[Illustration: THE WIDOW'S POT OF OIL. ]

SMALL MEANS AND GREAT ENDS. 

EDITED BY MRS. M. H. ADAMS

 Word of Truth, and Gift of Love, Waiting hearts now need thee; Faithful in thy mission prove, On that mission speed thee. 

1851. 

PREFACE. 

From the encouragement extended to our worthy publisher on thepresentation of the first and second volumes of the Annual, we concludethat the experiment of 1845 may be regarded as a successful one, and thepreparation of a little work of this kind an acceptable offering to theyoung. 

The present year, our kind contributors have afforded us a much moreample supply of interesting articles than could possibly appear. Weregret that any who have so generously labored for us and our youngfriends, should be denied the pleasure of greeting their articles on thepages of the Annual. Let them not suspect that it is from anydisapproval or rejection of their labors. Be assured, dear friends, weare more grateful than can properly be expressed in a brief preface. Ourwarmest thanks are due our old friends, who, in the midst of otherarduous duties, have willingly given us assistance. Let our newcorrespondents be assured they are gratefully remembered, although wehave not the pleasure or opportunity to present their articles to ourreaders in the present volume. They are at the publisher's disposal foranother year. 

May the blessing of our Father in heaven rest upon the little book andall its mends. 

M. H. A. 

 CONTENTS. 

 * * * * *

 Small Means and Great Ends

 Mary Ellen

 The Dead Child to its Mother

 Hope

 The Young Soldier

 The Stolen Children

 My Grandmother's Cottage

 The First Oath

 The Fairy's Gift

 A Lesson taught by Nature

 Florence Drew

 Shechem

 The Little Candle

 "Are we not all Brothers and Sisters?"

 Fortune-Telling

 The Boy who Stole the Nails

 The Childless Mother

 The Motherless Child

 Faith

SMALL MEANS AND GREAT ENDS;

OR, THE WIDOW'S POT OF OIL. 

BY JULIA A. FLETCHER. 

"Oh! how I do wish I was rich!" said Eliza Melvyn, dropping her work inher lap, and looking up discontentedly to her mother; "why should not Ibe rich as well as Clara Payson? There she passes in her father'scarriage, with her fine clothes, and haughty ways; while I sithere--sew--sewing--all day long. I don't see what use I am in the world!

"Why should it be so? Why should one person have bread to waste, whileanother is starving? Why should one sit idle all day, while anothertoils all night? Why should one have so many blessings, and another sofew?"

"Eliza!" said Mrs. Melvyn, taking her daughter's hand gently within herown, and pushing back the curls from her flushed brow, "my daughter, whyis this? why is your usual contentment gone, and why are you so sinfullycomplaining? Have you forgotten to think that 'God is ever good?'"

"No, mother, " replied the young girl, "but it sometimes appears strangeto me, why he allows all these things. "

"Wiser people than either you or I have been led to wonder at thesethings, " said Mrs. Melvyn; "but the Christian sees in all the wisdom ofGod, who allows us to be tried here, and will overrule all for our good. The very person who is envied for one blessing perhaps envies anotherfor one he does not possess. But why would you be rich, my child?"

"Mother, I went this morning through a narrow, dirty street in anotherpart of the city. A group of ragged children were collected round onewho was crying bitterly. I made my way through them and spoke to thelittle boy. He told me his little sister was dead, his father was sick, and he was hungry. Here was sorrow enough for any one; but the littleboy stood there with his bare feet, his sunbleached hair and tatteredclothes, and smiled almost cheerfully through the tears which washedwhite streaks amid the darkness of his dirty face. He led me to his_home_. Oh, mother! if you had been with me up those broken stairs, andseen the helpless beings in that dismal, dirty room you would havewished, like me, for the means to help them. The dead body lay thereunburied, for the man said, they had no money to pay for a coffin. Hewas dying himself, and they might as well be buried together. "

"Are you sure, Eliza, that you have not the means to help them?" askedMrs. Melvyn. "Put on your bonnet, my dear, and go to our sexton. Tellhim to go and do what should be done. The charitable society of which Iam a member will pay the expense. Then call on Dr. ---- the dispensaryphysician, and send him to the relief of the sick one. Then go to thoseof your acquaintance who have, as you say, 'bread to waste, ' and mentionto them this hungry little boy. If you have no money to give thesesufferers, you have a voice to plead with those who have; and thus youmay bless the poor, while you doubly bless the rich, for 'It is moreblessed to give than to receive. '"

Eliza obeyed, and when she returned several hours after, her faceglowing with animation, and eagerly recounted how much had been done forthe poor family; how their dead had been humanely borne from theirsight; how the sick man was visited by the physician, and his bitternessof spirit removed by the sympathy which was sent him; how the room wasto be cleaned and ventilated, and how she left the little boy eating ahuge slice of bread, while others of the family were half devouring theremainder of the loaf; her mother listened with the same gentleness. "Itis well, my daughter, " said she; "I preferred to send you on this errandof sympathy, that you might see how much you could do with small means. "

"I have a picture here, " she continued, "which I wish you to keep as atoken of this day's feelings and actions. It is called 'The Widow's Potof Oil. ' Will you read me the story which belongs to it?"

Eliza took her little pocket Bible, the one that she always carried tothe Sabbath school, and, turning to the fourth chapter of the secondbook of Kings, read the first seven verses. Turn to them now, children, and read them. 

"You can see in this picture, " said her mother, "how small was the 'potof oil, ' and how large were some of the vessels to be filled. Yet stillit flowed on, a little stream; still knelt the widow in her faith, patiently supporting it; still brought her little sons the emptyvessels; the blessing of God was upon it, and they were all filled. Shefeared not that the oil would cease to flow; she stopped not when onevessel was filled; she still believed, and labored, and waited, untilher work was done. 

"Take this picture, my daughter, and when you think that you cannot dogood with small means, remember 'the widow's pot of oil, ' andperseveringly use the means you have; when one labor is done, beginanother; stitch by stitch you have made this beautiful garment; verylarge houses are built of little bricks patiently joined together one byone; and 'the widow's small pot of oil' filled many large vessels. "

"Oh, mother, " said Eliza, "I hope I shall never be so wicked again. Iwill keep the picture always. But, mother, do you not think Mr. Usherwould like this picture to put in the 'Sabbath School Annual?' He mighthave a smaller one engraved from this, you know, and perhaps cousinJulia will write something about it. I mean to ask them. "

MARY ELLEN;

A SKETCH FROM LIFE. 

BY MRS. MARGARET M. MASON. 

 "O, lightly, lightly tread! A holy thing is sleep On the worn spirit shed, And eyes that wake to weep; Ye know not what ye do, That call the slumberer back From the world unseen by you, Unto life's dim faded track. "

How beautiful, calm, and peaceful is sleep! Often, when I have laid myhead upon my pillow happy and healthful, I have asked myself, to whatshall I awaken? What changes may come ere again my head shall press thispillow? Ah, little do we know what a day may unfold to us! We know notto what we shall awaken; what joy or sorrow. I do not know when I wasawakened to more painful intelligence, than when aroused one morningfrom pleasant dreams by the voice of a neighbor, saying that Mary Ellen, the only daughter of a near neighbor, was dying. She was a beautifullittle girl, about three years of age, unlike most other children. Shewas more serious and thoughtful; and many predicted that her friendswould not have her long. She would often ask strange questions aboutheaven and her heavenly Father; and many of her expressions were verybeautiful. 

One day she asked permission of her mother to go and gather her someflowers. Her mother gave her permission, but requested her not to go outof the field. After searching in vain for flowers, she returned withsome clover leaves and blades of grass. "Mother, " said she, "I couldfind you no flowers, but here are some spires of grass and cloverleaves. Say that they are some pretty, mother. GOD made them. " Often, when she woke in the morning, she would ask her mother if it was theSabbath day. If told it was, "Then, " she would say, "we will read theBible and keep the day holy. " Her mother always strove to render theSabbath interesting to her, and to have her spend it in a profitablemanner. Nor did she fail; for little Mary Ellen was always happy whenthe Sabbath morning came. The interest she took in the reading of theScriptures, in explanations given of the plates in the Bible, and theaccuracy with which she would remember all that was told her, were trulypleasing. Her kind and affectionate disposition, her love for all thatwas pure and holy, and her readiness to forgive and excuse all that shesaw wrong in others, made her beloved by all who knew her. If she sawchildren at play on the Sabbath, or roaming about, she would notice it, and speak of it as being very wrong, and it would appear to wound herfeelings; yet she would try to excuse them. "It may be, " she would say, "that they do not know that it is the holy Sabbath day. Perhaps no onehas told them. " She could not bear to think of any one doing wrongintentionally. 

