Chapter I: Front Matter

Songs for the Little Ones
at Home

Songs for the Little
Ones at Home

_REVISED EDITION_

_350th Thousand_

AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY
150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK

Copyright, 1884 and 1911, by
AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PAGE

HEART AND HEARTHSTONE 7

HOUR BY HOUR 47

LITTLE POOR RELATIONS 81

THE GREAT OUTDOORS 135

ON EARTH AS IN HEAVEN 175

THE CHRIST CHILD 219

HEROES AND PATRIOTS 231

INDEX 253

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Acknowledgments are made to Charles Scribner’s Sons for the use of _My Shadow_, from A CHILD’S GARDEN OF VERSES:

To Houghton, Mifflin & Company for _The Leak in the Dike_, from THE POEMS OF PHŒBE CARY:

To the American Book Company for _The Reindeer and the Rabbit_, from the old MCGUFFEY SECOND ECLECTIC READER; and for _Young Soldiers_ and _The Lord’s Prayer_, from the old MCGUFFEY THIRD ECLECTIC READER.

Thanks are also rendered to Mrs. Margaret E. Sangster for the use of _Dear Little Heads in the Pew_; and to Professor Irsay de Irsa and others for advice and encouragement.

HEART AND HEARTHSTONE

Some precious words are born of earth,
Some others by the angels given;
But sweetest of celestial birth
Are these: “My Mother,” “Home,” and “Heaven.”

[Music: THE FATHER’S WILL

Air, with bass accompaniment

1. How sweet the home of Nazareth Where Mary mother smiled,
And flow’rs of daily duty bloom’d About the holy Child.
His Father’s will was all His task Within that earthly home,
That will for ever done in Heav’n Whence He so late had come.

2. Obedient, gentle, loving, meek, He worked at Joseph’s side;
Does nothing from that daily toil Thro’ all the years abide?
We scan the wide world o’er, nor find. In any clime or land,
One single, sacred, treasured thing Wrought out by Jesus’ hand.

3. But wheresoe’er a Christian child Does on the earth fulfil....
With humble, rev’rent, tender heart The heav’nly Father’s will,
The work, tho’ mean and poor to view With heav’nly grace is
fraught,
Since age to age it passes on The lesson Jesus taught.
]

HEART AND HEARTHSTONE

THE FATHER’S WILL

How sweet the home of Nazareth,
Where Mary mother smiled,
And flowers of duty daily bloomed
About the holy Child.

His Father’s will was all his task
Within that earthly home,
The will forever done in heaven,
Whence he so late had come.

Obedient, gentle, loving, meek,
He worked at Joseph’s side:
Does nothing from that daily toil
Through all the years abide?

We scan the wide world o’er, nor find,
In any clime or land,
One single, sacred, treasured thing
Wrought out by Jesus’ hand;

But wheresoe’er a Christian child
Does on the earth fulfil
With humble, reverent, tender heart,
The heavenly Father’s will,

The work, though mean and poor to view,
With heavenly grace is fraught,
Since age to age it passes on
The lesson Jesus taught.

WHEN FATHER COMES HOME

When my father comes home in the evening from work,
Then I will get up on his knee,
And tell him how many nice lessons I’ve learned,
And show him how good I can be.

He’ll ask me what number I know how to count,
I’ll tell him what words I can spell;
And if I can learn something new every day,
I hope soon to read very well.

I’ll repeat to him all the good verses I know,
And tell him how kind we must be,
That we never must hurt little creatures at all;
And he will be glad, and love me.

I’ll tell him we always must try to please God,
And never be cruel nor rude,
For God is the Father of all living things,
He cares for and blesses the good.

DEAR MAMMA

My own mamma; my dear mamma!
How happy shall I be
To-morrow night at candlelight,
When she comes home to me!

’Tis just one week since on my cheek
She pressed the parting kiss:
It seems like two; I never knew
So long a week as this.

