"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," said 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 mattress with two small
pillows, a bolster that was almost flat, three old blankets and cotton