I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows; Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk roses and with eglantine. —_William Shakespeare._ A BLADE OF GRASS. Gather a single blade of grass, and examine for a minute its narrow sword-shaped strip of fluted green. Nothing, as it seems, is there of notable goodness or beauty. A very little strength, and a very little tallness, and a few delicate long lines meeting in a point—not a perfect point, either, but blunt and unfinished—by no means a creditable or apparently much-cared-for example of Nature’s workmanship, made only to be trodden on to-day, and to-morrow to be cast into the oven; and a little pale hollow stalk, feeble and flaccid, leading down to the dull brown fibers of roots. And yet think of it well, and judge whether of all the gorgeous flowers that beam in summer air, and of all the strong and goodly trees, pleasant to the eyes or good for food—stately palm and pine, strong ash and oak, scented citron, burdened vine—there be any by man so deeply loved, by God so highly graced, as that narrow point of feeble green. —_John Ruskin_ (_Modern Painters_). [Illustration] ’Tis education forms the common mind Just as the twig is bent, the tree’s inclined. —_Alexander Pope._ GOOD-NIGHT AND GOOD-MORNING. [Illustration] A fair little girl sat under the tree Sewing as long as her eyes could see; Then smoothed her work and folded it right, And said, “Dear work, good-night, good-night!” Such a number of rooks came over her head Crying, “Caw, caw!” on their way to bed; She said as she watched their curious flight, “Little black things, good-night, good-night!” The horses neighed, and the oxen lowed; The sheep’s “Bleat, bleat!” came over the road, All seeming to say with a quiet delight, “Good little girl, good-night, good-night!” She did not say to the sun, “Good-night!” Though she saw him there like a ball of light; For she knew he had God’s own time to keep All over the world, and never could sleep. The tall, pink Fox-glove bowed his head— The violets curtesied, and went to bed; And good little Lucy tied up her hair And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer. And while on her pillow she softly lay, She knew nothing more till again it was day, And all things said to the beautiful sun, “Good-morning, good-morning! our work is begun.” —_Lord Houghton._ _Sing, Sing! What Shall I Sing?_ Sing, sing! what shall I sing? The cat has eat the pudding-string! Do, do! what shall I do? The cat has bit it quite in two. _Pease-Pudding Hot._