Whenever she heard her little associates make use of any language thatshe was not quite sure was right, she would ask her mother if it waswrong to speak thus; and if wrong, she would say, "Then, I will neverspeak so, and I shall be your own dear little girl, and my heavenlyFather will love me. " We often ask children whom they love best. Suchwas the question often put to Mary Ellen. She would always say, "I lovemy heavenly Father best, and my dear father and mother next. " Her firstand best affections were freely given to her Maker, not from a sense ofduty alone did it seem, but from a heart overflowing with love andgratitude; and never, at the hour of retiring, would she forget to kneeland offer up her evening prayer. Thus she lived. 

Now I will lead you to her dying pillow Many friends were around her. No one had told her that she was dying; yet she herself felt consciousof it. She wished to have the window raised, that she might see theocean and trees once more. "Oh!" said her mother, bending over her, "ismy dear little girl dying?" "I want to go, " said Mary Ellen; "I want myfather and mother to go with me. " "Will you not stay with us?" said thestricken father; "will you not stay with us?" She raised her littlehands and eyes--"Oh no, " said she; "I see them! I see them! 't islighter there; I want to go; get a coffin and go with me, father. 'T islighter there!" She died soon after she ceased speaking. Her pure spiritwinged its way to the blest home where we shall _all_ have more light, where the mortal shall put on immortality. 

She died when flowers were fading; fit season for one of so gentle andpure a nature to depart. 

 "In the cold, moist earth they laid her When the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so beautiful Should have a life so brief. And yet 't was not unmeet that one, Like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, Should perish with the flowers. "

But Oh! when that little form was laid in the cold grave, --when thechildless parents returned to their lonely home, once made so happy bythe smile of their departed child, --Oh! who can express or describetheir anguish! In her they had all they could ask in a child; she wastheir only one. Everything speaks to their hearts of _her_; but herlight step and happy voice fall not upon their ears; to them the flowersthat she loved have a mournful language. The voice of the wind sighingin the trees has to them a melancholy tone. The light laugh of littlechildren, coming in at the open window, --the singing of birds which shedelighted to hear, --but speak to their hearts of utter loneliness. Theyfeel that the little form they had nursed with so much care andtenderness, so often pressed to their bosoms, is laid beneath the sod. Yet the sweet consolation which religion affords, cheered and sustainedthe afflicted parents in their hours of deepest sorrow. They would notcall their child back. They feel that she has reached her heavenly home. Happy must they have been in yielding up to its Maker a spirit so pure. 

Two years Mary Ellen has been sleeping in the little grave-yard. Sincethen another little daughter has been given her parents, --a promisinglittle bud, that came with the spring flowers, to bless and cheer thehome which was made so desolate. The best wish I have for the parents, and all I ask for the child, is, that it may be like little Mary Ellen. I have an earnest wish, too that all little children who read thissketch may be led to love and obey God as much as Mary Ellen. 

[Illustration]

THE DEAD CHILD TO ITS MOTHER. 

BY MRS. E. R. B. WALDO. 

 Mother, mourn not for me; No more I need of thee; Call back the yearning which would follow where No mortal grief can go; All thine affection throw Around thy living ones; they need thy care. 

 Let not my name still be A word of grief to thee, But let it bring a thought of peace and rest; Shed for me no sad tear, Remember, mother dear! That I am with the perfect and the blest. 

 Yes, let my memory still With joy thy bosom fill; For, though thou dost along life's desert roam, My spirit, like a star, Bright burning and afar, Shall guide thee, through the darkness, to thy home

HOPE. 

BY REV. H. B. NYE. 

Expectation is not desire, nor desire hope. We may _expect_ misfortune, sickness, poverty, while from these evils we would fain escape. Bendingover the couches of the sick and suffering, we may _desire_ theirrestoration to health, while the hectic flush and the rapid beating ofthe heart assure us that no effort of kindness or skill can prolongtheir days upon the earth. _Hope_ is directed to some future good, andit implies not only an ardent desire that our future may be fair andunclouded, but an expectation that our wishes will, at length, begranted, and our plans be crowned with large success. Hence hopeanimates us to exertion and diligence, and always imparts pleasure andgladness, while our fondest wishes cost us anxiety and tears. 

There are _false_ and _delusive_ hopes, which bring us, at last, toshame. There are those who expect to gain riches by fraud and deceit, inpursuits and traffics on which the laws of truth, love, and justice, must ever darkly frown. They forget that wealth, with all its splendor, can only be deemed a good and desirable gift when sought as aninstrument to advance noble and beneficent aims, --when we are thealmoners of God's bounty to the lonely children of sorrow and want. 

If we seek wealth, let us not forget that pure hearts gentle affections, lofty purposes, and generous deeds, can alone secure the peace andblessedness of the spiritual kingdom of God. 

There are some who have a strong desire for the praise and stations ofmen, yet are often careless of the means by which they accomplish theirends. Remember, my young friends, that no station, no crown, or honor, will occupy the attention of a good and noble heart, except it opens abetter opportunity for philanthropic labor, and is conferred as the freeoffering of an intelligent and grateful people. 

There are many, especially among the young, who seek _present_ pleasurein foolish and sinful deeds, vainly believing the wicked may flourishand receive the blessing of the good. Believe me, young friend, suchhopes are delusive, and such expectations will suddenly perish. Letfools laugh and mock at sin, and live as if God were not; but considerwell the path of _your_ feet! When your weak arm can hold back theglobes which circle in space above us in solemn grandeur and beautyforever, then may you hope to arrest the operation of those laws whichpreserve an everlasting connection between obedience and blessedness, sin and sorrow. 

In the spring-season of life, how beautiful are the visions which Hopespreads out to our admiring view, as we go forth, with gladsome heartand step, amid the duties of life, its trials and temptations. It begetsmanly effort by its promises of success, and leads us to virtue andself-denial, in our weakness and sin. When our heads are bowed to theearth in despondency and gloom, hope putteth forth her hand, scatterethafar the clouds, dispelleth our sorrow; and again, with a firmer stepand a more trustful heart, we go forth on the solemn march of life! Itis our solace and strength in the hours of woe and grief, when those inwhose smile we have rejoiced pass from our presence and homes to thevalley and shadow of death. And if we weep that they are not, and cannever return, "Hope, like the rainbow, a creature of light, Is born, like the rainbow, in tears, "

and we rest in the calm and blest assurance that we shall ultimately goto them, and with them dwell forever in a land without sorrow. 

It may be said that we scarcely live in the present. =Memory=, inwhose mysterious cells are treasured the records of the past, carriesus back to our earlier years, and all our pursuits, and sports, andjoys, and griefs, pass rapidly in review before us; and =Hope= leadsus onward, investing future years with charms, and bidding us strivewith brave and manly hearts in the conflicts and duties that remain. Theformer years--sorrowful remembrance!--may have been passed in luxury, indolence, or flagrant sin; the fruits of our industry and skill mayhave wasted away; friends, whose love once cast a golden sunshine on thepath of life, may have proved false and treacherous; our fondestdesires, perchance, have faded, and sorrows may encompass us about;--yetabove us the voice of Hope crieth aloud, "_Press on_!"--through tearsand the cross must thou win the crown; be patient, trustful, in everyduty and grief; "_press on_, " and falter not; and its words linger likethe music of a remembered dream in our ear, until, at the borders of thegrave, we lay down the burden of our sinfulness and care, and, throughthe open gate of death, pass onward to that world where hope shall beexchanged for sight, and we, with unveiled eye, shall look upon thewondrous ways and works of God. 

THE YOUNG SOLDIER

BY REV. J. G. ADAMS. 

 A soldier! a soldier! I'm longing to be; The name and the life Of a soldier for me! I would not be living At ease and at play: True honor and glory I'd win in my day!

 A soldier! a soldier! In armor arrayed; My weapons in hand, Of no contest afraid; I'd ever be ready To strike the first blow, And to fight my good way Through the ranks of the foe. 

