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Then upward shot a spire of leaves,

And there 'neath the sun unfolding,
A tiny Oak spread its branching boughs,

A sight well worth beholding.
Soon tow'ring high,-a forest king-

It made a noble showing,
Through heeding this earnest message well,

“Grow, and keep on growing.”

If a weight of woe or the winds of care

Check the soul in its upward springing,
Send the roots of the heart to take stronger hold,

A sweeter nutrition bringing,
Then fill the soul with all right desires,

Aspire—for there is no knowing
How high shall mount the soul that strives

To grow, and keep on growing.

The Corn Song.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

HEA

EAP high the farmer's wintry hoard!

Heap high the golden corn!
No richer gift has Autumn poured

From out her lavish horn!

Let other lands, exulting, glean

The apple from the pine,
The orange from its glossy green,

The cluster from the vine;

We better love the hardy gift

Our rugged vales bestow,
To cheer us when the storm shall drift

Our harvest-fields with snow.

Through vales of grass and meads of flowers,

Our ploughs their furrows made,
While on the hills the sun and showers

Of changeful April played.

We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain,

Beneath the sun of May,
And frightened from our sprouting grain

The robber crows away.
* By permission of Houghton, Miffin & Co.,

A11 through the long, bright days of June

Its leaves grew green and fair,
And waved in hot midsummer's noon

Its soft and yellow hair.

And now, with autumn's moonlit eves,

Its harvest time has come,
We pluck away the frosted leaves,

And bear the treasure home.

There, richer than the fabled gift

Apollo showered of old,
Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,

And knead its meal of gold.

Let vapid idlers loll in silk

Around their costly board;
Give us the bowl of samp and milk,

By homespun beauty poured!

Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth

Sends up its smoky curls,
Who will not thank the kindly earth,

And bless our farmer girls?

Then shame on all the proud and vain,

Whose folly laughs to scorn The blessing of our hardy grain,

Our wealth of golden corn!

Let earth withhold her goodly root,

Let mildew blight the rye,
Give to the worm the orchard's fruit,

The wheat-field to the fly:

But let the good old crop adorn

The hills our fathers trod; Still let us, for his golden corn,

Send up our thanks to God.

Did the Cat Count**

A

CERTAIN wise mother cat had, time after time,

been robbed of her kittens-all but one. She knew by this time what to expect.

“Oh, dear!” said the mistress, “here are four more kittens to be killed, unless we can give them away.'

Kittens are too plenty and not popular enough for the demand to be equal to the supply; but by good fortune one of the neighbors did wish two of the kittens, and they were gladly given to him, while the mother cat was around the neighborhood visiting her sisters and cousins, and telling them what "a likely lot of lively kittens, all handsome as pictures," she had left at home.

I fancy that she hinted, as some other mothers will do, in a vain way, that her kittens were even handsomer and brighter than her sisters' kittens. This proud mother returned home; her proud purring was

more self-satisfied than usual, as she daintily stepped over the grass and went under the shed where her kittens were at home in a barrel.

She jumped upon the edge and looked down. "What!" Well, no, the cat did not speak, but she looked that word. She paused several seconds, then leaped in, and she searched, but it was no use; where she had left five hale and hearty kittens, there now were but three!

* From Beacon Light Series, published by W. A. Wilde & Co.

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