
Their lives in sorrow ending.

Yet no attention did it win

By all these efforts made;
And less offensive had it been
In some retired shade.

For, though within its scarlet breast
No sweet perfume was found,
It seemed to think itself the best
Of all the flowers around.

From this may I a hint obtain,
And take great care indeed,
Lest I should grow as pert and vain
As is this gaudy weed.

THE VIOLET.

Down in a green and shady bed
A modest violet grew;

Its stalk was bent, it hung its head,
As if to hide from view.

And yet it was a lovely flower,
Its colors bright and fair;
It might have graced a rosy bower,
Instead of hiding there.

Yet there it was content to bloom,

In modest tints arrayed;

And there it spread its sweet perfume Within the silent shade.

'Then let me to the valley go,
This pretty flower to see;
That I maviso learn to grow
In sweet humility.

WORK AND PLAY.

POOR children, who are all the day
Allowed to wander out,

And only waste their time in play,
Or running wild about

Who do not any school attend,
But idle as they will,

Are almost certain in the end
To come to something ill.

Some play is good to make us strong,
And school to make us wise;
But always play is very wrong,
And what we should despise.

There's nothing worse than idleness
For making children bad;
'Tis sure to lead them to distress,
And much that 's very sad.

Sometimes they learn to lie and cheat,
Sometimes to steal and swear;

These are the lessons in the street

For those who idle there.

But how much better 't is to learn
To count, and spell, and read!
'Tis best to play and work in turn
'Tis very nice, indeed.

INFINITE WISDOM.

WHO taught the bees, when first they take
Their flight through flowery fields in spring.
To mark their hives, and straight to make
Their sure return, sweet stores to bring?
Who taught the ant to bite the grains
Of wheat, which, for her winter store,
She buries, with unwearied pains,

So careful that they grow no more?

Who taught the beavers to contrive

Their huts, on banks so wisely planned,

That in the winter they can dive

From thence, and shun their foes from land?

Who taught the spider's curious art,

Stretching from twig to twig her line,
Strength'ning her web in every part,
Sure and exact in her design?

Who taught the swallows when to take
Their flight before chill winter comes?
The wren her curious nest to make?

The wand'ring rooks to find their homes?