 But then, let me tell you, No blood would I shed, No victory seek o'er The dying and dead; A far braver soldier Than this would I be; A warrior of Truth, In the ranks of the free!

 My helmet Salvation, Strong Faith my good shield. The sword of the Spirit I'd learn how to wield. And then against evil And sin would I fight, Assured of my triumph, Because in the right. 

 A soldier! a soldier! O, then, let me be! Young friends, I invite you-- Enlist now with me. Truth's bands will be mustered-- Love's foes shall give way! Let's up, and be clad In our battle array!

[Illustration]

THE STOLEN CHILDREN. 

BY MRS. M. A. LIVERMORE. 

Not many years ago, the beautiful hills and valleys of New England gaveto the wild Indian a home, and its bright waters and quiet forestsfurnished him with food. Rude wigwams stood where now ascends the hum ofthe populous city, and council-fires blazed amid the giant trees whichhave since bowed before the axe of the settler. Between that rude ageand the refinement of the present day, many and fearful were the strifesof the red owner of the land with the invading white man, who, havingcrossed the waters of the Atlantic, sought to drive him from hishitherto undisputed possessions. The recital of deeds of inhuman crueltywhich characterized that period; the rehearsal of bloody massacres ofinoffensive women and innocent children, which those cruel savagesdelighted in, would even now curdle the blood with horror, and make onesick at heart. 

It was in this period of fearful warfare that the events occurred whichform the foundation of the following story. 

Not far from the year 1680, a small colony was planted on the banks ofthe beautiful Connecticut. A little company from the sea-side foundtheir way, through the tangled and pathless woods, to the meadows thatlay sleeping on the banks of this bright river; and here, after havingfelled the mighty trees whose brows had long been kissed by the pureheavens, they erected their humble cottages; and began to till the richalluvial soil. The colonists were persevering and industrious; and soona little village grew up beside the shining stream, fields of Indiancorn waved their wealth of tasselled heads in the breezes, therudely-constructed school-house echoed with the cheerful hum of thelittle students, and a rustic church was dedicated to the God of thePilgrims. He who officiated as the spiritual teacher of this new parish, also instructed the children during the week. A man he was of noinferior mind, or neglected education; of fervent, but austere piety, possessing a bold spirit and a benevolent heart. His family consisted ofa wife and two daughters; Emma, the elder, was a girl of eight summers, and Anna, the younger, was about five. 

Never were children so frolicsome and mirth-loving as were Emma and AnnaWilson, the daughters of the minister. Not the grave admonitions oftheir mother, or the severe reproofs of their stern father; not theirmany confinements in dark and windowless closets, or the memory ofafternoons, when, supperless, they had been sent to bed while the sunwas yet high in the heavens; not the fear of certain punishment, or thesuasion of kindness, could tame their wild natures, or force them intoanything like woman-like sobriety. Hand in hand, they would wander amidthe aisles of mossy-trunked trees, plucking the flowers that carpetedthe earth; now digging for ground-nuts, now turning over the leaves foracorns; sometimes they would watch the nibbling squirrel as he nimblysprang from tree to tree, or overpower, with their boisterous laughter, the gushing melody of the bobolink; they mocked the querulous cat-birdand the cawing crow, started at the swift winging of the shy blackbird, and stood still to listen to the sweet song of the clear-throatedthrush; now they bathed their feet in the streamlets that went singingon their way to the Connecticut, and then, throwing up handfuls of therunning water, which fell again upon their heads, they laughed rightmerrily at their self-baptism. They were happy as the days were long;but wild as their playfellows, the birds, the streams, and thesquirrels. 

One beautiful Sabbath morning in July, their mother dressed them tidilyin their best frocks, and tying on their snow-white sun-bonnets, shesent them to church nearly an hour before she started with their father, that they might walk leisurely, and have opportunity to get restedbefore the commencement of services. But it was not until near themiddle of the sermon that the little rogues made their appearance. Withglowing faces, hair that had strayed from its ungraceful confinement tofloat in golden curls over their necks and shoulders, --with bonnets, shoes and stockings tied together and swinging over each arm, --withdresses rent, ripped, soiled and stained, and up-gathered aprons filledwith berries, blossoms, pebbles, fresh-water shells and bright sand, they stole softly to where their mother was sitting, much to hermortification, and greatly to the horror of their pious father. 

For this offence, they were forbidden to accompany their parents, on thenext Sabbath, to church, but were condemned to close confinement in thehouse during the long, bright, summer day--a severer punishment thanwhich, could not have been inflicted. When the hour of assembling forworship was announced by the old English clock that stood in the corner, the curtains were drawn before the windows; two bowls of bread and milkwere placed on the dresser for their dinner; a lesson in the Testamentwas assigned to Emma, and one in the Catechism to Anna; a strictinjunction to remain all day in the house was laid upon both, and Mr. And Mrs. Wilson departed, locking the door, and taking the key. Thechildren soon wiped away the tears that their hard fate had gathered intheir eyes, and applied themselves to their tasks, which were speedilycommitted. Then the forenoon wore slowly away; they dared not get theirplaythings, --they were forbidden to go out doors, --and the only books inthe room were the Bible, Watts' Hymns, and the Pilgrim's Progress, whichlay on the highest shelf in the room, far beyond their reach. Noon cameat last; the sun shone fully in at the south window, betokening thedinner hour, and then their dinner of bread and milk was eaten. Whatwere they next to do? Sorrowfully they gazed on the smiling river, thegreen corn-fields, the large potato-plats, the grazing cattle, theblooming flower-beds, and the shady walks which led far into the coolrecesses of the forest; and earnestly did they long for liberty toramble out in the glorious sunshine. As they were gazing wistfullythrough the window, they saw their playful little kitten, Fanny, dartlike lightning from her hiding-place in the garden, where she had longlain in ambush, and fasten her sharp claws in the back of a poor littleground-bird, which had been hopping from twig to twig, chirping andtwittering very cheerfully. The little bird fluttered, gasped, anduttered wailing cries, as it ineffectually labored to free itself fromthe power of its captor, until Emma and Anna, unable longer to witnessits distress, sprang out the window, and, rushing down the garden, liberated the little prisoner, and with delight saw it fly away towardsthe woods. 

Delighted to find themselves once more in the open air, the joyfulchildren forgot the prohibition of their parents, and leaping over thedear little brook with which they loved to run races, they filled theiraprons with the blue-eyed violets that grew on its margin. On theybounded, further and further, and a few moments more found them in thedense wood, where not a sunbeam could reach the ground. But suddenly theleaves rustled behind them, and the twigs cracked, and there sprung, from an ambuscade in the thicket, the tall figure of an Indian, who laida strong hand on the arm of each little girl, and, despite the cries, tears, and entreaties of the poor children, hurried them deeper into theforest, where they found a large body of these cruel savages, clad inmoose and deer skins, armed with bows and arrows, tomahawks, andmuskets. The children were questioned concerning the village, theoccupation of the inhabitants on that day, and the number of men athome, and they replied correctly and intelligibly. A consultation wasthen held among the Indians, which resulted in a determination to attackthe village; and forthwith, leaving but one behind to guard the littleprisoners, they made a descent on the quiet settlement, burning andravaging buildings on their way to the church. But they did not find thebody of worshippers unarmed, as they doubtless expected; for, in thosedays of peril and savage warfare, men worshipped God armed with musketand bayonet, and the hand that was lifted in prayer to heaven wouldoften, at the next moment, draw the gleaming sword from its sheath. Atthe meeting-house, the savages met with a warm repulse; and were sosurprised and affrighted that they retreated back into the wild woods, after wounding but one or two colonists, among whom was Mr. Wilson, Emma's and Anna's father. 

The Indians commenced, about dark, a journey to the settlement wherethey belonged, taking the stolen children with them; they reached theirdestination early on the second day of their travel. Rough, indeed, seemed the Indian village to the white children: the houses were onlywigwams, made by placing poles obliquely in the ground, and fasteningthem at the top, covered on the outside with bark, and lined on theinside with mats; some containing but one family, others a great many. The furniture consisted of mats for beds, curiously wrought baskets tohold corn, and strings of wampum which served for ornaments. Into one ofthe smallest of these wigwams Emma and Anna were carried, and were givento the wife of one of the chief warriors, who had but one child of herown, --Winona was her name, which signifies the first-born, --abright-eyed, pleasant, winning little girl of two years of age. Themother scrutinized them closely, but the child appeared overjoyed to seethem, and wiped away their tears with her little hand, and, jabbering inher unknown language, seemed begging them not to cry. This interestedthe mother, and she soon looked more kindly upon them, and set beforethem food. But they were too sorrowful to eat, and were glad to be showna mat, where they were to sleep. Locked in each others' arms, cheekpressed to cheek, they lay and wept as if their hearts were broken. 

