Indeed I cannot tell,

In poetry or prose,
How beautiful she is,
My darling little Rose.

THE NEW MOON.

DEAR mother, how pretty The moon looks to-night, She was never so cunning before; Her two little horns

Are so sharp and so bright,

I hope she'll not grow any more.

If I were up there

With you and my friends,
I'd rock in it nicely, you'd see;
I would sit in the middle,
And hold by both ends,

Oh, what a bright cradle 'twould be!

I would call to the stars

To keep out of the way,

Lest we should rock over their toes;
And there I would rock
Till the dawn of the day,

And see where the pretty moon goes.

And there we would stay
In the beautiful skies,

And through the bright clouds we would roam;
We would see the sun set,

And see the sun rise,

And on the next rainbow come home.

WHICH WAY DOES THE WIND BLOW?

WHICH way does the wind blow,
Which way does he go?

He rides over water,

He rides over snow;

O'er wood and o'er valley,
And o'er rocky height,
Which the goat cannot traverse,

He taketh his flight.

He

rages

and tosses

In every bare tree,
As, if you look upwards,
You plainly may see.

But whence he both cometh,
And whither he goes,
There's never a scholar
In England that knows.

THE KITTEN AT PLAY.

SEE the kitten on the wall,
Sporting with the leaves. that fall,
With red leaves, one, two, and three,
Falling from the elder-tree,
Through the calm and frosty air
Of the morning bright and fair.

See the kitten, how she starts,
Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts;
With a tiger-leap half way
Now she meets her coming prey,
Lets it go as fast, and then

Has it in her power again.

Now she works with three and four,
Like an Indian conjuror;
Quick as he in feats of art,
Gracefully she plays her part;
Yet were gazing thousands there
What would little tabby care?

BUTTERFLIES ARE PRETTY THINGS.

BUTTERFLIES are pretty things,
Prettier than you or I;
See the colours on his wings,-
Who would hurt a butterfly?

Softly, softly, girls and boys;

He'll come near us by-and-by; Here he is, don't make a noise,We'll not hurt you, butterfly.

THE daisy is the meekest flower
That grows in wood or field;
To wind and rain, and footstep rude,
Its slender stem will yield.

And when they're pass'd away, again
As cheerfully it springs,

As if a playful butterfly
Had bent it with his wings.

The daisy is a hardy plant,
And in the winter time

We find it in the shelter'd nooks,
Unhurt by snow and rime.

In spring it dots the green with white,
It blossoms all the year;
And so it is a fav'rite flower
To little children dear.