My tangled hair she smoothed with care,
With water bathed my brow;
And all with such a gentle touch--
I wish she’d do it now.

But she will come; she’ll be at home
To-morrow night; and then
I hope that she will never be
So long away again.

MY MOTHER

My mother, my kind mother,
I hear thy gentle voice;
It always makes my little heart
Beat gladly and rejoice.

When I am ill it comes to me,
And kindly soothes my pain;
And when I sleep, then in my dreams
It sweetly comes again.

It always makes me happy,
Whene’er I hear its tone;
I know it is the voice of love,
From a heart that is my own.

My mother, my dear mother,
O may I never be
Unkind or disobedient,
In any way, to thee.

FOR MOTHER

I give my mother lots of kisses,
There’s really never one she misses:
A “wake-up kiss” right in the morning,
A “good-night kiss” when I am yawning,
A “sorry kiss” when I’ve been bad,
A “happy kiss” when I am glad.
Once she was sick; I went to stay
At auntie’s house, oh, miles away!
Then I sent kisses in a letter;
She said they truly made her better.
There’s never really one she misses,
Oh, I give mother lots of kisses.

PAPA IS COMING

I know he’s coming by this sign,—
The baby’s almost wild!
See how he laughs and crows and starts--
Heaven bless the merry child!
He’s father’s self in face and limb,
And father’s heart is strong in him.
Shout, baby, shout! and clap thy hands,
For father on the threshold stands.

MY FATHER BLESSED ME

My father raised his trembling hand
And laid it on my head;
“God bless thee, O my son, my son!”
Most tenderly he said.

He died, and left no gems or gold:
But still I was his heir,
For that rich blessing which he gave
Became a fortune rare.

WELCOME

Welcome, welcome, little stranger,
To this busy world of care;
Nothing can thy peace endanger,
Nothing now thy steps ensnare.

Mother’s heart is filled with pleasure,
All her feelings are awake;
Gladly would she, little treasure,
All thy pains and sufferings take.

Mayest thou, if designed by heaven
Future days and years to see,
Soothe her, make her passage even;
Let her heart rejoice in thee.

May her anxious cares and labors
Be repaid by filial love;
And thy soul be crowned with favors
From the boundless source above.

—_Taylor._

THE PRINCE COMES!

“What is this pretty little thing,
That nurse so carefully doth bring,
And round its head a blanket fling?
A baby!

“Oh, dear, how very soft its cheek;
Why, nurse, I cannot make it speak,
And it can’t walk, it is so weak.
A baby!

“Oh, I’m afraid that it will die;
Why can’t it eat as well as I,
And jump, and talk? Do let it try.
Poor baby!”

“Why, you were once a baby too,
And could not jump as now you do,
But good mamma took care of you,
Like baby.

“And then she taught your little feet
To pat along the carpet neat,
And called papa to come and meet
His baby.

“O dear mamma, to take such care,
And no kind pains and trouble spare
To feed and nurse you when you were
A baby.”

WHERE DID YOU COME FROM, BABY DEAR?

Where did you come from, baby dear?
Out of the everywhere into here.

Where did you get your eyes so blue?
Out of the sky as I came through.

Where did you get that little tear?
I found it waiting when I got here.

What makes your forehead so smooth and high?
A soft hand stroked it as I went by.

What makes your cheek like a warm, white rose?
I saw something better than any one knows.

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss?
Three angels at once gave me a kiss.

Where did you get this pearly ear?
God spoke, and it came out to hear.

How did they all just come to you?
God thought about me, and so I grew.

But how did you come to us, you dear?
God thought about you, and so I am here.

—_George Macdonald._

HUSHABY

Hushaby, hushaby,
Baby, do not weep;
On thy downy pillow lie,
Softly, softly sleep.

Hushaby, hushaby,
Now thine eyelids close;
While thy mother sitting by
Watches thy repose.

Hushaby, hushaby,
Think of no alarm;
Angel spirits round thee fly,
Guarding thee from harm.

