If they saw not, in the sunlight,
Angel forms from heaven come
Come to bear away our Willie
To his bright and starry home?

"MOTHER, how still the baby lies!
I cannot hear his breath;
I cannot see his laughing eyes -
They tell me this is death.

"My little work I thought to bring,
And sat down by his bed,
And pleasantly I tried to sing:

They hushed me he is dead.

-

"They say that he again will rise,
More beautiful than now;
That God will bless him in the skies-
O mother, tell me how!"

"Daughter, do you remember, dear,
The cold, dark thing you brought,

1 Pron. ōr.

2 I'lid. 8 brīt.

And laid upon the casement here,
A withered worm, you thought?

-

"I told you that Almighty power
Could break that withered shell,
And show you, in a future hour,
Something would please you well.

"Look at the chrysalis, my love,-
An empty shell it lies;

Now raise your wondering glance above,
To where yon insect flies!"

66

O, yes, mamma! how very gay
Its wings of starry gold!
And see! it lightly flies away
Beyond my gentle hold.

"O mother, now I know full well,
If God that worm can change,
And draw it from this broken cell,
On golden wings to range,—

"How beautiful will brother be,
When God shall give him wings,
Above this dying world to flee,
And live with heavenly things!'

LXXVIII. — THE HEEDLESS GIRL.

ELIZA BARLOW was an amiable little girl. She was kind and gentle, and had a great many other good and agreeable qualities; but she had one great fault that made her very troublesome to her friends. This fault was thoughtlessness.

be

She did not remember what was said to her, cause she seldom paid attention. "O, dear, I quite forgot it!" or, "O, dear, I did not think of what I was doing!" was her perpetual excuse for every wrong thing she did, or every right thing that she omitted.

When she had a task of any kind to do, she would sit down with the intention of doing her best; but if she heard a noise out of doors, or if a butterfly came in at the window, or the most trifling interruption occurred, her task was thought of no more, and her customary "O, dear, I quite forgot it!" was her

excuse.

Her mother bore with her fault, in the hope that time and reflection would cure her of it. But time seemed to pass with less advantage to her than to most children; and as to reflection, she had not, at eight years old, any idea of what it was.

She was as heedless as ever, and more vexatious, because she was at an age when some degree of thoughtfulness might have been fairly expected from her.

She was once invited to a pleasant party. It was in the early part of June, when Nature puts on her fresh dress of beauty, and the meadows and hedges are decked with flowers.

The whole party consisted of little girls, and it was proposed that they should amuse themselves before dinner with gathering cowslips and other flowers.

As

The little girls, full of glee and spirits, went out, each with a little basket, towards the meadows. they were running off, Mr. Moreland called after them, to bid them beware of the pond at the bottom of the hill-field.

“O, we will take care and not go near it," was echoed in answer by many voices, and by Eliza's among the rest.

This hill-field was at some little distance from the house, and lay on the sloping side of a hill. It was sheltered from the north by trees, and lay open to the sun on the south; and here, particularly at the upper part of the field, the cowslips were finer and more abundant than any where else. And here the little girls ran about like so many bees roving from flower to flower.

At last Eliza saw, at the bottom of the field, a great number of broad, green leaves, as large and as flat as plates, covering, as she thought, the ground. "Ah," said she, "what curious leaves! I will just run down the hill, and gather one of them."

She forgot the pond, and Mr. Moreland's caution, and her own promise not to go near it; and she did

not know that these leaves were the leaves of the water lily. Her companions saw her run off, and called after her to remember the pond.

She heard their voices, but did not distinguish what they said: she thought that she would stop to listen to them when she had gathered her leaf, and therefore only ran the faster.

When she got near the bottom of the hill, she saw the water, and was aware of her danger; but, though she was aware of it, she could not now avoid it. She was running at full speed, and had not the power of stopping herself, till she was knee-deep in the pond.

The other children, who had watched her in terror, ran screaming about, not knowing what was to be done, and were quite bereft of their senses by fright.

Eliza's cousin, Margaret, was the first to recover her recollection, and told the rest of the children to run with all speed to the house for help, while she would go down to the pond to see if she could render any assistance.

In the mean time, Eliza felt herself sinking and sinking in the soft, muddy bottom, and kept grasping at weeds and water plants for support. But all these, one after another, gave way; and by the time Margaret reached the pond, she had sunk in so far, that the water was up to her shoulders.

Margaret, who was about ten years old, and a girl of uncommon sense and thoughtfulness, the very reverse of Eliza, saw that, unless something could