O if she could but hear

For one short hour, till I her tongue might teach
To call me MOTHER, in the broken speech

That thrills the mother's ear!

Alas! those sealed lips never may be stirred
To the deep music of that lovely word.

My heart is sorely tried,

To see her kneel, with such a reverent air,
Beside her brothers at their evening prayer;

Or lift those earnest eyes

To watch our lips, as though our words she knew, Then move her own, as she were speaking too.

I've watched her looking up

To the bright wonder of a sunset sky,
With such a depth of meaning in her eye,
That I could almost hope

The struggling soul would burst its binding cords,
And the long pent-up thoughts flow forth in words.

The song of bird and bee,

The chorus of the breezes, streams, and groves,
All the grand music to which Nature moves,
Are wasted melody

To her; the world of sound a tuneless void;
While even silence hath its charm destroyed.
Her face is very fair;

Her blue eye beautiful; of finest mould

The soft white brow, o'er which, in waves of gold,
Ripples her shining hair.

Alas! this lovely temple closed must be,
For He who made it keeps the master-key.

Wills He the mind within

Should from earth's Babel-clamor be kept free,
E'en that His still small voice and step might be

Heard at its inner shrine,

Through that deep hush of soul, with clearer thrill?
Then should I grieve? - O, murmuring heart, be still'

She seems to have a sense

Of quiet gladness in her noiseless play,
She hath a pleasant smile, a gentle way,
Whose voiceless eloquence

Touches all hearts, though I had once the fear
That even HER FATHER Would not care for her.

Thank God it is not so!

And when his sons are playing merrily,

She comes and leans her head

upon

O, at such times I know

his knee.

By his full eye and tones subdued and mild
How his heart yearns over his silent child.

LESSON CXIX.

The Frog-pond.-BOSTON DAILY TIMES.

SOME Correspondent of the Gazette wishes to have an iron fence put round the Frog-pond. If our city authorities

listen to his advice, and do the deed, we shall pray to the first thunder-shower that comes along to concentratę all its lightnings, and melt the iron fence by a single clap. Who but a crusty old curmudgeon would wish to keep the boys and dogs away from that pond, or out of it? We are not yet over forty, and we should like to look and laugh at the sourkrout face of that man, whose hard-heartedness would induce him to abridge our privilege of renewing a second childhood, before old father Time chooses to do it for us.

We wish to be young and joyous. The recollections of childhood are still sweet, and we love to renew them prao

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tically What can be more delightful than to run in one's slippers down to the Frog-pond, of a bright morning, or at dewy eve," to sit down on that margin of rock, and, with a dozen or two of merry little rascals gathering round the old man, to tell them stories, while we paddle our feet in the cool water? If they knock our hat into the water, pull our ears, stick funny things into our coat-pockets, or execute any other innocent mischief, so much the better. They are happy, and So are we. 1

Look at that plump little chap. His cheeks are like two red apples, and, with his pumpkin-like belly and light curly hair, he is the image of health and happiness. See his nice little schooner, sailing back and forth close upon the wind. That fellow, as he watches every movement with his sharp, laughing eyes, is already half a mariner. There's a squall; the schooner is capsized in the middle of the mimic ocean. The hands did not take in sail, nor luff, and she had too little ballast. There he goes too! In his anxiety for the craft, he lost his balance, and in he goes, head foremost, like a frog from a grassy bank. Hurra! hurra! shout a dozen jollyhearted chaps. There goes Jimmy! Good for him! He's got a souse. Round they all run to help him out. Here, Jimmy, give us your fist, is cried out by at least ten of them, before Jimmy's head comes up, and when it does come, such a shriek such a yell such an imitation of an Indian war-whoop! What's the matter, Jimmy? You an't drowned yet. Come out here, you little blunderhead!

Jimmy rubs the water out of his eyes, blows his nose, holds down first the right ear and then the left, haw-haws with the rest of them, and ducks under again, sputtering about for a spell, as pleased as a young hen-hatched gosling, when it first finds its element. He is growing a pound heavier every moment; and his muscles are hardening, so that he feels like a miniature giant. Jimmy, you seem to like that? Yes, I du. It feels cool and good. I wish I could swim. While

he says this, he sees that valuable schooner, bottom up, far beyond his reach, and the poor fellow, fearing a total loss, and no insurance, blubbers right out. He climbs upon the stone, and wanders about disconsolately as a ruined merchant. At last he sees the old man looking on with so much benevolence in his countenance that he is sure of assistance, if any is to be found in the world. He sees our well-trained Newfoundland, lying by our side, watching everything that goes on, and looking up in our face every now and then with an imploring look, as much as to say, "May I go now?" And Jimmy gathers hope from the aspect of the man and the dog.

He shakes his clothes, gives a slap or two to his hat to get rid of the fresh water- wipes the salt water from his cheeks, and comes towards us with a pleasing but modest confidence. Will your dog, says Jimmy, bring anything out of the water. sir? He will bring some things we like to make children speak out distinctly what do you want? My boat is upset out there, sir, and I cannot get it. I did not know but you could make your dog fetch it. Tiger's ears were up-his eyes were on fire - he understood the whole matter. I caught the honest dog's glance, and could not restrain him out of pure pity. Fetch it, Tig, said I and he gave a leap that carried him nearly across the pond. He brought the wrecked schooner quietly to me. I gave it to Jimmy, and he gave a shout of laughter that I expected would reverberate from the Park-street Bell, and away he bounded home, a happier, and a better, and a healthier boy than when he left. His mother could well afford to clean off a little mud from his trousers, to pay for the benefit her little one had got, in pleasure, health, and experience; which last is the foundation of knowledge.

Now we should like to gaze upon that man as a species of monster, whose vinegar aspect, prussic-acid heart, and tartaremetic stomach would induce him to stop us from paadling

our feet in the Frog-pond, or keep the boy from sailing his miniature vessel and tumbling into the water, or put up an iron fence, so that our famous Tiger could not perform an act of charity.

Why, it is an act of benevolence, when half a dozen boys are crowded close together on the margin, to come behind and shove them all in— that is, if they are not dressed out in their best Sunday suits, in which case their mothers ought to be served in the same way besides, it does the little rascals good. They are so gloriously delighted, after they get over the first fright; their blood is so quickened; and their lungs are so expanded with screams and laughter, that they will be the better for it all the days of their life.

Far, very far, be the evil day, when in a crowded city the sports of the young are to be abridged, because a dandy's white pantaloons or a lady's satin gown may be spotted, if they encroach upon the lawful dominions of youth.

LESSON CXX.

Snow-flakes.

HAWTHORNE.

THERE is snow in yonder cold gray sky of the morning—and through the partially frosted window-panes, I love to watch the gradual beginning of the storm. A few feathery flakes are scattered widely through the air, and hover downward with uncertain flight - now almost alighting on the earth, now whirled again aloft into remote regions of the atmosphere. These are not the big flakes, heavy with moisture, which melt as they touch the ground, and are portentous of a soaking rain. It is to be, in good earnest, a wintry storm. The two or three people visible on the sidewalks, have an aspect of endurance, a blue-nosed, frosty fortitude, which is evidently assumed in anticipation of a comfortless and blustering day. By nightfall, or at least before the sun sheds another glim