Hushaby, hushaby,
Slumber sweet be given;
On thy downy pillow lie,
Precious gift from heaven.

BABY, SLEEP

Sleep, baby, sleep,
No longer weep;
Near thee sits thy little brother,
Close beside thee is thy mother:
Sleep, baby, sleep.

Sleep, baby, sleep,
No longer weep;
Israel’s Shepherd watches o’er thee,
No rude danger lies before thee:
Sleep, baby, sleep.

Sleep, baby, sleep,
No longer weep;
Germ of beauty, bud and blossom,
Rest upon thy Saviour’s bosom:
Sleep, baby, sleep.

SWEETLY SLEEP

Sleep, my baby--sleep, my boy,
Rest your little weary head;
’Tis your mother rocks her boy
In his little cradle bed.

All the little birds are sleeping--
Every one has gone to rest;
And my precious one is resting
In his pretty cradle nest.

SLEEP, BABY! SLEEP!

Sleep, baby! sleep!
Thy father watches his sheep,
Thy mother is shaking the dreamland tree,
And down falls a little dream on thee.
Sleep, baby! sleep!

Sleep, baby! sleep!
The large stars are the sheep;
The little stars are the lambs, I guess,
And the bright moon is the shepherdess
Sleep, baby! sleep!

Sleep, baby! sleep!
Thy Saviour loves his sheep;
He is the Lamb of God on high,
Who for our sakes came down to die.
Sleep, baby! sleep!

GOOD-NIGHT

Baby, baby, lay your head
On your pretty little bed;
Shut your eye-peeps, now the day
And the light are gone away;
All the clothes are tucked in tight,
Little baby dear, good-night,
Sleep, my sweet, till morning light.

MORNING

Baby, baby, ope your eye,
For the sun is in the sky,
And he’s peeping once again
Through the clear, bright window-pane;
Little baby, do not keep
Any longer fast asleep,
Through your cradle curtains peep.

THE BABY-JUMPER

Now, little Georgie, jump up high;
Never mind, Georgie, mother is by:
Crow and caper, caper and crow,
There, little baby, there you go,
Up to the ceiling, down to the ground,
Upwards and downwards, round and round;
Then jump, little Georgie, and mother shall sing,
While the gay, merry bells go ting-a-ling-ling.

LEARNING TO WALK

Come, my darling, come away,
Take a pretty walk to-day;
Run along, and never fear,
I’ll take care of baby dear;
Up and down with little feet,
That’s the way to walk, my sweet.

Now you are so very near,
Soon you’ll get to mother dear;
There, she comes along at last:
Here’s my finger, hold it fast.
Now, one pretty little kiss,
After such a walk as this.

MY BROTHER

Who often with me kindly played,
And all my little playthings made,
Through lonely hours who with me stayed?
My brother.

Who made a sled when winter came,
With little ropes to draw the same,
And on its sides carved out my name?
My brother.

And who was it that taught to me
The way to read my A, B, C,
And marked them on the slate for me?
My brother.

Then may I ever grateful be
For all thy kindness shown to me,
And ne’er withdraw my love from thee,
My brother.

LOVE YOUR LITTLE BROTHER

I had a little friend;
And every day he crept
In sadness to his brother’s tomb,
And laid him down and wept.

And when I asked him why
He mourned so long and sore,
He answered through his tears, “Because
I did not love him more.

“Sometimes I was not kind,
Or cross, or coldly spake;”
And then he turned away, and sobbed
As though his heart would break.

Brothers and sisters are a gift
Of mercy from the skies;
And may I always think of this
Whene’er they meet my eyes;

Be tender, good, and kind,
And love them in my heart,
Lest I should sigh with bitter grief,
When we are called to part.

—_Mrs. Sigourney._

THE BROOK

’Twas here my sister dear was drowned
One long, bright summer-day;
Here was the little darling found
By good and faithful Tray.

’Tis many years since Ellen died;
But I have not forgot
The moment we her bonnet spied
Beside this very spot.

