"Dear child!" Yes, that's me! Oh! you ask what that's for? Well, you know papa says you're a poet-and more, That your Poverty's self! So-when you're at the door I let love fly out of the window. BRET HARTE. THE THE GLORY OF NATURE. HE heavens and the earth, and the great as well as numberless events which result from the divine administration, are in themselves vast, wonderful, frequently awful, in many instances solemn, in many exquisitely beautiful, and in a great number eminently sublime. All these attributes, however, they possess, if considered only in the abstract, in degrees very humble and diminutive, compared with the appearance which they make, when beheld as the works of Jehovah. Mountains, the ocean, and the heavens are majestic and sublime. Hills and valleys, soft landscapes, trees, fruits, and flowers, and many objects in the animal and mineral kingdoms, are beautiful. But what is this beauty, what is this grandeur, compared with that agency of God to which they owe their being? Think what it is for the Almighty hand to spread the plains, to heave the mountains, and to pour the ocean. Look at the verdure, flowers, and fruits which in the mild season adorn the surface of the earth; the uncreated hand fashions their fine forms, paints their exquisite colors, and exhales their delightful perfumes. In the spring, His life re-animates the world; in the summer and autumn, His bounty is poured out upon the hills and valleys; in the winter, " His way is in the whirlwind and in the storm; and the clouds are the dust of His feet." His hand "hung the earth upon nothing," lighted up the sun in the heavens, and rolls the planets and the comets through the immeasurable fields of ether. His breath kindled the stars; His voice called into existence worlds innumerable, and filled the expanse with animated being. To all He is present, over all He rules, for all He provides. The mind, attempered to divinc contemplation, finds Him in every solitude, meets him in every walk, and in all places, and at all times, sees itself surrounded by God. TIMOTHY DWIGHT. THE BABY OF THE FUTURE. Permission of The Outlook, New York. How Nurse. OW doth the little busy bee Baby [boldly]. How does the little bee do this? Why, by an impulse blind. Cease, then, to praise good works of such An automatic kind. Nurse. Let dogs delight to bark and bite, Baby [ironically]. Indeed? A brutal nature, then, Excuses brutal ways. Unthinking girl! you little know Nurse [continuing]. But, children, you should never let Your little hands were never made To tear each other's eyes. Baby [contemptuously]. Not "made" to tear? Well, what of that? No more, at first, were claws. All comes by adaptation, No need of final cause. And if we use the hands to tear, Just as the nose to smell, Ere many ages have gone by Nurse. Tom, Tom, the Piper's son Stole a pig, and away he run! Baby [reproachfully]. Come, come! Away he "run"! Grammar condemns what you've just "done." Nurse. Twinkle, twinkle, little star! Baby [pityingly]. Do you really wonder, Jane? And to me all seems so plain! And if heavenly bodies then Still remain beyond your ken, You had better go and ax Good Professor Parallax. Nurse. Bye, baby-bunting, To wrap the baby-bunting in. Baby [sternly]. The cruel sport of hunting Convicts him, as it seems to me, I must, with thanks, decline the skin [Puts Nurse to bed. Scene closes.] WRITE THEM A LETTER TO-NIGHT. DON'T go to the theatre, lecture, or ball, But stay in your room to-night; Deny yourself to the friends that call, Who sit when the day is done, And think of the absent one Write them a letter to-night. Don't selfishly scribble: "Excuse my haste, I've scarcely time to write," Lest their brooding thoughts go wandering back To many a by-gone night When they lost their needed sleep and rest, That God would leave their delicate babe To their tender love and care Write them a letter to-night. |