For Memorizing

LITTLE BROWN HANDS.

They drive home the cows from the pasture,
Up through the long shady lane,

Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-fields,
That are yellow with ripening grain.
They find, in the thick waving grasses,

Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows.

They gather the earliest snowdrops,

And the first crimson buds of the rose.

They toss the new hay in the meadow;
They gather the elder-bloom white;
They find where the dusky grapes purple
In the soft-tinted October light.
They know where the apples hand ripest,
And are sweeter than Italy's wines;

They know where the fruit hangs the thickest
On the long, thorny blackberry-vines.

They gather the delicate sea-weeds,
And build tiny castles of sand;
They pick up the beautiful sea-shells,-
Fairy barks that have drifted to land.
They wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops
Where the oriole's hammock-nest swings;
And at night-time are folded in slumber
By a song that a fond mother sings.

For Memorizing

Those who toil bravely are strongest;

The humble and poor become great;
And so from these brown-handed children
Shall grow mighty rulers of state.

The pen

of the author and statesman,

The noble and wise of the land,-
The sword, and the chisel, and palette,
Shall be held in the little brown hand.

-M. H. Krout

SUPPOSE.

Suppose the little cowslip

Should hang its golden cup,
And say, "I'm such a tiny flower,
I'd better not grow up";
How many a weary traveler

Would miss its fragrant smell,
And many a little child would grieve
To lose it from the dell.

Suppose the little breezes,
Upon a summer's day,

Should think themselves too small
To cool the traveler on his way;
Who would not miss the smallest
And softest ones that blow,

And think they made a great mistake,
If they were talking so!

For Memorizing

My native country, thee,
Land of the noble free,
Thy name I love;

I love thy rocks and rills,
Thy woods and templed hills:
My heart with rapture thrills
Like that above.

Let music swell the breeze,
And ring from all the trees
Sweet freedom's song;
Let mortal tongues awake;
Let all that breathe partake;
Let rocks their silence break,
The sound prolong.

Our fathers' God, to Thee,
Author of Liberty,

To Thee we sing;

Long may our land be bright

With freedom's holy light;

Protect us by Thy might,

Great God, Our King.

-Samuel F. Smith.

DON'T GIVE UP.

If you've tried and have not won,
Never stop for crying;

All that's great and good is done
Just by patient trying.

For Memorizing

Though young birds, in flying, fall,
Still their wings grow stronger;
And the next time they can keep
Up a little longer.

Though the sturdy oak has known
Many a blast that bowed her,
She has risen again, and grown
Loftier and prouder.

If by easy work you beat,

Who the more will prize you?
Gaining victory from defeat,
That's the test that tries you!

-Phoebe Cary.