A littïe ouo sought me tiiis mornixig, Her blue eyes shilling bright, While over her cheek the dmipíes Were playing In changoful Hglit. Come np to iy room," she whispfred ; A ouriouB thing is there ! A pamter has workecï througb the nighi hours In the cold and shivering air. He has made a beautif ui castle, Far lip on a mountain high ; And a forest of stately trees, With bonghfl that reaoh to the sky. Thoy are all on niy window, niother, llie stranRp and beaatifnl things, And thQ morning sun above them A rainbow beauty flings " I went with the little prattler The mystical work to see ; And glorioua in the sunlight Was the delicate tracery, For all nlght long the artist Had silently wrought away, And only put up hls pencil At the coming in of day ; Softly and stealthlly toiling, By the holy Ught of the stare, And the light that streama Kke a glory I From the far-off crystal bars. He liad gone, as he carne, ia silence, But his work was left behind ; Uke the fairies that send their favors By night to the good and Uind. How often the silent worker In the busy mart of time Weaves a life of angel heauty, Then soars to another clitoe. And when lip and brow have faded In the dust and gloom of death, Their memorieB come to the livinK, Evangcls of loye and faith. Oh! leach me, beautiful frost work. Auother lessoa in life - The web that is woven by night-timtAt morniüg with gems may be rife.