"Let us pray to God, " whispered Emma, after the inmates of the wigwamwere reposing in slumber, "and ask Him to bring us again to our fatherand mother. "

So they rose, and knelt in the dark wigwam, with their arms about oneanother's necks, and their tears flowing together, and offered to Godtheir childish prayer:

"Our Father in Heaven, love us poor children; take care of us; forgiveus for doing wrong, and help us be good; take care of our dear parents;comfort them, and bring us again to meet them. "

Then, more composed, and trusting in the blessed Father of us all, theyfell asleep, and sweet were their slumbers, though far from their dearparents and home, for angels watched over them, and gave to them happydreams. 

A few days' residence among these untutored red men made Emma and Annagreat favorites among them; their pleasant dispositions, their goodnature, and, above all, their love for the little Winona, which wasfully reciprocated, endeared them to the father and mother of the Indiangirl. Though sad at being separated from their parents, and though theyoften wept until they could weep no longer when they thought of home, yet their hearts, like those of all children, were easily consoled, andtheir spirits were so elastic that they could not long be depressed. Winona loved them tenderly; at night she slept between them, and duringthe day she would never leave them. She wore garlands of theirwreathing, listened to their English songs, stroked their rosy cheeks, and frolicked with them in the woods, and beside the running brooks. 

Two months passed away; all the Indian women in the village werespeaking of the love that had sprung up between the little white girlsand the copper-colored Winona; and many a hard hand smoothed the goldencurls of the little captives in token of affection. Then Winona wastaken sick; her body glowed with the fever-heat, her bright eyes becamedull, and day and night she moaned with pain. With surprising care andtenderness, Emma and Anna nursed the suffering child, --for to them wereher glowing and burning hands extended for relief, rather than to hermother. They held her throbbing head, lulled her to sleep, bathed herhot temples, moistened her parched lips, and soothed her distresses; butthey could not win her from the power of death--and she died!

Oh, it was a sorrowful thing to them to part with their littleplaymate, --to see the damp earth heaped upon her lovely form, and tofeel that she was forever hidden from their sight! They wept, and, withthe almost frantic mother, laid their faces on the tiny grave, andmoistened it with their tears. Hither they often came to scatter thefreshest flowers, and to weep for the home they feared they would neveragain see; and here they often kneeled in united prayer to that God, whobends on prayerful children a loving eye, and spreads over them ashadowing wing. 

The childless Indian woman now loved them more than ever; but the deathof Winona had opened afresh the fountains of their grief, and often didshe find them weeping so bitterly that she could not comfort them. Shewould draw them to her bosom, and tenderly caress them; but it allavailed not, and when the month of October came, with its sere foliageand fading flowers, Emma and Anna had grown so thin, and pale, andfeeble, from their wearing home-sickness, that they stayed all day inthe wigwam, going out only to visit Winona's grave. They drooped anddrooped, and those who saw them said, "The white children will die, andlie down with Winona. "

The Indian mother gazed on their pallid faces, and wept; she loved them, and could not bear to part with them; but she saw they would die, andcalling her husband, she bade him convey them to the home of theirfather. Many were the tears she shed at parting with them; and when theydisappeared among the thick trees, she threw herself, in an agony ofgrief, upon the mats within the wigwam. 

It was Sabbath noon when the children arrived in sight of theirfather's house; here the Indian left them, and plunged again into thedepths of the forest. They could gain no admittance into the house, andthey hastened to the meeting-house, where they hoped to find theirparents. They reached the church; the congregation was singing;silently, and unobserved, they entered, and seated themselves at theremotest part of the building. The singing ceased; there was a momentarypause, and their father rose before them. Oh, how he was changed! Pale, very pale, thin and sad was his dear face; and Emma's and Anna's heartssmote them, as being the cause of this change. They leaned forward tocatch a glimpse of their mother, but in her accustomed seat sat a ladydressed in black, and this, they thought, could not be her; they littlesupposed that their parents mourned for them as for the dead, believingthey should see them no more. 

Mr. Wilson took his text from Psalms: "It is good for me that I havebeen afflicted. " With a tremulous voice, he spoke of their recentafflictions; of the sudden invasion of the colony, the burning of theirdwellings, the wounding of some of their number, and then his tonesbecame more deeply tremulous, for he spoke of his children. The sobs ofhis sympathizing people filled the house, and the anguish of thefather's feelings became so intense, that he bowed his head upon theBible and wept aloud. The hearts of the children palpitated withemotion; their sobs arose above all others; and, taking each other bythe hand, the wan, emaciated, badly-dressed little girls hastened to thepulpit, where stood their father, with his face bowed upon the leaves ofthe Holy Book, and laying their hand upon his passive arm, they sobbedforth, "Father! Father!" He raised his head, gazed eagerly and wildlyupon the children, and comprehending at once the whole scene, therevulsion of feeling that came over him was so great, --the sorrow forthe dead being instantly changed into joy for the living, --that hestaggered backwards, and would have fallen but for the timely support ofa chair. 

The whole house was in instant confusion; in a moment they were claspedin their mother's arms, and kisses and tears and blessings were mingledtogether upon their white, thin cheeks. "Let us thank God for the returnof our children, " said the pastor; and all kneeling reverently, hethanked our merciful heavenly Father, in the warm and glowing languageof a deeply grateful heart, for restoring to his arms those whom he hadwept as lost to him forever. 

Oh, there was joy in that village that night again and again thechildren told their interesting story, and those who listened forgot tochide their disobedience, or to harshly reprove. Need I tell you howthey were pressed to the bosoms of the villagers; how tears were shedfor their sufferings, and those of the little lost Winona, whom they didnot forget; how caresses were lavished upon them, and prayers offered toGod, that their lives, which he had so wonderfully preserved, might bespent in usefulness and piety? No, I need not, for you can imagine itall. 

The sermon which was so happily interrupted by the return of thechildren was the first Mr. Wilson had attempted to preach since the daythey were stolen; the wounds he that day received, and the illness thatimmediately afterwards ensued, with his unutterable grief for the lossof his children, had confined him mostly to his bed during theirabsence. On the next Sabbath, Emma and Anna accompanied their father andmother once more to church, when Mr. Wilson preached from these words:"Oh, give thanks unto the Lord, for he is good, and his mercy endurethforever. "

[Illustration: My Grandmother's Cottage]

MY GRANDMOTHER'S COTTAGE. 

BY REV. J. G. ADAMS. 

Of all places in the wide world, my own early home excepted, none seemto me more pleasing in memory than my grandmother's cottage. Very oftendid I visit it in my boyhood, and well acquainted with its appearancewithin, and with almost every object around it, did I become. It stoodin a quiet nook in the midst of the woods, about five miles from thepleasant seaport where I was born. The cottage was not a spacious one. It had but few rooms in it; but it was amply large for my agedgrandparents, I remember. They lived happily there. My grandfather wassomewhat infirm; my grandmother was a very vigorous person for one ofseventy-five; this was her age at the time of my first recollection ofher. She used to walk from her cottage to our home; and once I walkedwith her, but was exceedingly mortified that I could not endure the walkso well as she did. 

I used to love this cottage home, because it was so quiet, and in thesummer time so delighting to me. I believe I received some of my veryfirst lessons in the love of nature in this place. It was a charmingsummer or winter retreat. If the sun shone warmly down anywhere, it washere. If the wind blew kindly anywhere, it was around the snug cottage, sheltered as it was on every side by the tall old pines. If the robin'snote came earliest anywhere in the spring-time, it was from the largespreading apple-tree just at the foot of the little garden lot. Howoften has my young heart been delighted with his song there! And then, what sweet chanting I have heard in those woods all the day from thethrush and sparrow, yellow-bird and oriole! How their mellow voiceswould seem to echo in the noon-silence, or at the sunset hour, as thoughthey were singing anthems in some vast cathedral! They were; and whatanthems of nature's harmony and praise! God heard them, and wasglorified. 

