A THOUGHT IN SEASON.

How pleasing to a thoughtful mind, when looking around over hill and dale, as the summer is opening, to behold the whole face of nature putting forth her most agreable features. A few months ago the corn seeds were sown-during winter they dare scarcely peep above the cold brown earth-now we see the full blade in the ear, and in a few months they will be ripe unto harvest, filling our mouths with food and gladness. May we not, in such wonderful arrangements for the supply of food to man, trace the goodness of divine Providence? Who but God could swell the small seed in the ground until it bursts from the earth and produces its fruit in due season? Verily the Lord is good unto all, and his tender mercies are over all his works. Oh that men would praise the Lord for his goodness, and for his wonderful works to the children of men! J. A. L.

HARVEST HYMN.

The valleys also are covered over with corn; they shout for joy, they also sing.-Psalm lxv. xiii.

GLADLY the reaper's hand
Binds in his harvest band,
Sheaves of the fruitful land.
Praise ye the Lord.

Wheat, with its ripen'd ear,
Plenty both far and near,
Crowneth the golden year.
Praise ye the Lord.

Barley, and beans, and peas,
Waving in balmy breeze;

Join we our voice with these.

Praise ye the Lord.

A SWALLOW in the spring

Came to our granary, and 'neath the eaves
Essayed to make her nest, and there did bring
Wet earth and straw and leaves.

Day after day she toiled

With patient art, but ere her work was crowned,
Some sad mishap the tiny fabric spoiled,

And dashed it to the ground.

She found the ruin wrought:

Yet not cast down, forth from her place she flew, And with her mate, fresh earth and grasses brought, And built her nest anew.

But scarcely had she placed

The last soft feather on its ample floor,
When wicked hands, or chance, again laid waste,
And wrought the ruin o'er.

But still her heart she kept,

And toiled again; and, last night, hearing calls,
I looked, and lo! three little swallows slept
Within the earth-made walls.

What truth is here, O MAN!

Hath HOPE been smitten in its earlier dawn?
Have clouds o'ercast thy purpose, trust, or plan?
Have FAITH and struggle on!

THINGS TO REMEMBER.

REMEMBER, child, remember,
That God is in the sky,
That he looks on all we do,
With an ever wakeful eye.

Remember, oh, remember,

That all the day and night, He sees our thoughts and actions With his ever watchful sight.

Remember, child, remember,
That God is good and true,
That he wishes we should be
Like himself in all we do!

Remember that he hates
A falsehood or a lie;
Remember that the wicked
Will be punished by and bye.

Remember, oh, remember,

That he is like a friend,

And he wishes us to be
Good and happy in the end.

Remember, child, remember,
To pray to him in heaven;
And if you have done wrong,
Oh! ask to be forgiven.

Be sorry in your little prayer,
And whisper in his ear,

Ask his forgiveness and his love,
And he will surely hear.

Yes, he will hear you and forgive Like a father good and kind;

So remember, child, remember,
That you love with all your mind,

The God who lives in heaven,
And gives us each delight,
Who guards us all the day,
And saves us in the night.

SUNDAY SCHOLAR'S HYMN.

WITH affections upward soaring,
On the sacred sabbath-day;
In our thoughts the Lord adoring,
And the Spirit's aid imploring,
Here we meet to praise and pray.

Heav'nly Father and defender,

Thou our guide and portion be,
While our minds are young and tender,
Help, O help us to surrender,

All our youthful hearts to thee.

J. A.

ON VISITING A BOOK-ROOM WHERE THE MICE HAD DESTROYED SOME MAGAZINES.

SOME mouse or rat, I no not what

So busy here has been;

Because they had no bread and cheese,

They've eat the magazines.

How could these lines

Your fancy please

Which you ne'er understood,

Had they been made of bread and cheese,
They would have done you good.

THE BOY AND THE BUTTERFLY.

A BOY, on perceiving a butterfly, was so smitten with its gaudy colours, that he pursued it from flower to flower with untiring zeal. At first he attempted to surprise it among the leaves of a rose; then he endeavoured to cover it with his hat, as it was feeding on a daisy; now he hoped to secure it as it revelled on a sprig of myrtle; and then grew sure of his prize on perceiving it to loiter on a bed of pansies: but the fickle fly still eluded his attempts. At last, observing it half buried in the cup of a tulip, he rushed forward, and snatching at the object of his pursuit with violence, it was crushed to pieces. Young Reader! Pleasure, like a painted butterfly, may serve to amuse thee in pursuit; but if embraced with too much ardour, will perish in thy grasp.

"So do not waste your precious time,
Nor yet commit a thoughtless crime;
In peace let insects live and die-
And never chase the butterfly."