CHURNING.

I'm such an unfortunate dog, oh, dear! To leave my nap and the sunshine clear, And down in the cellar—the cold dark place— I must turn my steps and sorrowful face, And begin the daily churning. To be sure, I've enough to eat, you know, And I can rest while the men must mow; But oh! how I'd like to hide away When I hear them come to the door and say: "It's time for the dog to be churning!" So here I tread, and the wheel goes round, And the dasher comes down with a weary sound; But after awhile the butter is done, Then off I go to some richer fun Than this weary, dreary churning. There's a lesson, though, in this work of mine, That thou, little one, may'st take to be thine: We each have our duties, both great and small, And, if we want butter for bread at all, Some one must do the churning. And then, again, I think that this life, With its tread-mill of duties, joy and strife, Is like to a churn. Press on! Press on! For by and by the work will be done,— With no more need of churning.