When the win-ter winds are blow-ing,

      And we ga-ther glad and gay,

      Where the fire its light is throw-ing,

      For a mer-ry game at play,

      There is none that to my know-ing,—

      And I've play-ed at games enough,—

      Makes us laugh, and sets us glow-ing

      Like a game at Blind-man's Buff.

      All through the win-ter, long and cold,

      Dear Minnie ev-ery morn-ing fed

      The little spar-rows, pert and bold,

      And ro-bins, with their breasts so red.

      She lov-ed to see the lit-tle birds

      Come flut-ter-ing to the win-dow pane,

      In answer to the gen-tle words

      With which she scat-ter-ed crumbs and grain.

      One ro-bin, bol-der than the rest,

      Would perch up-on her fin-ger fair,

      And this of all she lov-ed the best,

      And daily fed with ten-der-est care.

      But one sad morn, when Minnie came,

      Her pre-ci-ous lit-tle pet she found,

      Not hop-ping, when she call-ed his name,

      But ly-ing dead up-on the ground.

      God's works are very great, but still

      His hands do not ap-pear:

      Though hea-ven and earth o-bey His will,

      His voice we can-not hear.

      And yet we know that it is He

      Who moves and governs all,

      Who stills the rag-ing of the sea,

      And makes the showers to fall.

      Alike in mer-cy He be-stows

      The sun-shine and the rain;

      That which is best for us He knows,

      And we must not com-plain,

      Whe-ther He makes His winds to blow,

      And gives His tem-pests birth,

      Or sends His frost, or bids the snow—

      "Be thou up-on the earth."

      See these mer-ry ones at play,

      On this snowy New Year's Day:

      How they run, and jump, and throw

      Hand-fuls of the soft, white snow.

      You should hear them laugh and shout

      As they fling the snow about!

      'Tis by Frank and Gus alone

      That the balls are chief-ly thrown,

      While their cou-sins make and bring

      Other balls for them to fling.

      Ka-tie is pre-par-ing thus,

      Quite a store of balls for Gus;

      But her mer-ry sis-ter May

      From her task has run a-way,

      All that heavy lump of snow,

      At her cou-sin Gus to throw.

      E-dith is not very bold,

      And at first she fear-ed the cold;

      Now at last you see her run

      Down the steps to join the fun.

      Oh! is there any cause to fear

      That dol-ly will be very ill?

      To cure my lit-tle dar-ling here,

      Pray, doc-tor, use your ut-most skill.

      And dol-ly, if you would get well,

      Hold out your arm, that Dr. Gray

      May feel your tiny pulse, and tell

      What best will take the pain a-way.

      And do not say: "I will not touch

      That nas-ty phy-sic, nor the pill."

      If lit-tle dolls will eat too much,

      They must not won-der if they're ill.

      If your mam-ma ate too much cake,

      She would be very poor-ly too,

      And nas-ty phy-sic have to take;

      And, lit-tle dol-ly, so must you.

      This lit-tle Lamb was brought to Nell

      The day its old ewe mo-ther died,

      And, now it knows and loves her well,

      It will not go from Nel-ly's side.

      A-long the hall, and up the stair,

      You hear its lit-tle pat-ter-ing toes:

      Her Pet will fol-low every-where

      A-bout the house, where Nel-ly goes.

      The post-man has been, dear mam-ma,

      And has brought me a let-ter so fine;

      And Su-san has one, but it is not, by far,

      So pret-ty a let-ter as mine.

      And, pray, will you read it to me,

      Mam-ma, if I give you a kiss?

      I wish very much to know who it can be

      That has sent me a let-ter like this.

      To the lot of our dear lit-tle Rose

      We trust every bless-ing may fall;

      And this is the prayer and the fond hope of those

      Who love her most dear-ly of all.

      So now, lit-tle Rose, can you guess

      Who sent you this let-ter by post?

      Oh, yes, dear mam-ma, I can tell you; oh, yes!

      For you, and pa-pa, love me most.

      God loves His lit-tle birds; for all

      His ten-der care He shows;

      A sin-gle spar-row can-not fall

      But its Cre-a-tor knows.

      They do not sow, nor reap the corn,

      Gar-ner nor barn have they;

      God gives them break-fast every morn,

      And feeds them through the day.

      And this we know; for in His Word,

      Where all His ways we read,

      We find that eve-ry lit-tle bird

      He cares for, and will feed.

      God loves each lit-tle