THE ANGELS' WHISPER.

A BABY was sleeping ;

Its mother was weeping;

For her husband was far on the wild raging sea; And the tempest was swelling

Round the fisherman's dwelling;

Her beads while she number'd,

The baby still slumber'd,

And smiled in her face as she bended her knee:

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"Oh, blest be that warning,

My child, thy sleep adorning,

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee !"

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And while they are keeping

Bright watch o'er thy sleeping,

Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me!

And say thou wouldst rather

They'd watch o'er thy father!

For I know that the angels are whispering to thec."

The dawn of the morning

Saw Dermot returning,

And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to

see;

And closely caressing

Her child with a blessing,

Said, "I knew that the angels were whispering

with thee."

SAMUEL LOVER.

"SWEET AND LOW."

SWEET and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea!

Over the rolling waters go,

Come from the dying moon and blow,

Blow him again to me,

While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

Father will come to thee soon;

Rest, rest, on mother's breast,

Father will come to thee soon;

Father will come to his babe in the nest,

Silver sails all out of the west

Under the silver moon:

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE.

WHEN I was sick and lay a-bed,

I had two pillows at my head,
And all my toys beside me lay
To keep me happy all the day.

And sometimes for an hour or so
I watched my leaden soldiers go,
With different uniforms and drills,
Among the bed-clothes, through the hills;

And sometimes sent my ships in fleets
All up and down among the sheets;
Or brought my trees and houses out,
And planted cities all about.

I was the giant great and still
That sits upon the pillow-hill,
And sees before him, dale and plain,
The pleasant land of counterpane.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

LITTLE MAMMA.

WHY is it the children don't love me
As they do mamma?

That they put her ever above me—
"Little mamma"?

I'm sure I do all that I can do.

What more can a rather big man do,
Who can't be mamma-

Little mamma ?

Any game that the tyrants suggest,
Logomachy," which I detest,—
Doll-babies, hop-scotch, or base-ball,
I'm always on hand at the call.

When Noah and the others embark,
I'm the elephant saved in the ark.
I creep, and I climb, and I crawl-
By turns am the animals all.

For the show on the stair
I'm always the bear,

The chimpanzee, or the kangaroo.
It is never,'' Mamma,---

Little mamma,-
Won't you?"

My umbrella's the pony, if any—
None ride on mamma's parasol :
I'm supposed to have always the penny
For bon-bons, and beggars, and all.
My room is the one where they clatter-
Am I reading, or writing, what matter!
My knee is the one for a trot,
My foot is the stirrup for Dot.

If his fractions get into a snarl

Who straightens the tangles for Karl?
Who bounds Massachusetts and Maine,
And tries to bound flimsy old Spain?

Why,
It is I,

Papa,

Not little mamma!

That the youngsters are ingrates don't say. I think they love me-in a way