Ho, ho! quoth the frog, is that what you mean?

Then I'll hop away to the next meadow stream; There I will drink, and eat worms and slugs too, And then I shall have a good dinner like you.

Now it is noon.

NOON.

How hot it is. It is very hot in the sun; but it is cool in the shade of the trees.

Some of the cows lie down; some stand in the shade, where it is cool; and some have gone to the brook to drink.

The men have left their work, and gone to the house. Old Fido has Old Fido has gone too.

What do you think the men are doing now? They must be at dinner.

That is a farm-house. The man who lives in it is call'd a farmer. Farmers spend much of their time in tilling the fields.

A MARCH NOON.

The cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,

The lake doth glitter,

The green field sleeps in the sun.

The oldest and youngest

Are at work with the strongest;
The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding like one.

Like an army de-feated,

The snow hath re-treated,
And now doth fare ill,

On the top of the bare hill;

The plough-boy is whooping, anon, anon!
There's joy on the moun-tains,

There's life in the foun-tains;

Small clouds are sailing,

Blue sky pre-vailing;

The rain is over and gone.*

Now the sun has gone down, and it will soon be dark. The men have come in from the field. The cows no longer browse in the park. They have come home by 'themselves, and now stand in the yard. Jane has gone to the yard to milk the cows. Now here she comes with her pail full of milk!-James would like some new milk to drink, and puss would

* Wordsworth.

like some too. Do you see puss? Does she look as if she would like some milk?

The hens have gone to roost. Do you see old Fi do sitting by the door? I wonder if he has had his supper.

Fido will keep watch all night; and no thief will dare to come near the house. Hark! Do you hear him bark? Fido is a good dog. A good dog is of much use to us.

EVENING HYMN.

The day is past, the sun is set,
And the white stars are in the sky;
Now the long grass with dew is wet,
And through the dark the bats now fly.

The lambs have now lain down to sleep,
The birds have long since sought their nests,
The air is still; and dark and deep

On the hill-side the old wood rests.

Yet, of the dark I have no fear,
But feel as safe as when 'tis light;
For I know God is with me here,

And He will guard me through the night.

For He who rules the stars and sea,
Who makes the grass and trees to grow,
Will look on a poor child like me,
When on my knees to Him I bow.

How pleasant it is to see the ripe wheat standing in the fields. The bright summer's sun has ripen'd it, and there it stands ready to be cut down for our use.

Men go into the fields, and cut down the wheat with sickles; others follow who bind it into sheaves. Women then pile ten of these sheaves together, and the pile is called a stitch, or shock. The wheat is then left to dry in the sun. When it is dry, it is loaded on wagons and carried to the barn. If it is put into the yard, it is made into a rick.

After a while, the farmer thrashes his wheat, parting the good wheat from the chaff. He then takes the wheat to market, and sells it to the miller, who grinds it into flour to make bread. Barley is used to make malt. Horses are fed with oats. Oats are also ground into meal, and in Scotland they make porridge and nice cakes of oatmeal.

Wheat is sown first, then barley, and then oats. So wheat ripens first, then barley, and oats last.

In England the word "corn" means wheat, barley and oats. August is the harvest month, but wheat is often cut in July.

THE USEFUL PLOUGH.

A country life is sweet,

In moderate cold and heat,

To walk in the air, how pleasant and fair,
In every field of wheat,

The fairest flowers adorning the bowers,
And every meadow's brow;

So that I say, no courtier may

Compare with them who clothe in grey,
And follow the useful plough.

They rise with the morning lark,

And labor till almost dark;

Then folding their sheep, they hasten to sleep,

While every pleasant park

Next morning is ringing with birds that are singing,

On each green tender bough.

With what content and merriment

Their days are spent, whose minds are bent
To follow the useful plough.

Look here, Charles, I have drawn a boy on my new slate. See what a long nose he has ! Oh! he has but one arm.

Now I will draw a milk-maid, with her pail.

There, I have drawn a pig, and a hen, and a duck.