It seemed to me that every animate thing was made to be happy. I lovedto stand beneath a tall old hemlock in a certain part of the wood, andwatch the squirrels as they skipped and ran so swiftly along the wall, or from branch to branch, or up and down the trees. Their chatteringmade a fine accompaniment to the bird-songs. And here I learned toindulge a fondness for the very crows, which to this day I have neveroutgrown. Though they have been denounced as mischievous, and bountieshave been set upon them, I never could find it in my heart to indulge inthe warring propensity against them. They always seemed to me suchsocial company--issuing from some edge of the woodland, and slowlyflapping their black wings, and flocking out into the clearing, huddlingoverhead, and sailing away, chatting so loudly and heartily all thewhile, and reminding the whole neighborhood that when we have life, itis best to let others know it! Yes--the cawing crows have been companyfor me in many a solitary ramble; and whenever I hear them, I inwardlypay my respects to them. All these, and other familiar sights andsounds, did I richly enjoy at the old cottage in the woods. 

I loved to sit at the shed-door, and watch my grandfather at his slowwork; for he had been a mechanic in his day, and was able to do a littlevery moderately at his trade now. He would tell me the history of theold people in the neighborhood, and of the customs and fashions whenthey were boys and girls; and my eyes and ears were open to hear him. Iused to wish I could see them just as they looked when they werechildren. It was very difficult then for me to imagine how those whohad become so wrinkled could ever have had the smooth faces of infantsand children. But my grandfather could remember when he was a boy; andhis father had told him what things were done when he, too, was a boy. And so I concluded that wrinkles were no disgrace, nor the fairest facesof the young any protection against them. 

My grandmother was very fond of me, and took great pleasure in having meread to her, as her eyesight had become somewhat dim. And so I used toload myself with story-books and newspapers, when I became older, tocarry and read to her. And such times as we had with them! Voyages, travels, discoveries, adventures, perils, --the wonders of the world, thewonders of science, the wonders of history, --all came in for their shareof reading. Though I should read myself tired and sleepy, my grandmotherwould still be an interested listener. Since I have been a minister, Ihave often wished that many hearers would as eagerly listen to what Ihad to say especially to them, as did my aged grandmother to my youngwords then. 

Those sunny days have departed. The old cottage is not there now. Yearsago it was taken down. My grandfather died when I was yet a boy, and Ifollowed him to the grave with a heavy heart. My grandmother lived tobe almost a hundred years old, --her powers all gone, and she helpless. It would sometimes, even in my manhood, deeply affect me to have herlook into my face with no sign in hers that she knew me, when she hadonce loved her talkative and delighted grandchild so fondly. But she, too, found her resting-place at last beside her companion. Peace tothem! They blest me with their kindly, cheering words when most I neededthem, and I will bless their memories. And peace to the spot where oncestood their quiet home! Wherever in life I may be, --however brightly itspleasures may shine, or heavily its cares and afflictions press uponme--never would I outgrow the inspiration of these early enjoyments;never forget, that, however the great, proud, and contentious world maydistract and dishearten, there will yet be peace to the humble andvirtuous soul in many a nook like that which sheltered and blest mygrand mother's cottage. 

THE FIRST OATH

BY REV. EBEN FRANCIS. 

It is now many years since a near friend of mine uttered his first oath. We were very intimate in our youthful days. I have thought that I wouldwrite a little story about him, for some of the little folks of thesetimes to read, hoping that it will not only be interesting, but do themgood; for I am indeed sorry to know that swearing is a very common sinamong the boys of our times. 

The parents of my young playfellow were of the humbler class in society;they were industrious and prudent, and took great pains to teach himwhat was right. They lived in the metropolis of New England, where myschoolmate was born. His father wrought with the saw, the plane, thehammer, and such tools as carpenters use about their business. His homewas a neat, wooden two-story house, in one of the streets of that partof Boston which was generally known, when we were boys, by the name ofthe MILL-POND. I suppose that most of my little readers who live in thecity can tell where it is. Many changes have taken place there since mychildhood. When I was a small boy it was called the _town_, --now wenever hear of it but as the _city_ of Boston. Its population hasincreased rapidly; its territory has been extended; it has grown inwealth, in splendor, in its means for mental and moral improvement; inthe number and convenience of its public schools, --the pride andornament, or the disgrace, of any place. Yes, Boston is not, inappearance or in fact, what it once was. 

But I am getting off from my story. I was saying that my young friendresided on the "new-land"--no; the "Mill-Pond;"--well, it's all thesame--for when they dug down old Beacon Hill, they threw the dirt intothe Mill-Pond, and when it was filled up, or made land, the spot wasstill known as the Mill-Pond, and oftentimes was called the new-land. Inlater years, there have been other portions added to the city, by makingwharves, and filling up where the tide used to ebb and flow, and wherelarge vessels could float. 

But again I am digressing too far from the story. 

So soon as my friend was old enough, he was sent to one of the primaryschools, and was a pretty constant scholar at that, and afterwards at agrammar school, till he was about twelve years old. He was, of course, much with other lads of his own age, and some who were older andyounger than himself. He was, also, often in the streets, and as therewere a great many people who used profane language in those days, --asthere are at the present time, --he heard much of it; yet he had been socarefully trained that he did not for years utter wicked words. 

It is always painful to most persons, old as well as young, to hearprofanity, even though it be very common in their hearing, if they arenever accustomed to its use. 

My young friend had been taught to reverence the name of that greatBeing who made heaven and earth and all things. He was a member of aSabbath school, and thus had much valuable advice from his faithfulteacher to govern his conduct in word and deed. For a while he heededthis, and was careful of his moral character. But by-and-by, heoverstepped the bounds of right. 

It is very true that "evil communications corrupt good manners;" andthat if one would not be bad, one means of safety is to keep out of badcompany. 

My friend was, in a few years, placed in a store, where there was alarge business carried on. He came in contact with persons who were notso carefully instructed as he had been. They made no hesitation inpronouncing the names of God and Jesus Christ in a blasphemous andprofane manner. He resisted the pernicious influence of their examplefor a while, but at last it became so familiar to his ears, that hecould hear wicked words spoken without even a thrill of horror in hisbosom. 

He, however, had not the disposition to speak them, till one day, whensome little thing in the store did not suit him, his passion wasaroused, and, in the angry excitement of the moment, he spoke out, --andin that unguarded expression there was profanity, --a miserable, blasphemous, wicked word. He had uttered his _first oath. _ Thedisposition had been lurking in his heart for several days to do this;but he had not been able to so far lower his moral sense as to do itbefore. Now he felt as though he had done a brave act, --that he hadachieved something very grand. But soon, very soon, conscience whisperedher gentle yet severe rebuke. She complained sadly of the wickednessthat was done. The blush of shame mantled his cheek. Remorse took holdon his spirit. He looked about to see who was upbraiding him; but noneseemed to notice it. He resolved that he would not again give occasionfor such feelings of regret and sorrow to himself as he then felt. 

Could you have then looked into his heart, you would have pitied him. This resolution he kept a few weeks, when, being a little irritated, hea second time profaned the holy name of Deity. This time he felt somecompunctions of conscience, but they were not as powerful as before; thefirst step had been already taken, and a second was much easier. 

I need not go on to tell you how he, not long after, broke a secondresolution, and so on, till, ere many months, he had become really aswearing young man. 

It all sprang from the first sinful act; and when at last he did breakhimself of the habit, it was not done without a serious struggle. 

I have told you this story, my young readers, because I thought it mightbe, not only interesting to you, but because I hoped it might be themeans of leading you to reflect upon the uselessness and wickedness ofPROFANITY; and that it might aid in impressing on your minds theimportance of governing your passions and keeping your tongues free fromevil speaking. 

I see my friend, about whom I have written, quite often. He is now aparent, and occupies an eminent position in the community; but he oftenthinks of his former life, and says he has not yet ceased to lament hisFIRST OATH. Let this fact, then, teach you how a recollection of thesins of boyhood, even though you may call them little sins, will becherished through life, and poison many moments that would otherwise behappy ones. How important that childhood be pure and righteous in thesight of God, and to our own consciences, in order to insure a happymanhood and old age!

[Illustration]

THE FAIRY'S GIFT. 