How very wet her golden hair,
And how it made me weep
To see her lie so still and fair,
And know it was not sleep.

Poor Tray sits watching in my face
With such an earnest look;
He knows full well how sad a place
Is this sweet babbling brook.

Had I a sister now to love,
How very kind I’d be;
Ellen, the little gentle dove,
Was always kind to me.

LOVE ONE ANOTHER

A little girl with a happy look
Sat slowly reading a ponderous book
All bound with velvet and edged with gold,
And its weight was more than the child could hold;
Yet dearly she loved to ponder it o’er,
And every day she prized it more;
For it said--and she looked at her smiling mother--
It said, “Little children, love one another.”

She thought it was beautiful in the book,
And the lesson home to her heart she took;
She walked on her way with a trusting grace,
And a dovelike look in her meek young face,
Which said, just as plain as words could say,
The holy Bible I must obey;
So, mamma, I’ll be kind to my darling brother,
For “little children must love each other.”

I am sorry he’s naughty, and will not play.
But I’ll love him still, for I think the way
To make him gentle and kind to me,
Will be better shown, if I let him see
I strive to do what I think is right:
And thus, when we kneel in prayer to-night,
I will clasp my arms about my brother,
And say, “Little children, love one another.”

The little girl did as her Bible taught,
And pleasant indeed was the change it wrought;
For the boy looked up in glad surprise,
To meet the light of her loving eyes:
His heart was full--he could not speak,
But he pressed a kiss on his sister’s cheek,
And God looked down on the happy mother,
Whose “little children loved one another.”

SYMPATHY

Does your head ache, little brother?
Are you sick, and are you weak?
Are you sad, and tired of playing?
Does it hurt you when you speak?

I can’t cure you, darling brother,
Cannot ease a single pain;
I’ll go ask our heavenly Father,
He can make you well again.

LOVE AT HOME

Whatever brawls disturb the street,
There should be peace at home;
Where sisters dwell and brothers meet,
Quarrels should never come.

Birds in their little nests agree;
And ’tis a shameful sight,
When children of one family
Fall out and chide and fight.

Pardon, O Lord, our childish rage,
Our little brawls remove;
That, as we grow to riper age,
Our hearts may all be love.

—_Watts._

WE ARE SEVEN

I met a little cottage girl,
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

“Sisters and brothers, little maid,
How many may you be?”
“How many? seven in all,” she said,
And wondering looked at me.

“And where are they? I pray you tell;”
She answered, “Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

“Two of us in the churchyard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And in the churchyard cottage I
Dwell near them with my mother.”

“You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet you are seven; I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be.”

Then did the little maid reply,
“Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the churchyard lie,
Beneath the churchyard tree.”

“You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then you are only five.”

“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”
The little maid replied,
“Twelve steps or more from mother’s door,
And they are side by side.

“My stockings there I often knit;
My ’kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit--
I sit and sing to them.

“And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
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 from her pain,
And then she went away.

“So in the churchyard she was laid;
And when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
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 those two are in heaven?”
The little maiden did reply,
“Oh, 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.”

—_Wordsworth._

GRANDPA AND ME

My grandpa says that he was once
A little boy like me.
I s’pose he was, and yet it does
Seem queer to think that he
Could ever get my jacket on,
Or shoes, or like to play
With games and toys and race with Duke,
As I do every day.

He’s come to visit us, you see;
Nurse says I must be good
And mind my manners, as a child
With such a grandpa should.
For grandpa’s very straight and tall,
And very dignified;
He knows ’most all there is to know,
And other things beside.

So, though my grandpa knows so much,
I thought that maybe boys
Were things he hadn’t studied,
They make such awful noise.
But when at dinner I asked for
Another piece of pie,
I thought I saw a twinkle
In the corner of his eye.

So yesterday, when they went out,
And left us two alone,
I was not quite so much surprised
To find how nice he’d grown.
You should have seen us romp and run!
My! now I almost see
That p’r’aps he was, long, long ago,
A little boy like me.

