Still we're happy, happy, happy,
Never minding what we be;
For we have a work and do it,
Therefore very blithe are we.
We enliven sombre winter,
And we're loved while it doth last,
And we're not the only creatures
Who must live upon the past.
With a chirrup, chirrup, chirrup,
We let all the slights go by,
And we do not feel they hurt us,
Or becloud the summer sky.
We are happy, happy, happy,
Never minding what we be,
For we know the good Creator
Even cares for such as we.
Is it not pleasant to think of the children having those words to read—painted in pretty colours, too—rather than looking at a blank wall? Sometimes I think we might even hope to carry with us the hearts of people by setting up for them deliberately very solemn and beautiful words indeed, coloured richly in lasting tiles. I do not see why at any rate our churches should not bear on their face some