So here I tread, and the wheel goes round,
And the dasher comes down with a weary sound;
But after awhile the butter is done,
Then off I go to some richer fun
Than this weary, dreary churning.
There's a lesson, though, in this work of mine,
That thou, little one, may'st take to be thine:
We each have our duties, both great and small,
And, if we want butter for bread at all,
Some one must do the churning.
And then, again, I think that this life,
With its tread-mill of duties, joy and strife,
Is like to a churn. Press on! Press on!
For by and by the work will be done,—
With no more need of churning.
THE MOON, FROM A FROG'S POINT OF VIEW.
By Fleta Forrester.
Miss Frog sat, in the cool of the evening, under a plantain-leaf, by the side of her blue and placid lake.
"OH-H-H! BOO-HOO-HOO!"
The day had been excessively warm, and so, as she sat, she gracefully waved, backward and forward, one of her delicate web feet.