His eye looks on thee from above, he notices thy fall;
And if he cares for such as thee, does he not care for all?
He feeds thee in the sweet spring-time, when skies are bright and blue;
He feeds thee in the autumn-time, and in the winter too.
He leads thee through the pathless air, he guides thee in thy flight;
He sees thee in the brightest day, and in the darkest night.
Oh, if his loving care attends a bird so mean and small,
Will he not listen to my voice when unto him I call?
MRS. PIKE’S PRISONERS.
A TRUE STORY.
EARLY on a cloudy April afternoon, many years ago, several little girls were playing in a village door-yard, not far from the fence which separated it from a neighbor’s. They were building a play-house of boards, and were so busily occupied, that none of them had noticed a lady standing at a little four-paned window in the house the other side of the fence, who had been intently regarding them for some time. The window was so constructed as to swing back like a door, and being now open, the lady’s face was framed against the dark background of the room, producing the effect of a picture. ’Twas a strange face, sallow and curiously wrinkled, with a nose like the beak of a hawk, and large black eyes, which seemed to be endowed with the power of perpetual motion. These roved from one to another of the busy builders, till suddenly one of them seemed to be aware that some one was looking at her, and turned towards the little window.