Some when the house is tiny still;
Some when you 've built a little more;
And some when patience hath achieved
A second, third, or higher floor.

Or should you win the topmost stage,
Yet is the strength but toil and pain -
And here the tiny voice rejoined,
"But I can build it up again."

My height of awe was reached. Can babes
Behold what reason scans in vain?
Ah, childhood is divine, I thought,
Yes, Lizzie, build it up again.

New York Graphic.

BERTIE'S PHILOSOPHY.

SMALL boy Bertie,

Drumming on the pane,

Looking at the chickens

Draggled with the rain.

Little philosopher

Wrinkles his brow,

Says, "I wonder

I don't see how.

"Where do chickens come from?

Mamma, please to tell.

Yes, I know they come from eggs,

Know that very well.

"Course the old hen hatched 'em,
I know that; but then-

Won't you tell me truly,
Where'd they get the hen?

S'posin' you were my boy,

All the one I had,

And big folks would n't tell you things,

Should n't you feel bad?

Every single thing you say

I knew years ago;

Where that first hen came from,

Is what I want to know."

Providence Journal.

EVA M. TAPPAN

BOYS' RIGHTS.

I WONDER now if any one

In this broad land has heard

In favor of downtrodden boys
One solitary word?

We hear enough of "woman's rights,"
And "rights of workingmen,'

Of "equal rights," and "nation's rights,"
But pray just tell us when

Boys' Rights were ever spoken of?

Why, we've become so used

To being snubbed by every one,
And slighted and abused,
That when one is polite to us,
We open wide our eyes,

And stretch them in astonishment
To nearly twice their size!

Boys seldom dare to ask their friends
To venture in the house ;

It don't come natural at all

To creep round like a mouse.
And if we should forget ourselves
And make a little noise,

Then ma or auntie sure would say,
"Oh, my! those dreadful boys!"
The girls bang on the piano
In peace, but if the boys

Attempt a tune with fife and drum,

It's "Stop that horrid noise!"

"That horrid noise!" just think of it,

When sister never fails

To make a noise three times as bad
With everlasting "scales."
Insulted thus, we lose no time
In beating a retreat;

So off we go to romp and tear
And scamper in the street.
No wonder that so many boys
Such wicked men become;
'T were better far to let them have
Their plays and games at home.
Perhaps that text the teacher quotes
Sometimes, - "Train up a child,"
Means only, train the little girls,
And let the boys run wild.

But patience, and the time shall come
When we will all be men,

And when it does, I rather think

Wrongs will be righted then.

CARRIE MAY

ROSEBUD'S FIRST BALL.

""T is really time you were out, I think,"
Said Lady Rose to her daughter small;
"So I'll send my invitations round,

And give you, my dear, a splendid ball.

"We'd best decide on your toilet first;
Your sister Jacqueminot wore dark red;
But you are so much smaller than she,

I think you must wear pale pink instead.

"Then, whom to invite: we can't ask all,
And yet it's hardest of all to tell

The flowers from weeds. Indeed, last year

I snubbed Field Daisy, and now she's a belle.

"We'll ask the Pansies, they're always in
The best society everywhere;
The Lilies, Heliotropes, and Pinks,
Geraniums, Fuchsias, must sure be there.

"Miss Mignonette is so very plain,

A favorite, though, I'll put her down;
The Violets, I think, are away;

They 're always the first to leave for town.

"The Larkspurs are such old-fashioned things
It's not worth while asking them to come;
The Zinnias are coarse, Bergamots stiff,

The Marigolds better off at home.

"Miss Morning Glory I'd like to ask,
But then, she never goes out at night;
She's such a delicate thing, she says,

She scarce can bear a very strong light.

"The Verbenas, I know, will be put out

If we don't ask them; the Petunias, too.
They are not quite au fait, but then, my dear,
They're such near neighbors, what's one to do?

"I'll make out my list at once, for there
A butterfly is coming this way;

I'll send my invitations by him,

He'll go the rounds without delay.

"Dear! dear! to think that to-morrow night
You'll really be out. Now listen, my child:
Don't go much with
much with your cousin Sweet Brier;
He's very nice, but inclined to be wild."

New York Star.

THE LITTLE CONQUEROR.

"T WAS midnight; not a sound was heard

Within the "

Papa, won't 'ou 'ook

An' see my pooty 'ittle house?

I wis' 'ou would n't wead 'ou book

"No gentle hand was there to bring
The cooling draught, or cool his brow;
His courtiers and his pages gone -

Tum, papa, tum; I want 'ou now —

Down goes the book with needless force,
And with expression far from mild;
With sullen air and clouded brow
I seat myself beside my child.

Her little trusting eyes of blue

With mute surprise gaze in my face,
As if in its expression stern

Reproof and censure she could trace.

Anon her little bosom heaves,
Her rosy lips begin to curl;
And with a quivering chin she sobs,
Papa don't love his 'ittle dirl!"

King, palace, book, are all forgot;

My arms are round my darling thrown,

The thundercloud has burst, and lo!
Tears fall and mingle with her own.

"

"LULU."

“MIDGET, gypsy, big-eyed elf, little Kitty Clover,
What have you been playing at for this hour and over?

Where have you been wandering, in the name of wonder?
Were n't you frightened at the wind? Are you fond of thunder?

Were you in a fairies' cave while the rain was falling,

With your ears sewn tightly up, not to hear me calling?
Who has taught your hair to curl?

Where's your apron, dirty girl?"

"Now my brains is all mussed up, got too big a headful;
Fifteen questions at a time mixes me up dreadful.
Course I been a visiting, me and Rainy Weather,
Sure to find the birds at home when we go together;
Guess my ears was full of songs so I did n't hear you,
Else because you stayed at home I got too far from near you.
Once some little thing said low,

'Mamma wants you, Lu, I know.'

'Spect it was that funny bird that kept and kept a singing, While the rain was coming down and thunder-bells was ringing. 'Oh, you goosie-bird,' I said, 'rains like sixty-seven, And your song 'll get so wet it can't fly up to heaven; Did you swallow it one day when you was a drinking? Is it all the talk you 've got, or only just your thinking? Or do songs come up and sprout,

And rain makes 'em blossom out?'

"Then the bird came close to me,

mamma, he did, truly, Said, 'I never told before, but I'll tell you, Luly:

One day God got tired of heaven and the angels' singing,
Thought their harps were out of tune, made such awful dinging;
So he sang a piece of song, put some feathers round it,
Then he threw it in a tree, where some bird's name found it ;
And he mixed the song and name

Till they grew the very same.'

Mamma, what you smiling at? Had n't you better hold me?
I'll be tired a saying through what the birdie told me:
God sends word down by the rain when he wants to hear him,
That is why the whisper-drops tinkle by so near him.

Should you think his song would lose? I can tell you better !
It don't have so far to go as my grandma's letter;
Earth and heaven 's so close apart,

God can catch it in his heart.

""'Twas the wind that curled my hair,—did n't he fix it funny? Combed and twisted it like this 'thout a spec' of money; Where's my apron? Let me see!

I must think it over

'Fraid you 've got a naughty girl for your Kitty Clover,
'Cause I gave that to the brook with the big stones in it,
Where it has to run across every little minute;

Covered 'em all dry and neat,

So my brook won't wet its feet!"

CARRIE W. THOMPSON.

BABY IN CHURCH.

AUNT NELLIE had fashioned a dainty thing
Of hamburg and ribbon and lace,
And mamma had said, as she settled it round
Our Baby's beautiful face,