Part 12 (1/2)

”OUR Father which art in heaven,”

Little Agnes prays, Though her kneeling is but show, Though she is too young to know All, or half she says

God will hear her, Agnes mild, God will love the innocent child

”Our Father which art in heaven”

She has a father here, Does she think of his kind eyes, Tones that ne'er in anger rise-- ”Yes, dear,” or ”No, dear”

They will haunt her whole life long Like a sweet pathetic song

”Our Father which art in heaven,”

Through thy peaceful prayer, Think of the known father's face, Of his boso may He bless!

Think too of the fatherless

GOING TO WORK

COME along for the work is ready-- Rough it h and hard-- But--fourteen years old--stout, strong and steady, Life's ga

Mother stands at the door-step crying Well but she has a brave heart too: She'll try to be glad--there's nought like trying, She's proud of having a son like you

Co, She has ploughed thro' years of sorrow deep, She looks at her boy, and her eyes are brightening, Sha

Bravo! See how the brown cheek flushes!

Ready to work as hard as you can?

I have always faith in a boy that blushes, None will blush for hi

THREE COMPANIONS

WE go on our way together, Baby, and dog, and I; Three merry companions, 'Neath any sort of sky; Blue as her pretty eyes are, Or gray, like his dear old tail; Be it windy, or cloudy, or store does never fail

Soe-row bleak; Then baby cries ”Pretty, pretty,”

The only word she can speak

So leaps backwards and forwards Barking with entles as you have He'd kneel to her like a slave; As it is he loves and protects her, As dog and gentleie I think, than a brute of ahome down the lonely street, A oman eary feet And weary eyes that seldom smiled: She had neither mother, sister, nor child

She earned her bread with a patient heart, And ate it quietly and apart, In her silent home from day to day, No one to say her ”ay,” or ”nay”

She was going home without care to haste; What should she haste for? On she paced Through the snowy night so bleak and wild, When she thought she heard the cry of a child, A feeble cry, not of hunger or pain, But just of sorrow It caain