THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.

MARY HOWITT.

"WILL you walk into my parlour ?" said a Spider to a Fly;

""Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did

spy.

The way into my parlour is up a winding-stair,

And I have many pretty things to show you when you're there."

"Oh, no, no!" said the little Fly, "to ask me is in

vain,

For who goes up your winding-stair can ne'er come down again."

"I'm sure you must be weary with soaring up so

high;

Will you rest upon my

to the Fly.

little bed ?" said the Spider

"There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets

are fine and thin,

And if you like to rest awhile I'll snugly tuck you

in."

"Oh, no, no!" said the little Fly, "for I've often heard it said,

They never, never wake again who sleep upon your bed!"

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, "Dear friend, what shall I do

To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you?

I have within my pantry good store of all that's

nice;

I'm sure you're very welcome-will you please to take a slice ?"

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.

Oh, no, no!" said the little Fly,

cannot be;

341

"kind sir, that

I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see."

"Sweet creature!" said the Spider, "you're witty and you're wise!

How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!

I have a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf; If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall beholdyourself."

"I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you're pleased to say,

And bidding you good-morning now, I'll call another day."

The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den;

He knew the vain and silly fly would soon come back again:

So he wove a subtle web in a little corner sly,
And set his table ready to dine upon the Fly.

Then he went out to his door again, and merrily did sing:

"Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing!

"Your robes are green and purple-there's a crest upon your head,

Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead."

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly, Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by;

With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,

Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, her green and purple hue,

And dreaming of her crested head-poor foolish thing! At last,

Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her

fast.

He dragged her up his winding-stair, into his dismal den,

Within his little parlour-but she ne'er came down again!

And now, do you take warning! all who this story hear;

To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give

ear:

To all deceitful counsellors close heart, and ear, and

eye:

And take a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the Fly.

THE ANGELS' WHISPER

SAMUEL LOVER.

A BABY was sleeping;

Its mother was weeping,

For her husband was far on the wild raging sea;

And the tempest was swelling

Round the fisherman's dwelling,

As she cried, "Dermot, darling, oh! come back to me."

Her beads while she numbered,

The baby still slumbered,

And smiled in her face, as she bended her knee;

"Oh! bless'd be that warning,

Thy slumber adorning ;

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee!

THE LESSONS OF THE BIRDS.

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And while they are keeping
Bright watch o'er thy sleeping,

Oh! pray to them softly, my baby, with me;
And say thou wouldst rather

They'd watch o'er thy father!

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee!"

The dawn of the morning

Saw Dermot returning,

And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see; And closely caressing

Her child, with a blessing,

Said, "I knew that the angels were whispering with thee!"

THE LESSONS OF THE BIRDS.

G. W. DOANE.

What is that, mother? The lark, my child!
The morn has but just looked out and smiled,
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

Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.

What is that, mother? The dove, my son !
And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure by that lonely nest,—
As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,-
For her absent dear one's quick return.
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove-

In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.

What is that, mother? The eagle, boy!
Proudly careering his course of joy;
Firm on his own mountain-vigour relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying;
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!
He is floating down from his native grove:
No loved 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 son, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home!

THE RECONCILIATION.

JOHN BANIM.

THE old man knelt at the altar
His enemy's hand to take

And at first his weak voice did falter,
And his feeble limbs did shake;
For his only brave boy, his glory,

Had been stretched at the old man's feet,

A corpse,-all so haggard and gory,-
By the hand which he now must greet.

And soon the old man stopped speaking;
And rage, which had not gone by,
From under his brows came breaking
Up into his enemy's eye;-