—_The Round Table._

JESUS DWELLS WITHIN

K. E. C. German

1. Down in our lowly home All goes so well; All pleasures
hither come To our sweet dell; Father so brave is here, Mother so
kind and dear! Oh, in our lowly home All goes so well.

2. Down by our fireside neat Love rules the hours Thro’ winter’s
icy sleet And summer’s flow’rs. Children, a happy band, Kind words
and
gentle hand: Oh, by our fireside neat Love rules the hours.

3. Why in our peaceful cot Goes all so well? Why here love
faileth not Can any tell? Jesus abides within, Guarding from
strife and sin. O Saviour, evermore Here with us dwell.

THE BLIND BOY

“Dear Mary,” said the poor blind boy,
“That little bird sings very long;
Say, do you see him in his joy,
And is he pretty as his song?”

“Yes, Edward, yes,” replied the maid,
“I see the bird on yonder tree”;
The poor boy sighed, and gently said,
“Sister, I wish that I could see.

“The flowers, you say, are very fair,
And bright green leaves are on the trees,
And pretty birds are singing there--
How beautiful for one who sees.

“Yet I the fragrant flowers can smell,
And I can feel the green leaf’s shade,
And I can hear the notes that swell
From those dear birds that God has made.

“So, sister, God to me is kind,
Though sight to me he has not given;
But tell me, are there any blind
Among the children up in heaven?”

LITTLE NEIGHBORS

Two children are at the door, mamma,
Two children are at the door,
A little boy and a little girl,
And the wind is biting, at every whirl,
Their feet all naked and sore.

Oh, hasten and bring them in, mamma,
Oh, hasten and bring them in,
And let them sit by the fire so warm,
For they have been out in the cold, cold storm,
And their clothes are tattered and thin.

And tell them this is their home, mamma,
Oh, tell them this is their home;
And give them something to eat that’s nice,
Of bread and butter a good large slice,
And bid them no more to roam.

For isn’t it all too bad, mamma,
Oh, isn’t it all too bad,
That they must starve, or beg in the street,
No cloak to their backs, or shoes to their feet,
While I am so finely clad?

It may be God sent them here, mamma,
It may be God sent them here,
And now looks down from his home in the sky,
To watch them and see whether you and I
Are kind to his children dear.

And will he not angry be, mamma,
And will he not angry be,
If we let them go on in the storm so rough,
To perish with want, while more than enough
For them and for us have we?

A BOY’S FAITH

I knew a widow very poor,
Who four small children had;
The eldest was but six years old,
A gentle, modest lad.

And very hard this widow toiled
To feed her children four;
A noble heart the mother had,
Though she was very poor.

To labor, she would leave her home,
For children must be fed;
And glad was she when she could buy
A shilling’s worth of bread.

And this was all the children had
On any day to eat:
They drank their water, ate their bread,
But never tasted meat.

One day when snow was falling fast,
And piercing was the air,
I thought that I would go and see
How these poor ones might fare.

Ere long I reached their cheerless home--
’Twas searched by every breeze--
When, going in, the eldest child
I saw upon his knees.

I paused to hear poor Willie’s prayer;
He never raised his head,
But still went on, and said, “Give us
This day our daily bread.”

I waited till the child was done,
Still listening as he prayed;
And when he rose, I asked him why
That prayer he then had said.

“Why, sir,” said he, “this morning, when
My mother went away,
She wept, because she said she had
No bread for us to-day.

“She said we children now must starve,
Our father being dead;
And then I told her not to cry,
For I could get some bread.

“‘Our Father,’ sir, the prayer begins,
Which made me think that he,
As we have no kind father here,
Would our kind Father be.

“And then you know, sir, that the prayer
Asks God for bread each day;
So in the corner, sir, I went,
And that’s what made me pray.”

I quickly left that wretched room,
And went with fleeting feet,
And very soon was back again
With food enough to eat.

