In pinching times the poor come there
From many a hut and hamlet round;
For ready help and kindly cheer,

Within its doors are always found.

Our land has halls where plenty flows,

Has lords and squires, with wealth at will; But best of all the poor man knows My father's house upon the hill.

In week-day work, and Sabbath rest,
The passing seasons o'er it glide,
With many a game, and many a guest,
At harvest-home, and Christmas tide.

Flowers grow without, and smiles within,
The hearth is never sad or chill;
Lord, keep from grief and save from sin,
My father's house upon the hill.

THE LITTLE BEGGAR GIRL.

THERE's a poor beggar going by,
I see her looking in:

She's just about as big as I,
Only so very thin.

She has no shoes upon her feet,

She is so very poor:

And hardly any thing to eat;
I pity her, I'm sure.

But I have got nice clothes, you know,
And meat, and bread, and fire;
And dear mamma, that loves me so,
And all that I desire.

If I were forced to stroll so far,
Oh dear, what should I do?
I wish she had a kind mamma,
Just such a one as you.

Here, little girl, come back again,
And hold that ragged hat,

And I will put a penny in, —

There, buy some bread with that.

CONTENTED JOHN.

ONE honest John Tompkins, a hedger and

ditcher,

Although he was poor, did not want to be richer;

For all such vain wishes to him were pre

vented

By a fortunate habit of being contented.

Though cold was the weather, or dear was the food,

John never was found in a murmuring mood; For this he was constantly heard to declare, What he could not prevent he would cheerfully bear.

For why should I grumble and murmur? he said:

If I cannot get meat, I can surely get bread; And though fretting may make my calamities deeper,

It never can make bread and cheese any cheaper.

If John was afflicted with sickness or pain,
He wished himself better, but did not com-

plain;

Nor lie down to fret, in despondence and sor

If any one wronged him, or treated him ill, Why John was good-natured and sociable still; For he said that revenging the injury done, Would be making two rogues, where there need be but one.

And thus honest John, though his station was humble,

Passed through this sad world without even a grumble;

And I wish that some folks who are greater and richer,

Would copy John Tompkins, the hedger and ditcher.

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS.

WHO showed the little ant the way
Her narrow hole to bore,
And spend the pleasant summer day,
In laying up her store?

The sparrow builds her clever nest
Of wool, and hay, and moss;
Who told her how to build it best,
And lay the twigs across?

Who taught the busy bee to fly
Among the sweetest flowers,

And lay his store of honey by,

To eat in winter hours!

'Twas God who showed them all the way,
And gave their little skill,

And teaches children, if they pray,
To do His holy will.

The youngest of all, yet the first called away, And oh, but the sorrow was sore!

No losses nor partings till then had we seen; No discord, no changes among us had been; No death in our dwelling before.