“Tell me about it, mamma;
Why does the sheep wait there?”—
So I told my own wee lammie
(So tender, and sweet, and fair),
How the poor white sheep had wandered
Far from its fold away,
And was tired, and sad, and lonely,
And afraid, at the close of day.
“But the lamb couldn’t help it, mamma,
’Cause its mother led it, you see.”—
Oh! there was another lesson
Brought silently home to me:
We mothers, who love our babies,
Guarding them day and night,—
Are we always careful to lead them
In ways that are best and right?
I gathered my darling closer,
With an earnest unspoken prayer,
That the tender Shepherd above us
Would help me with special care
To lead my little lamb onward
Thro’ pastures prepared by him,
That naught could harm or afflict us
When the light of our day grew dim.
And I know he will graciously answer,
And, though come storms and cold,
He will gather his own in safety
Within one blessed fold.
And my baby still talks of the picture,
And pities the lamb so white,
Which was led by its careless mother
Out into the dark, cold night.
NEW BEDFORD.
BY HERBERT L. ALDRICH.
No visitor to the shore of Buzzard’s Bay has really done his duty, or shown due respect to the inhabitants, who has not learned to say in one breath, and without a break or hesitation,—
Nashawena, Pesquinese,
Cuttyhunk and Penekese,
Naushon, Nonamesset,
Onkatonka and Wepecket.