And then how was the staging raised? And is the sun a lake of fire, So rosy made by drinking rum? Or, if he goes out every night, Who kindles him when morning's come? And then the fuel, what is that? I'm sure it must be very droll To see him ere he rises up, Still taking in a stock of coal. The moon too, does she really have The stars, I wonder if they're nails Made to let the glory through? That snap out from the burning suns? Mother says they're angel's eyes Watching o'er her little ones. If I travel till I reach Where the land doth touch the sky, I can go to worlds on high? I wonder how I came a boy, When I first put my breeches on? LESSON XXXV. A NAME IN THE SAND. This piece needs no explanation. It comes under the head of Sentimental poetry; and has all the simplicity and purity that characterize the poetry of the author, MISS H. F. GOULD. Alone I walked the ocean strand, And so, methought, 't will shortly be Will sweep across the place And yet, with Him who counts the sands, I know a lasting record stands, Of all this mortal part has wrought; LESSON XXXVI. THE LADY-BUG AND THE ANT. The following Fable, by our Mrs. SIGOURNEY, has been much admired for the sweetness of the poetry, as well as for the beauty of the moral. It may be spoken by a little girl. The lady-bug sat in the rose's heart, So she drew the curtains of damask round, And adjusted her silken vest, Making her glass of a drop of dew That lay in the rose's breast. Then she laughed so loud, that the ant looked up, Took no more notice, but travelled on And down the rose with the lady-bug bent, Then the houseless lady was much amazed, Her wings were chill'd, and her feet were cold, But the careful ant was in her nest, It was wiser to work and improve my time, LESSON XXXVII. OUR VILLAGE. It would be difficult to class the following poem, by THOMAS HOOD, the comic poet of England. The quaintness of the description, and the enumeration of particulars, if distinctly pronounced, produce an amusing effect. The pupil should know that the village described is English, and not American. Our village, that's to say, not Miss Mitford's village, but our village of Bullock Smithy, Is come into by an avenue of trees, three oaks, one poplar, two elders, and a withy; And in the middle there's a green of about not exceeding an acre and a half; It's common to all, and fed off by ninety cows, six ponies, three horses, five asses, two foals, seven pigs, and a calf! Besides a pond in the middle, which is held by a similar sort of common law lease, And contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three ganders, two dead dogs, four drowned kittens, and twelve geese. Of course the green's cropped very close, and does famous for bowling when the little village boys play at cricket; Only some horse, or pig, or cow, or great jackass, is sure to come and stand right before the wicket. There's but one parish church for all the people, whatsoever may be their ranks in life or their degrees, Except one very damp, small, dark, freezing-cold, uncomfortable chapel of ease; And close by the churchyard, there's a stone-mason's yard, that when the time is seasonable, Will furnish with crossed marrow bones, and marble urns and cherubim very low and reasonable. There's a shop of all sorts, that sells every thing, kept by the widow of Mr. Task, But when you go there it's ten to one she's out of every thing you ask. That's the doctor's with a green door, where the gar den pots in the window are seen; A weakly monthly rose that don't blow, and a dead geranium, and a tea-plant with five black leaves and one green. As for holly hocks at the cottage doors, and honeysuckles, and jasmines, you may go and whistle ; But the tailor's front garden grows two cabbages, a dock, a ha'pnyworth of pennyroyal, two dandelions, and a thistle. There are three small orchards-Mr. Busby's the schoolmaster's is the chief— With two pear trees that don't bear, one plum and one apple, that every year is stripped by a thief. There's another small day-school too, kept by a respectable Mrs. Gaby, A select establishment, for six little boys and one big, and four little girls and a baby. There's a barber's, once a-week well filled with rough, black-bearded, shock headed churls, |