I'll tell him we always must try to please God, And never be cruel or rude; For God is the Father of all living things, He cares for and blesses the good. HARVEST-FIELD OF TIME Children, all of us are gleaners In the harvest-field of time; Day by day the grain is ripening For a sunnier clime. Whether in the early morning, Going forth with busy feet, Or, as weary laborers, resting 'Mid the noon-day heat; Let us strive, with cheerful spirits, Each our duties to fulfil, Till the time of harvest,--subject To the Master's will. Let us garner up sweet memories, Bound with ties of love; Pleasant thoughts to cheer the pathway To our home above. Trusting that these precious gleanings, Bound with loving hand, May in golden sheaves be gathered To the spirit land. PRAYER. Watch o'er me, Heavenly Shepherd, Extend Thy crook of love, That so no germ of anger A source of trial prove. Keep me within Thy pastures, And feed me from Thy hand; Let no temptation snare me, Or tear me from Thy hand. May innocence and purity My clothing ever be, That though this earth is still my home, I may walk close to Thee. REFLECTIONS. We're just starting into life,-- What shall arm us for its strife? What shall lead our steps aright? Whence shall come a guiding light? Whence shall come the saving word? How the voice of God be heard? Not from sages,--not from books, Nor twinkling stars, nor babbling brooks. These all speak His power and love, Who rules below, and rules above; But to know His holy will, Oft in silence deep and still, We must turn an ear within; There, midst life's disturbing din, The "still, small voice," in whispers sweet Shall point our way and guide our feet. WHAT IS HEAVEN? Love is heaven, and heaven is love, This is all of heaven above; There no envy, wrath, nor strife, Mars the bliss of endless life. There no anger swells the breast, There no pride disturbs the rest; Nor can hatred dwell above, In that world of perfect love. THE CHILD'S MONITOR. The wind blows down the largest tree, And yet the wind I cannot see. Playmates far off, that have been kind, My thought can bring before my mind. The past, by it, is present brought, And yet I cannot see my thought. The charming rose perfumes the air, Yet I can see no perfume there. Blithe Robin's notes,--how sweet! how clear! From his small bill they reach my ear; And while upon the air they float, I hear, yet cannot see, a note. When I would do what is forbid, By something in my heart I'm chid; When good I think, then quick and pat, That something says, "My child, do that." When I too near the stream would go, So pleased to see the waters flow,