I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

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

Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

So in the churchyard she was laid;
And all the summer dry,

Together round her grave we play'd,
My brother John and I.

And when the ground was white with snow,

And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,

And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"

The little maiden did reply,

"O master! we are seven."

"But they are dead: those two are dead'
Their spirits are in Heaven!"

"Twas throwing words away: for still
The little maid would have her will,

And said, "Nay, we are seven !'

ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS;

SHOWING HOW THE PRACTICE OF LYING MAY BE TAUGHT.

I HAVE a boy of five years old;
His face is fair and fresh to see;

His limbs are cast in beauty's mould,

And dearly he loves me.

One morn we stroll'd on our dry walk,
Our quiet home all full in view,
And held such intermitted talk
As we are wont to do.

My thoughts on former pleasures ran;
I thought of Kilve's delightful shore,
Our pleasant home when spring began,
A long, long year before.

A day it was when I could bear

To think-and think-and think again;
With so much happiness to spare,
I could not feel a pain.

My boy was by my side, so slim
And graceful in his rustic dress!
And oftentimes I talk'd to him,
In very idleness.

The young lambs ran a pretty race;

The morning sun shone bright and warm;