"You must confess, dear Will, that Nature
Is but a blund'ring kind of creature ;
And I-nay, why that look of terror?
Could teach her how to mend her error."

"Your talk," quoth Will, "is bold and odd,
What you call Nature, I call God."
"Well, call him by what name you will,"
Quoth Jack," he manages but ill ;
Nay, from the very tree we're under,
I'll prove that Providence can blunder."
Quoth Will," Through thick and thin
I shudder, Jack, at words so rash;
I trust to what the Scriptures tell,
He hath done always all things well."-
Quoth Jack, "I'm lately grown a wit,
And think all good a lucky hit.

To

prove that Providence can err, Not words, but facts, the truth aver.

you

To this vast oak lift up thine eyes,
Then view that acorn's paltry size;
How foolish on a tree so tall,
To place that tiny cup and ball.
Now look again, yon pumpkin see,
It weighs two pounds at least, nay, three;
Yet this large fruit, where is it found?
Why, meanly trailing on the ground.

Had Providence asked my advice,
I would have changed it in a trice;
I would have said at Nature's birth,
Let acorns creep upon the earth;
But let the pumpkin, vast and round,
On the oak's lofty boughs be found.”

dash:

He said and as he rashly spoke,
Lo! from the branches of the oak,
A wind which suddenly arose,

Beat show'rs of acorns on his nose:

"Oh! oh!" quoth Jack, "I'm wrong I see,
And God is wiser far than me.

For did a shower of pumpkins large,
Thus on my naked face discharge,
I had been bruised and blinded, quite,
What heav'n appoints I find is right;
Whene'er I'm tempted to rebel,
I'll think how light the acorns fell;
Whereas on oaks had pumpkins hung,
My broken skull had stopped my tongue."

THE PRISONER.

I APPROACHED his dungeon-I then looked through the twilight of his grated door. I beheld his body half wasted away with long expectation and confinement, and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it was which arises from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer, I saw him pale and feverish: in thirty years the western breeze had not once fanned his bloodhe had seen no sun, no moon, in all that time-nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through his lattice.

He was sitting upon the ground upon a little straw, in the furthest corner of his dungeon, which was alternately his chair and bed; a little calendar of small sticks was laid at the head, notched all over with the dismal days and nights he had passed there-he had

one of these little sticks in his hand, and with a rusty nail he was etching another day of misery to add to the heap. As I darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door, then cast it down-shook his head, and went on with his work of affliction. I heard his chains upon his legs, as he turned his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle. He gave a deep sigh-I saw the iron enter into his soul-I burst into tears-I could sustain the sight no longer.

THE LITTLE FISH WHO WOULD NOT DO AS HE WAS BID.

DEAR mother, said a little fish,

Pray is not that a fly?
I'm very hungry, and I wish

You'd let me go and try.

Sweet innocent, the mother cried,
While starting from her nook,
That horrid fly is put to hide
The sharpness of the hook.

When, as I've heard, this little trout
Was young and foolish too,
And so he thought he'd venture out,
And see if it was true.

And now about the hook he played,
With many a longing look,
And, dear me, to himself he said,
I'm sure that's not a hook.

I can but give one little pluck,
Let's see, and so I will--
So on he went, and lo! it stuck
Quite through his little gill!

And, as he faint and fainter grew,
With hollow voice he cried-
Dear mother, if I'd minded you,
I need not now have died.

WE ARE SEVEN.

-A simple child,

That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl,

She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

"Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?"

"How many? Seven in all," she said And wondering, looked at me.

“And where are they? I

pray you tell,**

She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea.

Two of us in the churchyard lie.
My sister and my brother,

And, in the churchyard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea;

Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
Sweet child, how this may be ?"

Then did the little maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the churchyard lie,
Beneath the churchyard tree."

"You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little girl replied;

"Twelve steps or more, from mother's door,

And they are side by side.

My stockings there I often knit,

My 'kerchief there I hem;

And there upon the ground I sit,

And sit and sing to them.

And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

The first that died was little Jane ;
In bed she moaning lay,