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Little child, I'll tell you why',
Thus from flower to flower I fly`;
Let the cause thy thoughts engage,
From thy youth to riper age.

Summer flowers will soon be o'er';
Winter comes', they bloom no more';
Finest days will soon be past',
Brightest suns will set at last.

Little child, now learn of me';
Let thy youth the seed-time be`;
And, when wintry age shall come',
Richly bear thy harvest home.

LESSON XLIII.

HYMN FOR THE CLOSE OF THE DAY.

THE day is departed, and night has come on',
The beasts and the birds to their shelter are gone';
And children with weariness scarcely can keep
Their senses from slumber', their eyelids from sleep.

Ere darkness came over the earth like a cloud',
I heard the sweet birds singing joyful and loud';
They seemed to my mind to be thanking the Lord',
Who preserved and who fed them all day from his
board.

Shall praises be sung by the bird and the brute'?
Shall the robin be tuneful, and children' be mute',
Who can see, feel, and speak'; while the blossoms
and trees',

Bear life, health, and blessings, on every breeze'?

THE CATERPILLAR.

No! let not a head on its pillow be prest',

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No eyelid be closed, and no temple take rest',
Till praises and prayers have been offer'd to Heaven,
For the blessings of life, and of light, which are given.

LESSON XLIV.

THE CATERPILLAR.

"DON'T kill me'!" Caterpillar said',
As Charles had raised his heel'
Upon the humble worm to tread',
As though it could not feel.

"Don't kill me'! and I'll crawl away'
To hide awhile, and try'

To come and look, another day',
More pleasing to your eye.

"I know I'm now among the things
Uncomely to your sight`;

But by and by on splendid wings'
You'll see me high and light!

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"And then, perhaps, you may be glad'
To watch me on the flower',
And that you spared the worm you had'
To-day within your power!"

Then Caterpillar went and hid
In some secreted place',

Where none could look on what he did',

To change his form and face.

And.by and by when Charles had quite

Forgotten what I've told',

A Butterfly appeared in sight'
Most beauteous to behold.

His shining wings were trimmed with gold',
And many a brilliant dye
Was laid upon their velvet fold',

To charm the gazing eye!

Then, near as prudence would allow',

To Charles's ear he drew',

And said, "You may not know me, now",
My form and name are new!

"But I'm the worm' that once you raised'
Your ready foot to kill`!

For sparing me I long have praised',
And love and praise you, still.

"The lowest reptile at your feet,
When power is not abused',
May prove the fruit of mercy sweet',
By being kindly used!"

LESSON XLV.

TOM SMITH.

"UNCLE PHILIP, as the day is fine, instead of sitting here, will you walk with us this morning' ?"

"Yes boys; let me get my cane and hat, and we will take a ramble'; perhaps we may see something, if we will use our eyes. Where do you wish to go'?" Oh, we do not care much, if you are with us', which way we walk'; any course will be pleasant."

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"Come on, then; we will cross the river, and go down on the other side beyond the old mill, where

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you found the wasp's paper. Boys,' do any of you know Tom Smith' ?"

"Know him'! Why, Uncle Philip', every body in this part of the country knows him; he is such a shocking drunkard, and swears so horribly, that no body can forget him'; and what makes it worse, he is an old man, too. His hair is almost as white as

yours, Uncle Philip'."

"Yes, he is just about my age. We were both born here, and I have known him ever since we were boys'; and when we played together as children, over this very field which we are now crossing', or caught fish in the river down yonder by the rocks', there was not a more decent, well-behaved, handsome boy among us', than was Tom Smith. Poor Tom lost his father when he was about twelve years old', and his mother, having no other child, indulged him until he was sent to the city to go into a store. But Tom', then', had good principles; he neither swore, nor got drunk. In a little time he fell into bad company, and they led him astray by degrees. He was so good natured, (as they call it,) that he had never the firmness to say no to the proposals of his companions. He went with them to places of amusement'; and instead of spending his evenings in his own room, reading', he was at the theater, or dancing in some place, or at a supper with his young companions`; and, finally, he began to play cards and billiards with them'; while the inside of the church was a place which he never saw. He was cheated by his companions'; and too honest was he then', not to pay what he lost by gaming. He wrote to his poor mother, and told her the truth as to his losses, and she sent him money to pay his debts, and told him to come home. He did come home'; and even after all that had happened, poor Tom might have been

respectable and happy'; for his friends were all willing to forget the past, and encourage him for the future. For a time he went on pretty well`; he married an affectionate and good young woman', and his prospects were bright`: but one thing, boys'-one single thing', ruined his comfort for ever. In the city he had learned to drink strong liquors.

"I remember, too, soon after he came home and married', that a man was hung, not far from here', for murdering his wife. The man was a drunkard, though he was quite sober when he killed the poor woman`; and drunkenness had hardened his heart, I have no doubt', as it will the heart of any man. Tom was

talking to me about that man', and I remember he said that when a man began to drink, he could never say where it would end, nor what he would do': 'therefore,' said Tom, 'beware of the first drink.’ But Tom, though he talked like a Christian and a man about it', did not act like one; for it was not long before he began to follow his bad habit, and he soon killed his poor mother'; for she died of grief and sorrow. His excellent wife speedily followed her to the grave'; and Tom Smith left the village, a perfect vagabond', whom no one cared for. Where he went, or what he did for a long time, no person here knows. I went to other countries, and neither heard of Tom Smith, nor saw him, until my return home', when I found him wandering about here', a grey-headed swearer and drunkard. He did not know me, and I never should have known him, had not some one told me who he was. Last night I received a letter from one of my nephews in the city, which informed me that Tom Smith had been tried in the court, and found guilty of stealing', and that he was sent to the state prison for ten years' to hard work. There I suppose he will die', for he is now old': and it is

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