THE LITTLE SPRING.

Beneath a green and mossy bank

There flows a clear and fairy stream;

There the pert squirrel oft has drank,

And thought, perhaps,‘ twas made for him.

Their pitchers there the laborers fill,

As drop by drop the crystals flow,

Singing their silvery welcome still

To all who to the fountain go.

Then to the river on it glides,

Its tributary drop to bear,

Its modest head a moment hides,

Then rises up and sparkles there.

The touching lesson on my heart

Falls like the gentle dews of heaven,

Bids me with humble love impart

The little treasure God has given.

For from a source as small as this

Full many a cup of joy may flow,

And on the stream of human bliss

Its little ray of gladness throw.