Books in long-dead tongues, that stirred Living hearts in other climes; Telling to my eyes, unheard, Glorious deeds of olden times. Books that purify the thought, Spirits of the learned dead, Teachers of the little taught, Comforters when friends are fled. W. BARNES. PICTURE BOOKS IN WINTER Summer fading, winter comes-- Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs, Window robins, winter rooks, And the picture story-books. Water now is turned to stone Nurse and I can walk upon; Still we find the flowing brooks In the picture story-books. All the pretty things put by, Wait upon the children's eye, Sheep and shepherds, trees and crooks, In the picture story-books. We may see how all things are, Seas and cities, near and far, And the flying fairies' looks In the picture story-books. How am I to sing your praise, Happy chimney-corner days, Sitting safe in nursery nooks, Reading picture story-books? R. L. STEVENSON. _A Child's Garden of Verses._ THE HORN-BOOK Hail! ancient Book, most venerable code! Learning's first cradle, and its last abode! The huge unnumbered volumes which we see, By lazy plagiaries are stolen from thee. Yet future times, to thy sufficient store, Shall ne'er presume to add one letter more. Thee will I sing, in comely wainscoat bound, And golden verge enclosing thee around; The faithful horn before, from age to age, Preserving thy invaluable page; Behind, thy patron saint in armour shines, With sword and lance, to guard thy sacred lines: Beneath his courser's feet the dragon lies Transfixed; his blood thy scarlet cover dyes; The instructive handle's at the bottom fixed, Lest wrangling critics should pervert the text.