I ONCE had the curiosity to look into a little girl's work-box, and what do you suppose I found? Well, in the first place, I found a bead-purse about half done; there was, however, no prospect of its ever being finished, for the needles were out, and the silk upon the spools all tangled and drawn into a complete wisp. Laying this aside, I took up a nice piece of perforated paper, upon which was wrought one lid of a Bible, and beneath it the words, "I love—" but what she loved was left for me to conjecture. Beneath the Bible-lid I found a sock, evidently commenced for some baby foot: 

but it had come to a stand just upon the little heel, and there it seemed doomed to remain.  Near to the sock was a needle book, one cover of which was neatly made, and upon the other, partly finished, was marked, "To my dear—" I need not, however, tell you all that I found there; but this much I can say, that during my travels through that work-box I found not a single article completed; and, mute as they were, these half-finished, forsaken things told me a sad story about that little girl. They told me that, with a heart full of generous affection, with a head full of useful and pretty projects,—all of which she had both the means and the skill to carry into effect,—she was still a useless child—always doing, but never accomplishing her work. It was not a want of industry, but a want of perseverance. 

Remember, my dear little friends, that it matters but little what great thing we undertake. Our glory is not in that, but in what we accomplish. Nobody in the world cares for what we mean to do, but everybody will open their eyes by-and-by to see what men and women and little children have done.—

Children's Friend.