here are two poems—sweet true poems, though written for infant lips—made, like the flowers, to delight all minds, which are probably more familiar to millions of readers than any verses in oar language. They are—"My mother," by Anne Taylor; and "Twinkle, twinkle, little star," by her sister Jane.

These sisters were members of a sweet, congenial, united family, nearly unique in the annals of literature. They inherited from a line of ancestors, distinguished in a far nobler sense than by mere worldly rank, acute and penetrating intellect, energy and decision of character, accompanied by great self-control and perseverance. These are the quali-