my supper there.

"The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay
Till God released her from her pain;
And then she went away.

"So in the churchyard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and 1.

"And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side." {456}

"How many are you then," said I,
"If there are two in heaven?"
Quick was the little maid's reply,
"O master! We are seven."

"But they are dead: those two are dead;
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'T was throwing words away; for still
The little maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"
--_William Wordsworth_.

{457}{458}

[Illustration]
JESUS IN THE TEMPLE
By William Holman Hunt (1827-1910)

One of the famous English school of so called pre-Raphaelite
painters. This picture, "Jesus in the Temple," is one of his most
celebrated paintings
[End illustration]

{459}

CHILDREN

Come to me, O ye children!
For I hear you at your play,
And the questions that perplexed me
Have vanished quite away.

Ye open the eastern windows,
That look toward the sun,
Where thoughts are singing swallows
And the brooks of morning run.

In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,
In your thoughts the brooklet's flow,
But in mine is the wind of autumn
And the first fall of the snow.

Ah! what would the world be to us
If the children were no more?
We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before.

What the leaves are to the forest,
With light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices
Have been hardened into wood,--

That to the world are children;
Through them it feels the glow
Of a brighter and sunnier climate
Than reaches the trunks below. {460}

Come to me, O ye children!
And whisper in my ear
What the birds and the winds are singing
In your sunny atmosphere.

For what are all our contrivings,
And the wisdom of our books,
When compared with your caresses,
And the gladness of your looks?

Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said;
For ye are living poems,
And all the rest are dead.