only to set them forth in greater brightness in the sky." 

   "O father, dear father, why pass they away, The dew drops that sparkled at dawning of day, That glittered like stars in the light of the moon; Oh, why are the dew drops dissolving so soon? Does the sun in his wrath chase their brightness away, As if nothing that's lovely might live for a day? The moonlight is faded, the flowers still remain, But the dew drops have shrunk to their petals again."   

   "My child," said the father, "look up to the skies; Behold that bright rainbow, those beautiful dyes, There, there are the dew drops in glory reset,   'Mid the jewels of heaven they are glittering yet. Oh, are we not taught by each beautiful ray To mourn not earth's fair things, though passing away? For though youth of its beauty and brightness be riven, All that withers on earth blooms more sweetly in heaven. Look up," sad the father, "look up to the skies——   Hope sits on the wings of those beautiful dyes." 

 

     LETTICE AND MYRA. A SCENE IN LONDON. 

     My young readers may have heard about the poor people in London. The following story is a specimen of the hardships of many young girls, in that famous city. 

     "Two young women occupied one small room of about ten feet by eight. They were left orphans, and were obliged to take care of themselves. Many of the articles of furniture left them had been disposed of to supply the calls of urgent want. In the room was an old four post bedstead, with curtains almost worn out, one mattrass with two small pillows, a bolster that was almost flat, three old blankets and cotton sheets, of coarse description, three rush-bottom chairs, an old claw table, a chest of draws, with a few battered band-boxes on the top of it, a miserable bit of carpet before the fire-place, a wooden box for coals, a little tin fender, and an old poker. What there was, however, was kept clean, the floor and yellow paint was clean, and the washing tub which sat in one corner of the room. 

     "It was a bitter cold night, the wind blew and shook the window, when a young girl of about eighteen sat by the tallow candle, which burned in a tin candlestick, at 12 o'clock at night, finishing a piece of work with the needle which she was to return next morning. Her name was Lettice Arnold. She was naturally of a cheerful, hopeful temper, and 

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