O Lord, who givest to mankind liberally, and upbraidest not, we thank Thee for the blessings Thou bestowest from day to day. We thank Thee for this material world, now clad in its garment of Northern beauty, for the great sun which all day pours down his light upon the waiting and the grateful world, and for the earth underneath our feet. We bless Thee for the grass, bread for the cattle, its harvest of use spread everywhere, and for the various beauty which here and there spangles all useful things which Thine eye looks down upon. May we use this world of matter to build up the being that we are to a nobler stature of strength and of beauty. Amen. THEODORE PARKER. April 17 _O brothers all! come near And hear A bird's Melodious dreaming set to words, and flung The spring's new leaves and tender buds among, For very joy of life, and hope, and love In a world made broad enough For all God's creatures to be merry in, With joyous clash and din, And yet too small For any greed at all! Lo! deep and sure Is cut this truth in heaven's book of gold: Out of one mother in the garden old Were born the rich and poor._ MAURICE THOMPSON. Our Father, may we begin this day with a song in our hearts,--a song as rich and full and free as the bird sings at the earliest dawning of the sun's light,--a song so attuned with infinite life and hope and love that it must be sung. Thou giver of abundance unto the rich and poor alike, help our souls to mount unto the highest reaches of living thoughts and generous deeds, that we may give unto others as Thou givest. Unfettered by unholy passions and freed from the spirit of greed, may we feel the unity of the bonds of a universal brotherhood, and be just and true, honest, and helpful in all our dealings with all men this day. Amen. HENRIETTA G. MOORE. April 18 _O spring, of hope and love and youth and gladness Wing-winged emblem! Brightest, best and fairest! Whence comest thou when with dark Winter's sadness The tears that fade in sunny smiles thou sharest? Sister of Joy! thou art the child who wearest Thy mother's dying smile, tender and sweet: Thy mother Autumn, for whose grave thou bearest Fresh flowers, and beams like flowers, Disturbing not the leaves which are her winding-sheet._ SHELLEY.