hawk, to dart down upon his prey.  If he goes up the Mount of Olives to kneel in prayer, he is about to build an oil-mill up there.  If he weeps by the brook Kedron, he is making ready to fish for eels, or else to drown somebody in the stream.”  Poor man! he has a hard time of it, trying to keep up appearances.  But it will be harder still, by and by, if he does not look out.  He cannot carry his mask with him into the other world.  There no one will pass for any more than he is worth.

LAMENT OF THE INVALID.

  The earth is arrayed in the robes of spring,
    And by the soft zephyr the green leaves are stirred;
  With the wood-bird’s note the pine forests ring,
    And the voice of the robin’s glad music is heard.

  I see my companions abroad on the plain,
    But the beauties of spring, they are not for me. 
  Oh! when shall I leave my dull prison again? 
    I am pining to roam ’mid the wild flowers free.

  O green is the turf in the wildwood now,
    And my spirit flies from the dwellings of men,
  Where the wind blows soft through the cedar’s bough,
    And the voice of the streamlet is heard from the glen.

  This dim-lighted chamber I long to resign
    For my cherish’d retreat, ’neath the wide-spreading tree. 
  Through the long, long hours of day I pine
    For the breath of the flowers and the hum of the bee.

  No, not for me are the beauties of spring,
    Nor the zephyr that sighs in the cedar’s bough;
  The birds of the forest all sweetly may sing,
    But not for my ear is their music now.

Yet, merciful Father!  I will not complain;
My hopes are all centred on heaven and Thee;
I know that thy grace will my spirit sustain—­
I ask not for more—­’tis sufficient for me.

THE USE OF FLOWERS[1].

[Footnote 1:  See the frontispiece.]

Just one moment longer, cousin Mary, I want to put this flower in your hair.  Now doesn’t it look sweet, sister Aggy?”

“Oh, yes! very sweet.  And here is the dearest little bud I ever saw.  I took it from the sweet-briar bush in the lane.  Put that, too, in cousin Mary’s hair.”

Little Florence, seeing what was going on, was soon, also, at work upon Mary’s hair, that, in a little while, was covered with buds and blossoms.

“Now she is our May Queen,” said the children, as they hung fondly around their cousin, who had come out into the country to enjoy a few weeks of rural quiet, in the season of fruits and flowers.  “And our May Queen must sing us a song,” said Agnes, who was sitting at the feet of her cousin.  “Sing us something about flowers.”

“Oh, yes!” spoke up Grace, “sing us that beautiful piece by Mrs Howitt, about the use of flowers.  You sang it for us, you remember, the last time you were here.”

Cousin Mary sang as desired.  After she had concluded, she said—­