It hung i:i tha sun. the little house, It hung in the sun, and shoue; And through the walle I could liear his volee Who had it all for his own. Tlie walls w-ere of wlro, os bright au gold, Wrought in a pretty design : The spaees between for windows served, And the door was clean and fine. There was plenty, too, to eat and drink In this littlo house that shoue; A huky thintï, to be sure, you'd say, A house like thia for one'a own ! But the door was shut, and locked all tight. Tlir key was on the outeide; Tlie one who was in could notgot out, ■ No matter how much he tricd. Twaa only a prison. after all, This bright little house that shone; Ah, we would not want a house like that. Xo matter if 'twere our own. Aüd yet, throuiih the walls I hcard tho voice üf the one who liwd inside; To warble a sweeter song eaeh day It did seem aa if he tried, To open tho door he never sought, Nor rtuttered iu idle strife; He ate. and he drank, and slept, and eansr, And made the best oï lus life. And I, to myeelf, said every dayt As liis cheory gong I he;trd. There's a lesson for n in every note Of that little prisoned bird. Te all of uh live a life like his: We are walled on every side: We all long to do a hundred thinga Wliieh we could not if we tried. We can spend our strenijth all foolishly In a dlsconteated strife; Or we can be wlse, and lauRh and sing. And mate the best of our life.