Along the hedge-row’s mossy bank,
  Where ivy green is creep-ing,
We see through weeds and net-tles rank
  The dark-blue vi-o-let peep-ing.

And in the sun-ny gar-den beds
  Gay a-co-nites are show-ing,
And snow-drops bend their grace-ful heads,
  And cro-cus-es are glow-ing.

God makes the buds and leaves un-fold,
  All flow-ers are of His giv-ing;
He guards them through the win-ter’s cold,
  He cares for all things liv-ing.

[Illustration]

[Illustration:  Who tore it?]

[Illustration:  The E-mu in Aus-tra-lia’s found, Where the wild bush spreads far a-round.]

[Illustration:  The ant-lered Elk comes pranc-ing forth From the pine for-ests of the North.]

[Illustration:  The Frog is of-ten-est to be seen In grassy mea-dows, damp and green.]

[Illustration:  The Fly-ing Fish can swim with ease, Or flut-ter o’er the tro-pic seas.]

[Illustration:  The little Hero.]

[Illustration:  Blowing bubbles.]

[Illustration]

JUMP!  PUS-SY!

Pus-sy, jump! for all the day
You have time e-nough to play;
Though at night, in barn and house,
You must watch for rat or mouse.

Pus-sy, jump! and if you do,
We will pour some milk for you;
Pus-sy, you shall be ca-ressed,
If you try and jump your best.

BLOW-ING BUB-BLES.

  Har-ry and Tom, the o-ther day,
  Went out in-to the yard to play;
Their great de-light, in wea-ther bright,
  Is blow-ing bub-bles with pipes of clay.

  Tom took a ba-sin deep and wide,
  And Har-ry brought his mug be-side;
They fil-led them quite with soap-suds white,
  And each to blow the big-gest tried.

  Poor Tom, he blew with might and main,
  And so, of course, he blew in vain;
For all his trou-ble he made no bub-ble,
  But Tom was brave and tried a-gain.

  Till Har-ry said, “Dear Tom, you see,
  You blow too hard; now—­look at me. 
There! that will rise to-ward the skies,
  And float a-bove the li-lac tree.”

A-PRIL SHOW-ERS.

“Thou makest the earth soft with show-ers:  Thou bless-est the spring-ing there-of.”—­Psalm lxv. 10.

When A-pril skies be-gin to frown,
And the cold rain comes pelt-ing down,
We must not grum-ble nor com-plain,
Nor i-dly say, we hate the rain.

God sends the rain; the dust-y ground
It soft-ens in the fields a-round;
The mois-ture ev-e-ry plant re-ceives,
And springs a-fresh in flow-ers and leaves.

Should God for-bid the show-ers to fall,
Nor send us any rain at all,
The ground would all grow hard and dry,
And ev-e-ry liv-ing plant would die.