vice can I do,
To repay her for her care?
For I cannot even sew,
Nor make anything I wear.

Well, then, I will always try
To be very good and mild;
Never now be cross or cry,
Like a fretful little child.

How unkind it is to fret,
And my dear mamma to tease,
When my lesson I should get,
Sitting still upon her knees!

Oh, how can I serve her so,
Such a good mamma as this?
Round her neck my arms I'll throw,
And her gentle cheek I'll kiss.

Then I'll tell her that I will
Try not any more to fret her,
And as I grow older still,
Try to show I love her better.
--_Jane Taylor_.

{355}{356}

[Illustration]
THE "GRANDUCA MADONNA"
By Raphael

"Around the mighty master came
The marvels which his pencil wrought,
Those miracles of power, whose fame
Is wide as human thought.

"There drooped thy more than mortal face,
O Mother, beautiful and mild!
Enfolding in one dear embrace
Thy Saviour and thy Child!"
--_John Greenleaf Whittier_
[End illustration]

{357}

GOING TO BED

The moon is up, the sun is gone,
Now nothing here he shines upon;
The pretty birds are in their nest,
The cows are lying down to rest,
Or wait, beneath the farmer's shed,
To hear the merry milkmaid's tread.

The pleasant flowers that opened wide,
And smelt so sweet at morning-tide,
Fold up their leaves, as if to say,
"Good-by, we'll come another day;
And now, dear little lady, you
Must sleep, as we shall seem to do."

Yes,--here's my pretty bed, and I
Will kiss mamma, and say "by, by!"
So nice and warm, so smooth and white,
So comfortable all the night!
And when my little prayer is said,
How could I cry to go to bed?
--_Jane Taylor_.

{358}

TIME TO GET UP

The cock, who soundly sleeps at night,
Rises with the morning light;
Very loud and shrill he crows;
Then the sleeping ploughman knows
He must rise and hasten, too,
All his morning work to do.

And the little lark does fly
To the middle of the sky.
You may hear his merry tune,
In the morning very soon;
For he does not like to rest
Idly in his downy nest.

While the cock is crowing shrill,
Leave my little bed I will,
And I'll rise to hear the lark,
Now it is no longer dark.
'T would be a pity there to