"I'm sure you must be weary With soaring up so high; Will you rest upon my little bed?" "There are pretty curtains drawn around, The sheets are fine and thin; 'For I've often heard it said, They never, never wake again, 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?" "Oh no, no!" said the little fly, "Kind sir, that cannot be ; I've heard what's in your pantry, And I do not wish to see." "Sweet creature," said the spider, If you'll step in one moment, dear, You shall behold yourself." "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, Would soon be back again; So he wove a subtle thread He went out to his door again, "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, With buzzing wings she hung aloft, He dragged her up his winding stair, Into his dismal den Within his little parlor - but Close heart and ear and eye, Of the spider and the fly. Mary Howitt. THE MOUNTAIN AND THE SQUIRREL. THE mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel, And the former called the latter "Little prig;" "You are doubtless very big, But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together To make up a year, And a sphere: And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I'm not so large as you, And not half so spry; A very pretty squirrel track. Talents differ; all is well and wisely put ; Neither can you crack a nut." - R. W. Emerson. LITTLE BROWN HANDS. THEY drive home the cows from the pasture, Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-fields, 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 delicate sea-weeds, By a song that a fond mother sings. |