A dear little rolly-poly boy

With rosy cheeks, and a jacket blue, Laughing and chattering full of joy,

And here's what he said- I tell you true:

"You 're the goodest mother that ever was."
A voice as clear as a forest bird's;

And I'm sure the glad young heart had cause
To utter the sweet of the lovely words.

Perhaps the woman had worked all day
Washing or scrubbing; perhaps she sewed;
I knew, by her weary footfall's way,
That life for her was an uphill road.

But here was a comfort.

Children dear,

Think what a comfort you might give
To the very best friend you can have here,
The lady fair in whose house you live,

If once in a while you'd stop and say,
In task or play for a moment pause,
And tell her in sweet and winning way,

"You're the GOODEST mother that ever was."

THE COB HOUSE.

WILLY and Charley, eight and ten,

Were under the porch in the noonday heat; I could see and hear the little men,

Unseen, myself, in the window-seat.

Will on a cob house was hard at work,
With a zeal that was funny enough to me.
At eight one has hardly learned to shirk;
That comes later, as you will see.

For Charley, by virtue of riper age,
Did nothing but stand and criticise;
His hands in his pockets, stage by stage
He watched the tottering castle rise.

"And now, after all your fuss," says he,
S'posin' it tumbles down again?"
"Oh," Will answers as cool as could be,
"Of course I should build it better then."

Charley shook sagely his curly head,

Opened his eyes of dancing brown,

And then for a final poser said,

“But s'posin' it always kept tumblin' down?"

Will, however, was not of the stuff

At a loss to be taken so.

"Why, then," he answered ready enough,

"I should keep on building it better, you know."

And, seeing the wise world's wisest knot
Cut at a stroke with such simple skill,
Older people than Charley, I thought,
Might learn a lesson of Master Will.

KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.

CARD HOUSES.

My little niece and I-I read
My Plato in my easy-chair;
And she was building on the floor

A pack of cards with wondrous care.

We worked in silence, but alas!
Among the cards a mighty spill,
And then the little ape exclaimed,

"Well! Such is life! Look, Uncle Will!"

I gave a start and dropped my book,
It was the " Phædo " I had read,·

A sympathetic current thrilled

-

Like lightning through my heart and head.

I eyed with curious awe the child,

The unconscious Sibyl, where she sat,

Whose thoughtless tongue could babble forth
Strange parables of life and fate.

Yet such is life! a Babel house,
A common doom hath tumbled all,

King, queen, and knave, and plain and trump,
A motley crew in motley fall!

We rear our hopes, no Pharaoh's tomb,
Nor brass, could build so sure a name,

But, soon or late, a sad collapse,
And great the ruin of the same.

Ah, such is life! Oh, sad and strange
That love and wisdom so ordain!
Some ere the builder's hands have yet
One card against another lain;

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 —

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

year

"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?
for there

"I'll make out my list at once,
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 your cousin Sweet Brier;
He's very nice, but inclined to be wild."

New York S'ar.