BY REV. J. WESLEY HANSON. 

 It was a quiet summer's day, The breeze blew cool and fair, And blest ten thousand happy things Of land, and sea, and air, And played a thousand merry pranks With MARY'S golden hair. 

 MARY was not a happy girl; Her face was sad and sour, And on her little pretty brow Dark frowns did often lower, -- And she would scold, and fret, and cry, Full fifty times an hour. 

 She sat and wept with grief and pain, And did not smile at all, -- And when her friends and mates came near She shunned them, great and small, -- And then upon the Fairy Queen She earnestly did call. 

 "Oh, hither, hither, good Fairy, I pray thee come to me! And point me out the Path of Peace, That I may happy be, For I cannot, in all the world, A moment's pleasure see!

 "I try my work, my play I try, My little playmates, too; Help me to find true happiness, I sadly, humbly sue;-- Oh! my lot is a darksome one, -- Fairy! what shall I do?"

 A humble-bee comes riding by, No bigger than my thumb, And on his browny, gold-striped back, Behold the Fairy come! One look upon her loveliness Makes little MARY dumb. 

 She wore a veil of gossamer, Her tunic was of blue, A golden sunbeam was her belt, And bonnet of crimson hue, And through the net of her purple shawl Clear silver stars looked through. 

 Her slippers were of sunflower seeds, And tied with spider's thread, A rein of silkworm's finest yarn Passed round the bee's brown head; An oaten straw was her riding whip, -- Oh how her courser sped!

 She beckoned to the sighing maid, And led her a little way, And showed a hundred fountains bright That bubbled night and day, And flashed their waves in the glad sunlight, And showers of crystal spray. 

 She said: "Each stream has secret power Upon the human heart, And, as you drink, the mystic draught Shall joy or woe impart; 'T will give you pleasant happiness, Or sorrow's painful smart. "

 The founts were labelled every one, With titles plainly seen, -- The fountains _Pride_, and _Sin_, and _Wrong_, And _Hate_, and _Scorn_, and _Spleen, Goodness_ and _Love_, and many more, Sparkled along the green. 

 And MARY drank at each bright fount, To draw her grief away; But, spite of all the water's power, Her sorrows they would stay. And still she mourned, and still was sad, Through all the livelong day. 

 One morn she saw a little spring She never saw before, Down in a still and shady vale, Covered with blossoms o'er, -- And when she 'd drunk, and still would drink She thirsted still for more. 

 She gladly quaffed its cooling draught, And found what she had sought; No more her heart with sorrow grieved. She thirsted now for nought; She'd found a blessed happiness, Beyond her highest thought. 

 And when she moved the vines aside That hid the fount from sight, In loveliest, brightest characters, Like stars of silver light, -- _Goodness of heart, and speech, and life_, She read in letters bright. 

 And MARY drank the liquid waves, And soon her little brow Became as pure, and clear, and white, As bank of whitest snow; And when she drank of that blest fount, She purest joy did know. 

 Then MARY learned this highest truth. Beyond all human art, -- That there are many things in life Can pain and woe impart;-- But Goodness alone of act and deed Can make a happy heart. 

A LESSON TAUGHT BY NATURE. 

BY MISS LOUISA M. BARKER. 

When I was a little child, younger than those for whom this book iswritten, my home was in a valley. The usual appendages to a farm-house, the garden, orchard and small pasture grounds, lay very near it; and Iwas as familiar with these enclosures as with the rooms of the house. Alittle further off there was a mimic river, which, as it wound about, divided itself into different streams, and surrounded little islands, shaded with the tall plane tree and the flexible willow. Here, too, withthose who were old enough to be careful in crossing the rustic bridges, I sometimes played on summer afternoons;--gathered the prettiest flowersin the sweetest little woods, and dipped my feet into the clear runningwater. 

Beyond these there lay less frequented fields, which rose gradually, atno very great distance, into a range of hills as green as the valleybelow. One of them was covered all over its summit, and a little waydown its sides, with some dark old woods. The trees which grew therewere very tall, and so large that their thick and heavy tops seemed tocrowd together, so that you might have walked on them almost as well asupon the hill itself. I loved sometimes, when the air was full of thebright sunshine, to look at the rich shades of green upon thosetree-tops; but if ever my eye rested, for a moment only, upon the darkand mysterious avenues which led into the depths of the wood beneaththem, there would creep such a chill to my heart, --such a feeling ofdread would come over me, --that I turned quickly to the glad-lookinghomestead, that I might again grow warm and happy. 

At first it was probably no more than the idea that those woods formed alimit to the world of light and gladness in which I lived. My eye couldnot penetrate their dimness, and with a childish, human feeling I shrankfrom the undiscovered and unknown. But as I grew older, and read thestories in the small books which were given to me for presents, or lentby my little friends, I had other and plainer reasons for theapprehensive feeling with which I looked at the woods. I found thatchildren had been so lost among their thickets as hardly to be foundagain; and that two poor little orphans, left there on purpose, had laindown and died of hunger and weariness; and the birds covered them overwith leaves. Strange birds I thought there were in the woods. Then thefairies that dwelt there, and the strange elfin creatures, and theperils that travellers fell into with robbers and wild beasts; and stillI referred the scene of every story I read directly to those very woodsupon the hill-side, although they were so near that I could see themplainly enough from the windows of the cheerful rooms at home. 

Time passed along in its usual way; but before I had acquired knowledgeor strength of mind enough to correct my early impressions of the woods, I had permission, one bright afternoon in June, to go with an oldersister to a strawberry meadow across the creek. We were accompanied bysome little maidens, who were older and more adventurous than me; and soit happened that when we did not find the fruit so abundant as we couldwish, they persuaded us to go into another field, and then into another, I little thought where, until I became suddenly sensible of a shadedlight around me, of a breeze a little cooler than that which temperedthe warm air of the valley, and a low, wild music that I had never heardbefore; and looking up, I saw that we were actually upon the ascent ofthe hill which led up to the dreaded woods. 

Strange and almost horror-struck as I felt, I did not scream out, (perhaps I should not have had breath to do so, ) but I gathered up allthe wisdom that my little heart could boast, into the resolution not tolook at the woods, not to think of them; for we should soon go backagain, I thought, and nothing would happen. And my young friends canjudge how terrified I must have grown, when I heard one of the girlsbegin to talk of the beautiful flowers her brother had brought her fromthe woods, and end by proposing that we should go there, and get somefor ourselves. I waited breathlessly to hear the objections which Idoubted not would be urged against this plan, but none were offered; andwhen I ventured to remonstrate, they paid so little attention to me, that my pride was hurt at the thought of saying any more. 

There was another way in which my pride was at work. I was ashamed, among those who were so brave, to own that I was afraid; so, though Iheld the hands of those who led me pretty tight, and gave them somelittle trouble to pull me along, they knew nothing more of my reluctanceto go with them. 

We got up the hill very fast; so at least it seemed to me. Here andthere a solitary tree, a few feet in advance, looked as if it hadstepped out to welcome and encourage us to pass on; and I cannot saythat my strength did not revive a little as I passed under the heavybranches, and out again into the freer air. Be that as it may, it wasterrible enough to me, the approach to those woods. My companions wereeager and gay, and shouted out, as we entered them. They little thoughthow overpowering were my feelings. And I little thought, myself, that Iwas then and there to receive a lesson that I should never forget; one, perhaps, that would do me more good than any other that I should everlearn. 

At first, I was so frightened that my senses were all in confusion; butas I gradually recovered the use of them, I took notice of the coolnessand the shade, and the dimness away in the distance; I heard the leafymurmur above my head, the sweet notes that the birds were singing, andthe loud echoes. All these things seemed to blend together intosomething so solemn and so magnificent, that I began to feel for thefirst time what it was to be a little child. With that, soon came afeeling of confidence and even love. I thought that the majesticpresence that filled the woods, whatever it was, would not hurt me, andmy heart grew so light at the thought, that I began to gather flowerswith the rest. How pretty they were! and what clean, shining leaves! Andhere and there, wherever a little sunshine found an opening in thebranches and streamed down upon the bright green moss, it seemed sogolden, so clear, and so real, just as if I might clasp it in my hands!

