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How grey and cold the mornings are, the evening closes fast, The leaves are changing colour, and fall with every blast; The farmer guides his plough, to turn the furrows straight
And with his harrow breaks the clods, and then he sows the wheat.
The labours of the field are done, for Winter comes once more;
The streams are stiff with ice, and hard the pond is frozen o'er;
The cattle ask their winter food, and on the leafless bough, The birds for crimson berries seek, their only nurture now.
Our Heav'nly Father heeds the wants of every thing that lives;
Seed-time and harvest, summer's heat, and winter's cold he gives;
The leaf, the blossom, and the fruit, each in its season due : Oh! may we ever own his power, and trust and love him too. From "Hymns for Infant Schools."
"I WOULD I WERE A LITTLE BIRD."
"I WOULD I were a little bird,
And sail along the golden clouds,
Up from the ocean spring;
"Above the hills I'd watch him still,
And many a land I then should see,
Nor fear, through all the pathless sky,
"I'd fly where, round the olive-boughs,
Now, if I climb our highest hill,
O, if I had but wings to fly,
Wings cannot soar above the sky, As thou in thought canst do; Nor can the veiling clouds confine Thy mental eye's keen view. Not to the sun dost thou chant forth Thy simple evening hymn; Thou praisest Him, before whose smile The noonday's sun grows dim.
"But thou may'st learn to trace the sun, Around the earth and sky;
And see him rising, setting still,
To other lands the bird may fly,
Ere yet he rests his wing, thou art,
Though strong and free, his wing may droop, Or bands restrain his flight;
Thought none may stay, more swift its speed
A lovelier clime the bird may seek,
WHO taught the bird to build her nest
Who taught the busy bee to fly
Who taught the little ants the way
And through the pleasant summer's day,
'Twas God who taught them all the
My Grandmother ! Yes: I well remember my Grandmother; and I have her now in the eye of my mind, just as she sat and looked when I was seven years old, though it is forty years ago.
My Grandfather was a farmer in a secluded village, about two miles from the town where my father lived. It was the best thing I then knew, and nothing could make my young heart bound with more joy, than to be told we were going to see Grandfather and Grandmother that afternoon.
A fine day was generally selected, in spring or autumn. O how nice the green fields looked, sprinkled all over as they were with daisies and buttercups! What handsful of posies did I and
my brothers and sisters gather, and run with proud delight to show them to Father and Mother! And there was the fine old river, along whose banks we walked half the distance, rolling and tumbling along. Ah, even now when I see it, it looks like a thing of life, and seems to ask me if I do not remember those sunny days; and then it rolls and tumbles again, as much as to say, "thus did I sport and gambol when your fathers played on my banks, and so I shall do when you and your children are all gone and remembered no more."
One thing about the river I remember my Father telling me. It was of his Grandfather. In those days the market people had to cross the river in a ferry boat; (there is now a fine noble bridge over the Trent at the place,)—his Grandfather and many others were in the boat: it was nearly full of people. A man came up on horseback, and wished to be taken into the boat. The ferry-man refused; upon which, the man leaped his horse into the boat and upset it. Many were drowned, among whom was my great-Grandfather.
After crossing many a pleasant field, we arrived at last at the village. How nice every thing looked and smelled! Yes the very smell I remember; especially of the sweet dairy, and the old white rose tree in the gar den. A fine old tree was that white rose tree: many winters had passed over it, and many a