“I _thought_ God heard me,” said the boy.
I answered with a nod;
I could not speak, but much I thought
Of Willie’s faith in God.

THE ORPHAN FLOWER-GIRL

“My flowers--who’ll buy?” cried a sweet little child,
An orphan left friendless and poor;
“I’ve roses and pinks, and sweet-brier wild,
And heaven will bless you thrice o’er.
Then pray buy my roses, indeed they’re not dear;
Each bud shall be moistened with gratitude’s tear.

“Oh, pray buy my roses--for hard is my fate,
My poor little sisters want bread;
Bestow but a mite, before ’tis too late;
Our parents to heaven are fled.
Then pray buy my roses, indeed they’re not dear;
Each bud shall be moistened with gratitude’s tear.”

THE BLACKBERRY-GIRL

“Why, Phebe, are you come so soon?
Where are your berries, child?
You cannot, sure, have sold them all,
You had a basket piled.”

“No, mother, as I climbed the fence,
The nearest way to town,
My apron caught upon the stake,
And so I tumbled down.

“I scratched my arm, and tore my hair,
But still did not complain;
And had my blackberries been safe,
Should not have cared a grain.

“But when I saw them on the ground,
All scattered by my side,
I picked my empty basket up,
And down I sat and cried.

“Just then a pretty little maid
Chanced to be walking by;
She stopped, and looking pitiful,
She begged me not to cry.

“‘Poor little girl, you fell,’ said she,
‘And must be sadly hurt;’
’O no,‘ I cried; ’but see my fruit,
All mixed with sand and dirt.’

“‘Well, do not grieve for that,’ she said,
‘Go home, and get some more.’
’Ah, no, for I have stripped the vines,
These were the last they bore.

“’My father, Miss, is very poor,
And works in yonder stall;
He has so many little ones,
He cannot clothe us all.

“’I always longed to go to church,
But never could I go;
For when I asked him for a gown,
He always answered, “No;

“There’s not a father in the world
That loves his children more;
I’d get you one with all my heart,
But, Phebe, I am poor.”

“’But when the blackberries were ripe,
He said to me one day,
“Phebe, if you will take the time
That’s given you for play,

“And gather blackberries enough,
And carry them to town,
To buy your bonnet and your shoes,
I’ll try to get a gown.”

“’Oh, Miss, I fairly jumped for joy,
My spirits were so light;
And so, when I had leave to play,
I picked with all my might.

“’I sold enough to get my shoes,
About a week ago;
And these, if they had not been spilt,
Would buy a bonnet, too.

“‘But now they’re gone, they all are gone,
And I can get no more,
And Sundays I must stay at home
Just as I did before.’

“And, mother, then I cried again
As hard as I could cry;
And looking up, I saw a tear
Was standing in her eye.

“She caught her bonnet from her head,
‘Here, here,’ she cried, ‘take this!’
‘O no, indeed, for your mamma
Would be offended, Miss.’

“’My mother? never; she delights
All sorrow to beguile;
And ’tis the sweetest joy she feels,
To make the wretched smile.

“’She taught me when I had enough,
To share it with the poor;
And never let a needy child
Go empty from the door.

“‘So take it, for you need not fear
Offending her, you see;
I have another, too, at home,
And one’s enough for me.’

“So then I took it--here it is--
For pray what could I do?
And, mother, I shall love that girl
As long as I love you.”

HOW SELFISH IT IS!

I’ve a home and kind friends, and abundance to eat,
And clothing sufficient, both decent and neat,
And books, that my mind may to knowledge aspire,
And all that a child can in reason desire;
But to care for _my_ comfort, and only for this,
And forget my poor neighbors, how selfish it is!

I have got a plum-cake, and the whole is my own,
And no one will know, if I eat it alone;
But what if the cake be so sweet and so nice,
I dare say poor John would be glad of a slice:
My treat he shall share, a large slice shall be his,
For to eat all one’s self, oh, how selfish it is!

