And begin the daily churning.

To be sure, I've enough to eat, you know,
And I can rest while the men must mow;
But oh! how I'd like to hide away
When I hear them come to the door and say:
"It's time for the dog to be churning!"

So here I tread, and the wheel goes round,
And the dasher comes down with a weary sound;
But after awhile the butter is done,
Then off I go to some richer fun
Than this weary, dreary churning.

There's a lesson, though, in this work of mine,
That thou, little one, may'st take to be thine:
We each have our duties, both great and small,
And, if we want butter for bread at all,
Some one must do the churning.

And then, again, I think that this life,
With its tread-mill of duties, joy and strife,
Is like to a churn. Press on! Press on!
For by and by the work will be done,--
With no more need of churning.

THE MOON, FROM A FROG'S POINT OF VIEW.

BY FLETA FORRESTER.

Miss Frog sat, in the cool of the evening, under a plantain-leaf, by the
side of her blue and placid lake.

The day had been excessively warm, and so, as she sat, she gracefully
waved, backward and forward, one of her delicate web feet.

It was a beautiful, natural fan, and served, admirably, the purpose
intended.

Around Miss Frog arose the varied warble of other frogs. The little
polliwogs had all been put to bed; and now, came stealing on, the season
for silent thoughts. Always anxious to improve her mind, Miss Frog gazed
about her to find a subject on which to fasten her attention.

She had been once sent to a southern lake to finish her education, and
was really quite superior to ordinary frogs.

"There is no one here, in this mud-hole, to appreciate me," she
regretfully sighed, as two silly frogs passed her leaf, flirting so hard
that neither of them observed her.

She drew around her her shawl of lace, made from the finest cobwebs of
Florida--and sulked.

Just then arose the moon, taking its solitary, silvery way across the
sky.

Her attention was arrested at once.

"How like to a polliwog it is!" she rapturously exclaimed, "save that it
lacks a tail."

"And a glorified polliwog it is, daughter of the water!" croaked a
sudden hoarse voice beside her.

She hopped with fright, and gasped as if about to faint; but calmed
herself again as she recognized the tones of the rough-skinned Sage of
the Frogs, who dwells alone in some remote corner o