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tion from her in French, German, and drawing, and the pleasure and benefit were great on both sides. It was the month of May, and the air was perfumed with roses and honeysuckles, and the bright golden flowers of the furze bushes. Minnie had gathered her little basket full of the yellow blossoms, that her kind friend might enjoy some of the pleasure she had herself experienced in her morning walk. And now they were seated by the sofa, engaged in the pleasantest of all occupations, drawing; while at intervals Miss Wilson encouraged them to talk with her, and drew out their little stores of knowledge, and showed respect for their opinions, childish as they were, and the children felt they were appreciated; and the desire to become more worthy of such a friend was a better stimulus to their exertions, than any system of rewards or punishments that could have been devised.

"Are you fond of poetry, Miss Wilson?" said Minnie.


"Yes, dear, I like some poetry very much."

"I wonder whether you would like what I have been learning this week. May I repeat it to you?"

"Yes, dear, do."

Minnie laid down her pencil, and in a clear, sweet voice, repeated these lines by Doane :—

- What is that, mother?

The lark, my child.
The morn has just look'd out, and smil'd,
When he starts from his humble, grassy nest,
And is up and away with the dew on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart to yon pure bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker's ear
Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays
Tun'd like the lark's to thy Maker's praise.

"What is that, mother?

The dove, my son,
And that low sweet voice, like the widow's monn,
Is flowing out from- her gentle breast,
Constant and pure by that lonely nest,
As the wave is pour'd from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return.
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,
In friendship as faithful, as constant in lovo.

« What is that mother?

The eagle, boy,
Proudly careering his course of joy;
Firm in his own mountain vigour relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying j
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward and upward, true to the line.

"What is that, mother?

The swan, my love j
He is floating down from his native grove.
No lov'd one now, no nestling nigh,
He is floating down by himself to die.
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings.
Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet it may waft thee home."

"Do you like them?" said she, when she had finished.

"Yes, dear, very much; I know them well, and learnt them when I was about your age."

"And which of all these birds would you be like, Miss Wilson? At least, which did you choose when you were a little girl, like me, for perhaps you have changed since then?"

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