My aunt kindly gave me a quarter last night,
For she knew that I wanted to buy a new kite;
But a poor aged widow lives over the way,
And she says she has not had a morsel to-day:
“Here, dry up your tears, and buy something with this,
For to spend all on playthings, how selfish it is!”

As Christ has commanded, I’ll constantly try
My neighbor to love and myself to deny;
From my own little pleasures a trifle I’ll spare,
To gladden his heart and to lighten his care;
That whate’er my friends find in my conduct amiss,
They never may say, oh, how selfish he is!

THINKING OF MERCIES

Whene’er I take my walks abroad,
How many poor I see;
How shall I render to my God
For all his gifts to me?

Not more than others I deserve,
Yet God has given me more;
For I have food, while others starve,
Or beg from door to door.

While some poor creatures scarce can tell
Where they may lay their head,
I have a home wherein to dwell,
And rest upon my bed.

While others early learn to swear,
And curse, and lie, and steal,
Lord, I am taught thy name to fear,
And do thy holy will.

Are these thy favors, day by day,
To me above the rest?
Then let me love thee more than they,
And try to serve thee best.

—_Watts._

HOUR BY HOUR

The seconds fly--a minute’s gone;
The minutes fly--an hour is run;
The day is fled--the night is here:
Thus flies a week--a month--a year!

HOUR BY HOUR

DAWN OF DAY

Come, arise from thy sleep,
Through the window now peep;
Birds sweetly are straying,
Their bright plumes displaying,
At dawn of day.

Let us breathe the fresh air,
For the morning is fair,
And the forest is ringing
With merry birds singing,
At dawn of day.

Come along for a talk,
Or a sweet morning walk,
While the garden discloses
Its bright blushing roses,
At dawn of day.

MORNING

Awake! awake! my love;
The Saviour from above,
Would lend his gracious ear
To listen to your prayer:
Rise and unbosom every care.

Awake! awake! my love;
The Saviour from above,
In accents kind and mild,
Would own you as his child,
Though you’re by nature all defiled.

Awake! awake! my love;
The Saviour from above
Can pardon all your sin,
And bid your soul be clean;
His blood can cleanse from every stain.

EYE-PEEP HOUR

Now I wake and ope my eyes,
For the sun is in the skies;
He has left his kingly bed,
Clouds of gold and rosy red,
And the earth is full of light
Beaming from his eyes so bright.
Little eyes must open too,
Little folks have work to do:
I must dress me quick and neat,
Nice and clean from head to feet;
Good cold water must not spare,
Brush my teeth and comb my hair;
Then kneel down and slowly say--
Thinking not of work or play,
But with fixed and earnest thought--
That dear prayer our Saviour taught;
Then think softly how to-day
I the Saviour can obey;
How God’s name can hallowed be,
And his will be done by me.
I must be a Christian child,
Gentle, patient, meek, and mild;
Must be honest, simple, true,
In my words and actions too.
I must cheerfully obey,
Giving up my will and way;
Must not always thinking be
What is pleasantest to me;
But must try kind things to do
And make others happy too.
If a playmate treats me ill,
I must be forgiving still;
I must learn my lessons well,
Not my schoolmates to excel,
But because my heart’s delight
Is in doing what is right.
And in all I do and say,
In my lessons and my play,
Must remember God can view
All I think and all I do;
Glad that he can know I _try_,
Glad that children such as I,
In our feeble ways, and small,
Can serve him who loves us all.

THE COLD WATER BOY

Hurrah, for a splash!
Come, give me a dash
With the water all clear and cold;
It makes me so bright,
So active and light,
’Tis better than silver and gold.

Oh, what should I do,
Dear mother, if you
Never washed me so sweet and so clean?
Come, give me a splashing;
It is so refreshing,
All the day I would like to stay in.

I never would cry,
Nor halloo--not I--
Unless ’twere for joy and for glee;
I love the good splashing,
And plunging and dashing:
Hurrah for cold water for me!

