"My Father is also rich," said the nurse-girl, as she looked up to the sky, and away over the fields and woods. "The green fields and meadows are all His, the blue sky and golden sun, the cattle on a thousand hills,'-all these are His."

"And who is your Father?" asked Earl.

"He is the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and earth," was the good and gentle answer.

ALL THINGS BRIGHT AND BEAUTIFUL.
Each little flower that opens,
Each little bird that sings,-
God made their glowing colors,
He made their tiny wings.
The purple-headed mountain,
The river running by,

The sunset, and the morning red
That brightens up the sky,-
The cold wind in the winter,
The pleasant summer sun,
The ripe fruits in the garden,—
He made them, every one.

The tall trees in the forest,

The meadows where we play,

The rushes by the river-side
We gather every day;

Yes, all things bright and beautiful,

All creatures great and small,

And all things wise and wonderful,-
The Lord God made them all.

JOHN KEBLE.

July 21.

The Lord is good to all: and His tender mercies are over all His works.-PSA. cxlv. 9.

THE world is beautiful! The golden sunshine, the green earth covered with flowers, the trees laden with rich blossoms, the blue sky, and the bright water,—all are beautiful, and He who made them must be beautiful and good,

C.

GOD IS GOOD.

See the morning sunbeams lighting up the wood,
Silently proclaiming,—God is ever good.

Hear the mountain streamlet, in the solitude,
With its ripple saying,-God is ever good.

In the leafy tree-tops, where no fears intrude,
Merry birds are singing,-God is ever good.

Bring, my heart, thy tribute,-songs of gratitude,
While all nature utters,-God is ever good.

July 22.

Beware that thou forget not the Lord thy God.-DEUT. viii. II.

"GRANDMOTHER," said little Gretchen, "why do you call this beautiful flower, blue as the sky, growing by this brook,- " a forget-me-not '?”

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'My child," said the grandmother, "once I accompanied your father, who was going on a long journey, to this brook. He told me that when I saw this little flower, I must think of him; so we have always called it the forget-me-not." " Said happy little Gretchen, "I am not parted from my parents, nor sisters, nor friends. I do not know whom I can think of, when I see the forget-me-not. "I will tell you," said her grandmother; "let it remind you of Him who made it. Every flower in the meadow says, 'Remember God'; every flower in the garden and field says to us of its Creator,-'Forget

me-not.

THE FORGET-ME-NOT.

A lovely little flow'ret

Blooms on our meadow green,

Its eye, just like the heaven,

So blue and clear is seen.

And tho' you hear no voices
In that far lonely spot,

The flower is something saying,

It says," Forget-me-not."

July 23.

Withhold not good from them to whom it is due, when it is in the power of thine hand to do it.—PROV. iii. 27.

LOVE's secret is to be always doing things for God, and not to mind because they are such very little ones. FREDERICK W. FABER.

KATIE'S PART.

"What have you done, dear children?''
The mother gently said,

As she kissed her white-robed babes at night,
And tucked them up in bed ;

"What have you done through all this day

To help some one along the way?"

Then each one told of some kind deed,

A loving word just spoken;

Some sacrifice for others' wants,

Or gift of friendly token.

But when 'twas Katie's turn to speak,

A tear-drop glistened on her cheek.

"I cannot think of anything

So very good to-day,"

She sadly said: "only I helped
A chicken find its way

Back to its mother, -that was all;
But it was lost, and O, so small!

"'Twas naughty when it ran away,—
But, dear mamma, I know

It felt so sorry, for it tried

The right way back to go.

You told us once we ought to seek
To save the lost ones and the weak.

"The little chicken looked distressed,

And how it cried, poor thing!

It was so glad to cuddle up

Under its mother's wing;

And I was happy when I found

'Twas there with her all safe and sound."

The children hid their smiles beneath

The bed's white coverlet,

But the mother kissed her Katie

Just where the cheek was wet.

"Your part," she said, "you too have done;

God is well pleased, my little one!''

SUSAN TEALL PERRY.

July 24.

Love as brethren, be pitiful.-1 PET. iii. 8.

A THING done for one's self is done for time, but a thing done for another is laid up in eternity.

SOMETHING TO DO.

Something to do, mamma, something to do!
Who has not heard the cry?

Something to plan, and something to try!
Something to do when the sky is blue,

And the sun is clear and high;

Something to do on a rainy day,
Tired of lessons or tired of play;
Something to do in the morning walk,
Better than merely to stroll and talk.
For the fidgety feet, oh, something to do,
For the mischievous fingers something too;
For the busy thought in the little brain,
For the longing love of the little heart,
Something easy, and nice, and plain;

Something in which they can all take part;
Something better than breakable toys,
Something for girls, and something for boys;
I know, I know, and I'll tell you too,
Something for all of you now to do!

First, you must listen! Do you know
Where the poor sick children go?
Think of hundreds all together,
In the pleasant summer weather,
Lying sadly, day by day,
Having pain, instead of play;
No dear mother sitting near,
No papa to kiss good-night;
Brothers, sisters, playmates dear,
All away, and out of sight;
Little feet that cannot go

Where the pink-tipped daisies grow;
Little eyes that never see

Bud or blossom, bird or tree;
Little hands that folded lie
As the weary weeks go by.

What if you could send them flowers,
Brightening up the dismal hours?
Oh, you cannot guess the power
Of a little simple flower!

Then away, away, the first fine day!
Follow the breeze that is out at play,
Follow the bird, and follow the bee,
Follow the butterfly, flitting free,
For I think they know

Where the sweetest wild-flowers grow;
Bluebells in the shady dingle,

Where the violet-odors mingle;

Where the fairy primrose lamp

Seems to light the hawthorn shade; Orchis in the meadow damp.

Cowslip in the sunny glade;

(But not the pale anemone,
For that will fade so speedily).
Hedge and coppice, lane and field,
Gather all the store they yield!
Buttercups and daisies too,
Though so little prized by you,
Will be gold and silver treasure
In their power of giving pleasure
To the poor, in city alleys,

Far away from hills and valleys,
Who have never seen them grow
Since their childhood, long ago;