And, with seas rolling under,
She sits there alone;
With her heel at the foot

Of the Himmalehs planted,
And her toe in the icebergs,
Unchilled and undaunted.

Yet though justly of all
Her fine family proud,
"Tis no light undertaking

To rule such a crowd;
Not to mention the trouble
Of seeing them fed,
And dispensing with justice

The broth and the bread.

Some will seize upon one,―
Some are left with the other,-

And so the whole household

Gets into a pother.

But the rigid old Dame

Has a summary way
Of her own, when she finds
There is mischief to pay!

She just takes up the rod,

As she lays down the spoon, And makes their rebellious backs

Tingle right soon:

Then she bids them, while yet

The sore smarting they feel, To lie down, and go to sleep, Under her heel!

Only once was she posed,—
When the little boy SAM,
Who had always before

Been as meek as a lamb,
Refused to take tea,

As his mother had bid, And returned saucy answers Because he was chid.

Not content even then,

He cut loose from the throne,

And set about making

A shoe of his own;

Which succeeded so well,

And was filled up so fast, That the world, in amazement, Confessed, at the last,

Looking on at the work

With a gasp and a stare,

That 'twas hard to tell which
Would be best of the pair.

Side by side they are standing
Together to-day;

Side by side may they keep

Their strong foothold for aye!—

And beneath the broad sea,

Whose blue depths intervene,

May the finishing string

Lie unbroken between!

JACK HORNER.

"Little JACK HORNER

Sat in a corner,
Eating a Christmas Pie:

He put in his thumb,

And pulled out a plum,

And said, 'What a great boy am I!""

AH, the world hath many a HORNER,

Who, seated in his corner,

Finds a Christmas Pie provided for his thumb:
And cries out with exultation,

When successful exploration

Doth discover the predestinated plum!

Little JACK outgrows his tire,

And becometh JOHN, Esquire;

And he finds a monstrous pasty ready made,
Stuffed with notes and bonds and bales
With invoices and sales,

And all the mixed ingredients of Trade.

And again it is his luck

To be just in time to pluck,

By a clever "operation," from the pie

An unexpected "plum ;"

So he glorifies his thumb,

And says, proudly, "What a mighty man am I!"

Or perchance, to Science turning,

And with weary labour learning

All the formulas and phrases that oppress her,—

For the fruit of others' baking,

So a fresh diploma taking,

Comes he forth, a full accredited Professor!

Or he's not too nice to mix

In the dish of politics;

And the dignity of office he puts on:

And he feels as big again

As a dozen nobler men,

While he writes himself the "Honourable JOHN !"

Nay, he need not quite despair

Of the Presidential chair:

The thing is not unlikely to be done;

Since a party puppet now

May wear boldly on its brow

The glory that a WEBSTER never won!

Not to hint at female HORNERS,

Who, in their exclusive corners,

Think the world is only made of upper crust;

And in the funny pie

That we call Society,

Their dainty fingers delicately thrust—

Till it sometimes comes to pass,
In the spiced and sugared mass,

One may compass (don't they call it so?) a catch;

And the gratulation given

Seems as if the very heaven

Had outdone itself in making such a match!

Oh, the World keeps Christmas Day

In a queer, perpetual way;

Shouting always, "What a great, big Boy am I!"

Yet how many of the crowd,
Thus vociferating loud,

And its accidental honours lifting high,

Have really, more than JACK,

With all their lucky knack,

Had a finger in the making of the Pie?

Edith May.

THE COLOURING OF HAPPINESS.

Y

My heart is full of prayer and praise to-day,
Μ So beautiful the whole world seems to me !

I know the morn has dawned as is its wont,
I know the breeze comes on no lighter wing,
I know the brook chimed yesterday that same
Melodious call to my unanswering thought;
But I look forth with new-created eyes,
And soul and sense seem linked and thrill alike,
And things familiar have unusual grown,
Taking my spirit with a fair surprise!

But yesterday, and life seemed tented round
With idle sadness. Not a bird sang out
But with a mournful meaning; not a cloud-
And there were many-but in flitting past
Trailed somewhat of its darkness o'er my heart,
And loitering, half becalmed, unfreighted all,
Went by the Heaven-bound hours.

Lie all harmonious and lovely things

But, oh! to-day