BY REV. J. WESLEY HANSON.

It was a quiet summer's day,
The breeze blew cool and fair,
And blest ten thousand happy things
Of land, and sea, and air,
And played a thousand merry pranks
With MARY'S golden hair.
MARY was not a happy girl;
Her face was sad and sour,
And on her little pretty brow
Dark frowns did often lower,—
And she would scold, and fret, and cry,
Full fifty times an hour.
She sat and wept with grief and pain,
And did not smile at all,—
And when her friends and mates came near
She shunned them, great and small,—
And then upon the Fairy Queen
She earnestly did call.
"Oh, hither, hither, good Fairy,
I pray thee come to me!
And point me out the Path of Peace,
That I may happy be,
For I cannot, in all the world,
A moment's pleasure see!
"I try my work, my play I try,
My little playmates, too;
Help me to find true happiness,
I sadly, humbly sue;—
Oh! my lot is a darksome one,—
Fairy! what shall I do?"
A humble-bee comes riding by,
No bigger than my thumb,
And on his browny, gold-striped back,
Behold the Fairy come!
One look upon her loveliness
Makes little MARY dumb.
She wore a veil of gossamer,
Her tunic was of blue,
A golden sunbeam was her belt,
And bonnet of crimson hue,
And through the net of her purple shawl
Clear silver stars looked through.
Her slippers were of sunflower seeds,
And tied with spider's thread,
A rein of silkworm's finest yarn
Passed round the bee's brown head;
An oaten straw was her riding whip,—
Oh how her courser sped!
She beckoned to the sighing maid,
And led her a little way,
And showed a hundred fountains bright
That bubbled night and day,
And flashed their waves in the glad sunlight,
And showers of crystal spray.
She said: "Each stream has secret power
Upon the human heart,
And, as you drink, the mystic draught
Shall joy or woe impart;
'T will give you pleasant happiness,
Or sorrow's painful smart."
The founts were labelled every one,
With titles plainly seen,—
The fountains Pride, and Sin, and Wrong,
And Hate, and Scorn, and Spleen,
Goodness and Love, and many more,
Sparkled along the green.
And MARY drank at each bright fount,
To draw her grief away;
But, spite of all the water's power,
Her sorrows they would stay.
And still she mourned, and still was sad,
Through all the livelong day.
One morn she saw a little spring
She never saw before,
Down in a still and shady vale,
Covered with blossoms o'er,—
And when she 'd drunk, and still would drink
She thirsted still for more.
She gladly quaffed its cooling draught,
And found what she had sought;
No more her heart with sorrow grieved.
She thirsted now for nought;
She'd found a blessed happiness,
Beyond her highest thought.
And when she moved the vines aside
That hid the fount from sight,
In loveliest, brightest characters,
Like stars of silver light,—
Goodness of heart, and speech, and life,
She read in letters bright.
And MARY drank the liquid waves,
And soon her little brow
Became as pure, and clear, and white,
As bank of whitest snow;
And when she drank of that blest fount,
She purest joy did know.
Then MARY learned this highest truth.
Beyond all human art,—
That there are many things in life
Can pain and woe impart;—
But Goodness alone of act and deed
Can make a happy heart.