ith the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well.
The old oaken bucket--the iron-bound bucket--
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips!
Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now, far removed from that loved situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well.
The old oaken bucket--the iron-bound bucket--
The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well.

[Illustration]

THE GOOD-NATURED GIRLS.

[Illustration: T]

Two good little girls, Julia-Ann and Maria,
As happily lived as good girls could desire;
And though they were neither grave, sullen, nor mute,
They seldom or never were heard to dispute.

If one wants a thing that the other could get,
They don't go to scratching and fighting for it;
But each one is willing to give up her right,
For they'd rather have nothing than quarrel and fight.

If one of them happens to have something nice,
Directly she offers her sister a slice;
And not like to some greedy children I've known,
Who would go in a corner to eat it alone.

When papa or mamma had a thing to be clone,
These good little girls would immediately run;
And not stand disputing to which it belonged,
And grumble and fret and declare they were wronged.

Whatever occurred in their work or their play,
They were willing to yield and give up their own way;
Then let us all try their example to mind,
And always, like them, be obliging and kind.

"WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER?"

"What is that, mother?"
"The lyre-bird, my child--
The morn has just looked out and smiled,

[Illustration]

When he starts from his humble grassy nest,
And is up and away with the day on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart to yon pure, bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.
Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays
Tuned, like the lyre-bird's, to thy Maker's praise."

"What is that, mother?"
"The dove, my son--
And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan,

[Illustration]

Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure, by that lonely nest,
As the wa