way
And time, perform the wondrous cure.

Still may my soul, through faith, rely
Upon the promises of God;
His mercy see in every change,
And learn to bless his chastening rod.

THE SNOW-BIRDS.

A DIALOGUE.

BY MRS. C. HIGHBORN.

_Clarissa_. Pray, Mary, what are you going to do with those crumbs which
you hold in your hand?

_Mary_. I am going to feed my snow-birds with them; and I should be very
happy to have you go with me. I know you will enjoy seeing how merrily
they hop about and flutter their wings, and seem to chirp out their
thanks as they pick up the food I throw them.

_C_. Thank you for your invitation; but I beg you will excuse me; it may
be pretty sport for you, but, for my part, I can enjoy myself much
better to stay here and arrange my baby-things, for I expect some girls
to see me this afternoon. I cannot conceive what there is in those
ugly-looking snow-birds to interest you; they are not handsome, surely;
they have not a single bright feather; and, as for their songs, they
sound like the squeak of a sick chicken.

_M_. I am sorry to hear you speak so of my favorites; for, though they
are not so brilliant in their colors as many that flutter around us in
the summer, yet to me they tire dearer than any others, and far more
beautiful than those of a gaudier hue.

_C_. Well, you have a queer taste, I must confess; you remind me of the
philosopher I read of in the story-book, who thought a toad the most
beautiful of God's creatures. Come, perhaps you can show me why they are
entitled to your regard, and point out their beauties.

_M_. I will cheerfully comply with your request, for nothing gives me
more pleasure than to speak of the good qualities of my friends. Examine
them for a moment and see how exquisitely they are formed, and, though
not gaudy in their colors, yet their feathers are soft and glossy. But
these are trifles comparatively; what most endears them to me is their
constancy.

_C._ That is a new idea, indeed. Constancy in snow-birds! Please explain
yourself, Mary.

_M_. Well, they seem to me like those rare friends that love us best in
adversity, when the bright summer of prosperity, with its attendant
joys, has fled, and the winter of sorrow and misfortune shuts out, with
its dark clouds, the light of life, and withers, with its frosts, the
few flowers which bloom along its pathway. There are summer friends,
Clara, as well as summer birds, and th