So she rolled and she rolled very quickly away,
And tumbled on the ground;

The rain came in torrents, and fell upon her
And all things around.

And she felt herself sinking in darkness beneath,
Poor little faithless seed !

Where never an eye could see her sad fate,

Oh, she was hidden indeed!

The little brown seed lay still in the earth,

To herself still sighing,

Till at last with an effort she roused up, and cried,
"I'll begin by trying.

"I'll try and stop fretting, for 'tis of no use,

And if I've nobody's love,

I'll look up in hope, for there's one who will see,

The dear God above."

Oh, would you believe it! straightway the dark ground

Began to tremble and shake,

And make way for the little seed, hopeful now,

Her upward way to take!

Up, up she went, till at last she saw

The lovely, bright blue sky;

Oh, the beautiful spirit had found release,

And the summer time was nigh!

The brightness and beauty that grew upon her,
I cannot begin to speak;

Crowned with flowers she stood, beloved by all,
So lovely, yet so meek.

By permission.

--Harriett Mulford Lothrop.

BE PATIENT.

BE patient! oh, be patient !

earth;

Put your ear against the

Listen there how noiselessly the germ o' the seed has

birth

How noiselessly and gently it upheaves its little way, Till it parts the scarcely broken ground, and the blade stands up in day.

Be patient! oh, be patient! The germs of mighty thought Must have their silent undergrowth- must underground be wrought;

But as sure as there's a Power that makes the grass ap

pear,

Our land shall be green with liberty, the blade-time shall be here.

Be patient! oh, be patient! Go and watch the wheat-ears

grow

So imperceptibly that ye can mark nor change nor throe— Day after day, day after day, till the ear is fully grown And then again, day after day, till the ripened field is brown.

Be patient! oh, be patient! Though yet our hopes are green,

The harvest-fields of freedom shall be crowned with sunny

sheen,

Be ripening! be ripening!-mature your silent way,

Till the whole broad land is tongued with fire on freedom's

harvest-day.

Richard C. Trench.

WONDERFUL.

́SN'T it wonderful, when you think, How the creeping grasses grow, High on the mountain's rocky brink, In the valleys down below?

A common thing is a grass-blade small,
Crushed by the feet that pass,
But all the dwarfs and giants tall,
Working till Doomsday-shadows fall,
Can't make a blade of grass.

Isn't it wonderful, when you think,
How a little seed asleep,
Out of the earth new life will drink,
And carefully upward creep?-
A seed, we say, is a simple thing,

The germ of a flower or weed, But all Earth's workmen, laboring,

With all the help that wealth could bring, Never could make a seed.

Isn't it wonderful, when you think,
How the wild bird sings his song,
Weaving melodies, link by link,
The whole sweet summer long?
Common-place is a bird, alway,
Everywhere seen and heard, -
But all the engines of earth, I say,
Working on till the Judgment Day,
Never could make a bird.

Isn't it wonderful, when you think,

How a little baby grows,

From his big round eyes, that wink and blink,
Down to his tiny toes?
Common thing is a baby though,

All play the baby's part,

But all the whirling wheels that go,

Flying round while the ages flow,

Can't make a baby's heart.

-Julian S. Cutler.

GRASS.

HE rose is praised for its beaming face,
The lily for saintly whiteness;

We love this bloom for its languid grace,
And that for its airy lightness.

We say of the oak, "How grand of girth!"
Of the willow we say, "How slender!"
And yet to the soft grass, clothing earth,
How slight is the praise we render.

But the grass knows well in her secret heart
How we love her cool, green raiment;
So she plays in silence her lonely part,
And cares not at all for payment.

Each year her buttercups nod and drowse,
With sun and dew brimming over;

Each year she pleases the greedy cows
With oceans of honeyed clover.

Each year on the earth's wide breast she waves
From spring until stern November;

And then she remembers so many graves
That no one else will remember.

And while she serves us with gladness mute
In return for such sweet dealings,

We tread her carelessly under foot,
Yet we never wound her feelings.

- Edgar Fawcett.

TREE-PLANTING.

WOY for the sturdy trees;

JO

Fanned by each fragrant breeze,
Lovely they stand.

The song-birds o'er them trill;
They shade each tinkling rill;

They crown each swelling hill,
Lowly or grand.

Plant them by stream and way,
Plant them where children play,
And toilers rest;

In every verdant vale,

On every sunny swale; —

Whether to grow or fail,

God knoweth best.

Select the strong, the fair;

Plant them with earnest care,

No toil is vain;