WHAT I HATE

I hate to see a little girl
That does not love to rise,
And dash the water, fresh and sweet,
Upon her face and eyes.

I hate to see her pretty dress
So careless look and tossed,
Her toys all scattered here and there,
Her thread and needle lost.

I hate to see her, at her play,
When little girls have met
To frolic, laugh, and run about,
Grow peevish, cry, and fret.

I hate to hear her tell a lie--
What’s not her own to take;
Mamma’s commands to disobey,
And father’s rules to break.

And now I’ve told you what I hate
I’ll only stop to say,
Perhaps I’ll tell you what I love
Upon some other day.

WHAT I LOVE

I love to see a little girl
Rise with the lark so bright;
Bathe, comb, and dress with cheerful face,
Then thank the God of light.

And when she comes to meet mamma,
So fresh and neat and clean,
And asks a kiss from dear papa
With such a modest mien,

That all who see her gentle look
And pretty actions too,
Will feel that she’s a darling child--
Kind, honest, loving, true.

FOLDED WINGS

What does little birdie say,
In her nest at peep of day?
“Let me fly,” says little birdie;
“Mother, let me fly away.”
“Birdie, rest a little longer,
Till thy little wings are stronger.”
So she rests a little longer,
Then she flies away.

What does little baby say,
In her bed at peep of day?
Baby says, like little birdie,
“Let me rise and fly away.”
“Baby, sleep a little longer,
Till thy little limbs are stronger.
If she sleeps a little longer,
Baby, too, shall fly away.”

—_Tennyson._

UP EARLY

Little birds are wide awake
Early in the morning;
Just think how funny it would be
To see the robins yawning!

TIME

“Sixty seconds make a minute,
Sixty minutes make an hour;”
If I were a little linnet,
Hopping in her leafy bower,
Then I should not have to sing it:
“Sixty seconds make a minute.”

Twenty-four hours make a day,
Seven days will make a week;
And while we all at marbles play,
Or run at cunning “hide and seek,”
Or in the garden gather flowers,
We’ll tell the time that makes the hours.

In every month the weeks are four,
And twelve whole months will make a year;
Now I must say it o’er and o’er,
Or else it never will be clear;
So once again I will begin it:
“Sixty seconds make a minute.”

[Music: LITTLE DROPS OF WATER

Rev. Eben C. Brewer English

1. Little drops of water, Little
grains of sand, Make the mighty
ocean And the pleasant land.

2. Thus the little minutes, Humble
though they be, Make the mighty
ages Of eternity.

3. Little deeds of kindness, Little
words of love, Make our earth an
Eden Like to Heav’n above.]

HOW I LOVE

How I love my tender mother,
How I love my father dear;
How I love my little brother,
And my gentle sister here:
They are all both kind and true,
And they dearly love me, too.

Be my neighbor proud or lowly,
He shall my affection share;
Be he sinful, be he holy,
He may claim my earnest prayer:
Let me not unfeeling prove,
Nor myself too dearly love.

But of all affection given,
God on high demands the most;
God the Father in the heaven,
God the Son, and Holy Ghost:
Three in one, and One in three,
Be thou all in all to me.

HAPPY HELEN

She said, “I should like to be happy to-day,
If I could but tell which was the easiest way;
But then I don’t know any pretty new play:

“And as to the old ones, why, which is the best?
There’s old blind man’s buff, hide-and-seek, and the rest--
Or pretending it’s tea-time, when dollies are dressed.

“But no; let me see--now I’ve thought of a way
Which would really, I think, be still better than play:
I’ll try to be good, if I can, the _whole_ day,

“Without any fretting or crying: Oh, no,
For _that_ makes me wretched wherever I go;
And it _would_ be a pity to spoil the day so.

“I don’t choose to be such a baby, not I,
To be peevish and cross, and just ready to cry;
And mamma will be pleased that at least I should try.”