And there in the pictures the world seems so gay,
And everything always goes right.
The gardens are sunny, the children at play,
There's seldom a picture-book night.
No wonder we love to sit cosily curled,
Forgetting our woes in the picture-book world.

The dear, merry pages! we know them so well,
And when they are folded away,
Our troubles have vanished as if by a spell,
And nothing is wrong with the day.
The nursery book-shelves are easy to climb,
And no time is better than picture-book time!

HANNAH G. FERNALD.

THE TOPSY-TURVY DOLL

Topsy-Turvy came to me
On our last year's Christmas tree.
She is just the queerest doll,
Much the strangest of them all.
Now you see her, cheeks of red,
Muslin cap upon her head,
Bright blue eyes and golden hair,
Never face more sweet and fair.
Presto! change! She's black as night,
Woolly hair all curling tight,
Coal-black eyes, thick lips of red,
Bright bandanna on her head.
She's not two, as you'd suppose,
When Topsy comes, Miss Turvy goes.
Perhaps it's as it is with me.
Sometimes another child there'll be,
And mother says, "Where is my Flo?
I wish that naughty girl would go."

REBECCA DEMING MOORE.

POOR OLD BOOKS

The poor old books that nobody reads,
How lonely their days must be!
They stand up high on the dusty shelves,
Waiting and wishing, beside themselves,--
And nobody cares but me.
They have no pictures, they are no good,
But I'd read them through, if I only could.

The poor old books! They are fat and dull,
Their covers are dark and queer;
But every time I push the door,
And patter across the library floor,
They seem to cry, "Here, oh here!"
And I feel so sad for their lonely looks
That I hate to take down my picture-books.

The nice new books on the lower shelves
Are giddy in gold and red;
And they are happy and proud and gay,
For somebody reads in them every day,
And carries them up to bed.
But when I am big I'm going to read
The books that nobody else will heed.

ABBIE FARWELL BROWN.

SYMPATHY

Sometimes the world's asleep so soon
When all the winds are still,
That I can see the little moon
Come peeping o'er the hill.

It looks so small and scared and white,
The way I feel in bed
When I have just put out the light
And covered up my head.

It half seems wish