I grew so much affected, at length, that I sobbed myself into tears, andmy sister said that I had never been in the woods before, and she wouldtake me home. I did not like to say that I wanted to stay longer, butheld to my flowers; and after I reached home, was washed and rested, Iwent to the window, and remained there a long time, looking at thewoods. I did not quite comprehend all I had thought and felt, but itseemed to me that a great truth, one that would do me good, had dawnedupon my mind. 

It was a long time before I fully understood the lesson. In a few weeksI caught one of those contagious diseases which children must have once;and it went so hard with me, that, before I was able to walk about, andgo out of the house, the leaves were all gone, and the snow had coveredthe ground. When spring returned I thought often of the woods, but I wastoo sickly to go there; and when I grew strong again, my thoughts wereall occupied with an approaching event. Several changes had occurred inthe family, and others were expected, to which my friends thoughdiscontented at first, had grown quite reconciled. It was not so withme. There was one circumstance which affected me more than it didothers, and from that I prophesied a continual succession of evils. Itseemed to me that my life was to be wholly changed, and all the joy andbeauty left behind. It was childish, I know. I knew it then, for I wouldnot for the world have told any one how I felt. Still I was as muchaffected by it as I have ever been since at any real grief. 

Late one afternoon, when my thoughts were busy with my fears, I went tothe window, and looked up at the woods. The sunshine was very bright ontheir tops, and the shadow very dark on the hill-side below. Veryvividly then came back to me the memory of my visit to them the yearbefore. I thought of the evils which I expected to meet, and of thebeauty which I found there. It was some good angel which whispered thenin my thoughts, that, just as I went to the woods, full of fears andforebodings, I was approaching the expected misfortune; that I might beas happily disappointed in this as I had been in that. 

I cannot tell how delighted I was with this suggestion, nor howcompletely it took possession of my mind. I was gloomy and fearful nolonger. I did not, indeed, when the change came, resign what I lost byit without regret; but I was so certain of finding new enjoyments, thatI resigned it cheerfully. And when, after a few weeks' experience hadtaught me that many advantages and many pleasures had come to me inconsequence of those very circumstances which I had dreaded so much, Ibound the lesson of the woods to my heart so firmly that there it stillremains. 

And let me say to you, for whom I have related this little incident ofmy childhood:--do not tremble at the disappointments and trials whichawait you. Do not seek to throw upon others any part of them which youmay more becomingly bear yourself. If you live always in the opensunshine, you will never know what beauty there is in the woods. Youwill find the sentiment in your books, that it is the night-time onlythat shows us the stars; and in the gloom which must sometimes fall uponthis uncertain and mortal life of ours, you may find, if you will, asmuch to rejoice in as to dread. You will form plans, and indulge inhopes, which cannot be realized, and disappointment will look frowninglyupon you; but if you will submit yourself to the trial like a littlechild, the hand that will lead you through it will point you to happierscenes than those of your own imagining. 

You will have friends to love, that death may take away from you--and, oh! then, the shadow of the woodland, as it lies against the sunnymeadow, will be less dark than your life. But do not despair. The fewrays of light that reach you will be richer, the flowers will be purer, and the music will be softer and sweeter; for you will be nearer heaventhan you were before. 

There is another shadow which you and I, and all of us, areapproaching, --"the shadow of death. " But will not "the lesson" brightenour approach even to that? Certain I am, that if _that_ hour of mychildhood, when, with a fearful heart, I went into the solemn woods, andheard the sweet singing of the bird and the breeze, shall be rememberedthen, even though the light of life be fading away, "I shall fear noevil. "

[Illustration]

[Illustration: FLORENCE DREW. ]

FLORENCE DREW. 

"I will not go to Sabbath school to-morrow, " said Florence Drew, as shethrew aside her catechism and sat herself sullenly by the window. 

"Florence!" said her mother; "I am astonished to hear you speak sorashly. "

"I don't care, --I will not go, --my lesson is so hard I can't get it;"saying which, she burst into tears. Mrs. Drew cast a look of sorrow uponher only child as she left her to regain her good humor. 

No sooner had the door closed after her mother than the rustling ofleaves beneath the window drew the attention of Florence. Thinking ither favorite Carlo, and being in no mood for a frolic, without liftingher eyes she bid him "begone;" but she was soon undeceived by a shrillvoice pronouncing her name, at the same time finding her arm tightlygrasped by the thin, bony fingers of Crazy Nell, the terror of all thetruant children in the village. The terrified child vainly tried todisengage herself from the maniac's hold; and, finding her calls forhelp all unheeded, she gave up in despair. 

The wild, searching eyes of Crazy Nell detected her terror, and herstern features relaxed into a smile as she said, "Poor child! I will notharm you; you fear me, and think me mad; yes, I have been mad, but I'mnot now; and I have come to save you from being as I have been. Nay, Florence, 't is useless for you to try to escape me; I will detain youbut a short time. I heard your angry words as I was gathering herbs, andsaw you fling your book away. I heard all. Listen to me, Florence Drew, and I will tell you a story by which I hope you will profit. 

"I was once young, gay, and happy, as you, and, like you, an only andindulged, but wilful child, with a quick and ungoverned temper. 

"One day, I was studying my Sabbath school lesson, and finding it, as Ithought, rather hard, I threw it away, as you did yours, saying that Iwould not go to school at all. My poor mother's entreaties were allunheeded by me, and I grew up in idleness and ignorance. My mother'shealth daily declined, partly through my ill-treatment and wickedness. Often did she plead with me, with tears streaming down her cheeks, toalter my conduct; but I rudely repulsed her. "

Nell paused, and seemed very much agitated; her eyes glared wildly, andbending close to Florence, she continued in a whisper: "We became verypoor, in consequence of my extravagance; I then thought my mother aburden; she was too ill to work, and I left her to starve; she did not, however; she died of a broken heart. _I was her murderer_! 'T was thatwhich drove me mad. Look! see you not that black cloud which darkens thesunshine of my life?"

"I cannot see a cloud, " sobbed poor Florence, who was now tasting thebitter cup of repentance. 

"I know it, poor child!" continued Nell; "the cloud I mean is such asyou just felt, --=Temper=. _It is within us_! Conquer your temper, Florence Drew, and you may yet be good and happy. Go, now, and seekmother, who is at this moment shedding tears of sorrow for her littlegirl's ill-temper. Go to her and--" But, ere she could finish, Florencehad glided into her mother's room, and was kneeling humbly at her feetTears of sorrow were changed to those of joy and repentance, as Mrs. Drew folded her little girl to her breast in a long and affectionateembrace. 

Florence has never been unkind to her mother, or given freedom to hertemper, since that day. She is now the teacher of a class in a Sabbathschool, and she often relates to her little scholars the story I havejust related to you. 

Crazy Nell continues to gather herbs, an object of pity to thebenevolent, and of sport to the unfeeling. And now, my dear littlereaders, I must repeat Crazy Nell's expression: "Conquer your temper, and you will be happy;" or, in the words of the sacred Scriptures, "Hethat ruleth his own spirit is greater than he that taketh a city. "

MAY. 

[Illustration: SHECHEM. ]

SHECHEM. 

BY REV. J. G. ADAMS. 

In the picture opposite, the reader will see represented a part of thecity of Shechem, at the foot of Mount Gerizim. It is a very noted placein history. It is called Sychar in the Gospel, John 4:5. It was here, atJacob's well, that Jesus met the woman of Samaria. The account of theconversation which they held together is one of the most interestingrecords in the New Testament. I wish all our young readers would makethemselves acquainted with it. Jesus was a Jew; and the Jews had nodealings with the Samaritans. Weary with travelling in the heat of theday, our Lord sat down to rest by that ancient well, when the strangerwoman came to draw water from it. Jesus said unto her, "Give me todrink. " She was surprised that he, being a Jew, should ask water of her, a Samaritan. This very surprise which she expressed led to a mostinstructive conversation. Read it, and see how plainly Jesus teaches usthe nature of true worship. The Jews had their temple at Jerusalem; theSamaritans had theirs on Mount Gerizim. The woman said to Jesus, "Ourfathers worshipped in this mountain, and ye say that Jerusalem is theplace where men ought to worship. " She would ask which was the trueplace. Jesus declared to her that it was not so much the place, as itwas the heart, which made worship what it should be. Read the answer ofJesus as the New Testament gives it, and then see if the Quaker poet, Barton, has not beautifully expressed it thus:

 "Woman, believe me, the hour is near When He, if ye rightly would hail him, Will neither be worshipped exclusively here. Nor yet at the altar of Salem. 

