ARE there any "little" things,—

Those we deem so are so great!

Poison fangs are hidden and small,

But they kill the strongest man;

Poisonous weeds can harm us all,

More than leafy forests can;

Little lies on little wings

Are dread messengers of fate.

Little rifts make music cease,

Little rocks sink vessels great,

Little leaks in dam and dike

Loose the floods to spoil and rend;

Little whispered words can strike

Cruel blows at heart of friend,

Little signs be auguries

Of great changes in the state.

Little habits grow to chains

Which can fetter man's strong will;

Little kindnesses can heal,

Little helps may save a soul;

Little hands for woe or weal

Can the sternest lives control;

Fortunes start from petty gains;

Every river was a rill.

"Small," we say, "of little worth,"

Heedless what the end shall be;

But the angels sadly sigh

Over what we so despise,

And the small faults we decry

Bring a cloud to heavenly eyes,

And the petty deeds of earth

Mold the long eternity.

S. S. Times