ALICE'S SUPPER.

Far down in the valley the wheat grows deep, And the reapers are making the cradles sweep; And this is the song that I hear them sing, While cheery and loud their voices ring: "'Tis the finest wheat that ever did grow, And it is for Alice's supper—ho! ho!"

Far down by the river the old mill stands, And the miller is rubbing his dusty old hands; And these are the words of the miller's lay, As he watches the mill-stones grinding away: "'Tis the finest flour that money can buy, And it is for Alice's supper—hi! hi!"

Down-stairs in the kitchen the fire doth glow, And cook is a-kneading the soft white dough; And this is the song she is singing to-day, As merry and busy she's working away: "'T is the finest dough whether near or afar, And it is for Alice's supper—ha! ha!"

To the nursery now comes mother, at last,— And what in her hand is she bringing so fast? 'T is a plateful of something, all yellow and white, And she sings as she comes, with her smile so bright: "'T is the best bread and butter I ever did see, And it is for Alice's supper—he! he!"