THE DEAD SNOW BIRDS.

The winter's sun shone bright and clear,
The sky was dressed in blue,
The earth had put her mantle on
That morning, white and new.

How quietly the snow had come,
And powdered every tree;
The little snow-birds left their home,
Chirping with joy and glee.

They flew into a garden fair,

Nor thought of harm or dread, Till a deep sound convulsed the airThe little birds are dead!

Of all the flowers to be caressed,
I love the simple wild-flower best.
I'd find the brightest in the land,
Just as it fell from nature's hand,
And choose the fairest one that
Is it the violet, or the rose?

grows.

SONG.

The bee is buzzing round and round,
Making its low and humming sound,
Kissing the honey from the flowers,
Made bright and gay by summer showers;
Resting on beds of mignionette,

Or hiding with the violet.

But if the power were given to me
To be a busy, humming bee,

I'd spread my wings and float away,
Far from the garden bright and gay,
And seek the meadow and the glade,
Or wing me to the wild-wood's shade.

Of all the flowers to be caressed,
I love the simple wild-flower best.
I'd find the brightest in the land,
Just as it fell from nature's hand,
And choose the fairest one that grows.
Is it the violet, or the rose?

THE DISCONTENTED CHILD.

"The gloomy clouds hang over us,
There's not a spot of blue ;

I know a storm is coming on,
O dear, what shall I do!

"I am so disappointed now,
I cannot go to walk;

I shall not see dear Anna Dale,
Or hear her laugh and talk.

"Mamma, I wish I was a bird,

How quickly I would fly

Above the earth, above the clouds,
Into the sunny sky.