MARY HOWITT.

MARY HOWITT.

THIS lady, whose portrait we give you on the other side of this leaf, is the wife of William Howitt. Both she and her husband have, we believe, for more than thirty years, been engaged in writing many pleasing and useful books both in prose and poetry. It is only seldom that both husband and wife are able to write so well; and now we hear that their daughter, Miss Howitt, is busy at the same good work. We call it "good work," for, upon the whole, the writings of Mr. and Mrs. Howitt have been such as young people might not only read without harm, but they always teach them to do what is right, that they may grow wiser and happier. Mrs. Howitt herself has been fond of writing poetry, and some of her pieces are such as the young love to read; indeed she seems to have had the children in mind when she wrote them. Like Jane and Ann Taylor, who wrote

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Hymns for Infant Minds," Mrs. Howitt often describes in pretty verses the ways of many of the lovely creatures which God has made, causing us to admire his great wisdom and goodness. Her "Birds in Summer" has been much admired. On the next page we copy her "Humming-bird."

THE humming-bird! the humming-bird!
So fairy-like and bright;

It lives among the sunny flowers,
A creature of delight!

In the radiant islands of the sea,
Where fragrant spices grow,

A thousand, thousand humming-birds
Go glancing to and fro.

Like living fires they flit about,
Scarce larger than a bee,
Among the broad palmetto leaves,
And through the fan-palm tree.

THE HUMMING-BIRD.

And in those wild and verdant woods,
Where stately moras tower,

Where hangs from branching tree to tree
The scarlet passion-flower;

Where on the mighty river banks,
La Plate and Amazon,

The Cayman, like an old tree trunk,
Lies basking in the sun;

There builds her nest the humming-bird,
Within the ancient wood-
Her nest of silky cotton down-
And rears her tiny brood.

She hangs it to a slender twig,
Where waves it light and free,
As the Campanero tolls his song,
And rocks the mighty tree.

All crimson is her shining breast,
Like to the red, red rose;

Her wing is the changeful green and blue
That the neck of the peacock shows.

Thou happy, happy humming-bird,
No winter round thee lours;

Thou hast not seen a leafless tree,
Nor land without sweet flowers.

A reign of summer light and joy
To thee for life is given;
Thy food, the honey from the flower,

Thy drink, the dew from heaven!

YOUR BIRTHDAYS.

YOUR BIRTHDAYS.

WHEN they are old enough mother always tells her little folks which is their birthday. Father may forget, but mother never does.

Children think very much about their birthdays, and it is right they should, for by that they know how old they are growing; and more than that, they always expect that such a great event as their own birthday must be kept by having something out of the common way. It may be by having some pretty presents made to them, or by having a little party of young friends to come and have plum-cake and play with them. On such a day they always feel that they are somebody; for all who are in the house, and all who come to see them, wish them "many happy returns of the day."

And so I say to all my little readers, Dont forget your birthdays. But watch them every time they come, not only to know how old you are now, and how much bigger you are; but watch yourselves too, and try to find out if you are growing wiser and better as well as older and bigger. That is one of the best ways I know of for keeping a birthday. For it would be a sad thing if, when another birthday came,

FLOWER CLOCKS.

your father and mother could not be made glad by seeing you growing more and more wise and kind as you grow older. Dont forget that; for nothing could make them more happy than to see you year by year, trying to be like Jesus, who grew in "wisdom and stature, and in favour with God and man."

FLOWER CLOCKS.

I HAVE just been reading something very curious about flowers. The writer gives a list of flowers, too long for me to tell you their names; and he says you may know what o'clock it is by watching when each of them opens. He begins at six in the morning with the first, and goes on hour by hour until nine at night. And he further mentions flowers that open at seven in the morning, and close at three in the after-noon if the sun is shining; but if there is rain then they will not open at all. These might be called sun-shiny flowers. This is very curious; but I believe what he says, for I have seen some flowers in my own garden open and shut in the way he describes.

One more thing I may as well mention, and it is that there are some flowers that look almost like butter-flies.