 For God is a spirit, and they, who aright Would perform the pure worship he loveth In the heart's holy temple will seek with delight That spirit the Father approveth. "

Through the knowledge of Christ obtained by the Samaritan woman in thisconversation, many of her sect were induced to believe on him. 

Shechem, or Sichem, is a very ancient place; though we do not find itmentioned as a city until the time of Jacob, who purchased a piece ofland, and dug the well of which we have just spoken. The city laybetween the two mountains Ebal and Gerizim. It was made a city ofrefuge. Joshua 20: 7. 21. 20, 21. Quite a number of events mentioned inthe Old Testament occurred here. It was at Shechem Joshua met theassembled people for the last time. It was here that Rehoboam was madeking, and the ten tribes rebelled. 

In after time Shechem became the chief seat of the people whothenceforth bore the name of Samaritans. They were made up in part ofemigrants from other eastern nations. When the Jews returned from theirlong captivity in Babylon, and began to rebuild Jerusalem and theirtemple, the Samaritans desired to aid them in their work. "Let us buildwith you, " was their request. The Jews refused to admit them to thisprivilege; hence a strong hatred between the two sects arose. TheSamaritans erected their temple on Mount Gerizim. 

Shechem received the new name of Neapolis from the Greeks--a name whichit retains to the present day. The city has passed through many changes, which, had we time to recount them, might be of deep interest to thereader. But it would take a larger space to do this than we can nowoccupy. The Samaritans are still here; but their number now is small, not exceeding one hundred and fifty. They have a synagogue, where theypreserve several ancient copies of the books of Moses, and among themone ancient manuscript which they believe to be three thousand fourhundred and sixty-five years old, saying it was written by Abishua, theson of Phinehas (1 Chron. 6: 3, 4. ) The manuscript, so travellers whohave seen it say, is very ancient; but they do not all think it so oldas the Samaritans pretend it is. 

Mount Gerizim is still held in great veneration by the Samaritans. Fourtimes a year they ascend it in solemn procession, to worship. The oldfeeling of hostility between them and the Jews is still existing. 

The city of Neapolis, or, as the Arabs call it, Nablous, is long andnarrow, stretching close along the northeast base of Mount Gerizim. Thepopulation is about eight thousand souls, all Mohammedans, with theexception of about five hundred Greek Christians, and the one hundredand fifty Samaritans already mentioned. Those who have taken part in itseventful past history are gone. But never shall be heard there a moreglorious voice than that which uttered those sublime words of heavenlytruth to the woman at Jacob's well. 

"ARE WE NOT ALL BROTHERS AND SISTERS?"

BY REV. W. R. G. MELLEN. 

That the human race is one, bound together by the strongest and holiestties, is one of the sublimest truths announced by the Master. Indeed, soclose and intimate is the connection subsisting between the variousmembers of the common family, that to tear one from the body would belike following the direction of Solomon to his servant, and dividing theliving child in two, leaving life's purple current to spout forth fromeither half. An appreciation of this truth is what the world, heart-sickand weary as it is, now needs above all things else. And to illustrateand enforce the fact that it is not a vain shadow, but a solid reality, too solemn to be trifled with, and too important to be neglected, --toillustrate this by deeds which bear joy to the joyless and hope to thehopeless, --is _the_ work which Christians, the young as well as old, arenow called to perform. Will it need the voice of duty, which speaketh asfrom the skies? This is the great truth, also, which, with all itsrelations to life and duty, is to be impressed by the present, upon theminds of the rising, generation. This is what my young readers are tolearn, --and not simply to learn, but to practise:--that we are allbrothers and sisters, no matter in what clime or country we may havebeen born, or with what complexion we may be clothed. 

A little girl, some five years of age, whom the writer of this has oftenfondled in his arms, had well learned this most important lesson. Bypious parents and earnest Sabbath school teachers had she been taught, that to be like Jesus, who took little children in his arms and blessedthem, she must love and do good unto all, as brothers and sisters. Thishad sunk deep into her young and tender mind; and when, on a visit atthe house of a friend, she was asked that familiar question, which is sooften put to children, --whom she loved, --

After a moment's hesitation she replied, that she loved everybody. "Indeed!" said the querist; "how can that be? You certainly do not loveme as well as you do your own brothers and sisters; do you?"

After another short pause she replied, "Yes, I think I do; for _you_, too, are my sister. " "_I_ your sister?" said the lady, in surprise; "howcan that be possible?" Looking up with a countenance in which allheaven's innocence and purity were mirrored, she exclaimed, "Is not Godour Father? and are we not all brothers and sisters? and should we notlove each other as such?"

There was no further argument to be used. Though hid from many wise andprudent, yet the truth was thus revealed to babes. 

Yes, we _are_ all brethren and sisters, having a common origin, a commondestination, and a common home. And may all those children who read thisshort article ever recollect this important truth. When you behold apoor, unfortunate man, with torn and filthy garments, and perhapsintoxicated, reeling through the streets, do not hoot after, and throwstones at him, as I have known many boys do, but think withinyourselves, "He is our brother. "

When one of your number abuses the rest, and you are tempted to injureand beat him, wait till you have said to yourselves, "He is still ourbrother; and though he has done us wrong, why should we strike or injurehim?"

When you see a companion in trouble, and one to whom your assistance cando much good, recollect he is a brother, or she is a sister, and fly tohelp him. And oh! if all, both old and young, would act upon thisprinciple, how different would be the aspect of affairs from what itnow is! Then the kingdom of God would dawn upon us. Then the wolf andthe lamb would lie down together, and the lion eat straw like an ox. Then we should be like _little children_, and the blessing-smile ofJehovah would shed upon us choicest benediction. 

[Illustration]

FORTUNE-TELLING. 

A DIALOGUE FOR EXHIBITIONS. 

BY JULIA A. FLETCHER. 

_Sophronia_. Come, girls, let us go and have our fortunes told. 

_Eveline_. Oh! I should like it of all things; where shall we go?

_Sarah_. Let us go to old Kate Merrill's. They say she can read thefuture as we do the past, by hand, tea-cups, or cards. Come, Mary Ann. 

_Mary Ann_. Excuse me, girls, if I do not go with you. I do not think itis right to have our fortunes told. 

_Sophronia_. Not right? why not?

_Mary Ann_. Because, if it had been best for us to know the future, Ithink God would have revealed it to us. 

_Sarah_. Oh, but you know this is only for amusement. 

_Eveline_. Of course, we shall not believe a word she says. 

_Mary Ann_. If it is only for amusement, I think we can find others farmore rational and innocent. But depend upon it, girls, you would notwish to go, if there were not in your minds a little of credulousfeeling?

_Sophronia_. Well, I am sure I am not credulous. 

_Mary Ann_. Do not be offended, Sophronia; I only meant that we are allof us more inclined to believe these things than we at first imagine. 

_Sarah_. I think that Mary Ann is right in this respect. I am sure Iwould not go if I did not think her predictions would come to pass. 

_Mary Ann_. Certainly; I could not suppose you would spend your time andmoney to hear an old woman tell you things you did not believe. 

_Eveline_. Well, I am sure I do not see any harm in having a little funonce in a while. 

_Sophronia_. No; and I think it is very unkind in Mary Ann to spoil allour pleasures with her whims. She is always preaching to us about givingup our own way for the comfort of others, and I think she ought to giveup now, and go with us. 

_Sarah_. Now, really, Sophronia, I think you are the one that is unkind. If Mary Ann is wrong, it is better to convince her of it kindly, and Iam sure she will acknowledge it. 

_Mary Ann_. I hope I should be willing to give up a mere whim for thepleasure of those I love so well. But this is not a whim; it is aserious conviction of duty. 

_Sophronia_. Well, I thought you always pretended to be very obliging. 

_Mary Ann_. I have no right to be obliging at the expense of what I deemduty. Our own inclinations we should often sacrifice, our prejudicesalways, but our sense of duty never. 

_Eveline_. I think, girls, we have done wrong to urge Mary Ann to go, after she had told us her reasons. 

_Sophronia_. Well, then, don't spend any more time in urging her to go, against her will. You know the old proverb "The least said is soonestmended. "

_Eveline_. Well, do not let us go away angry or ill-natured. You askedMary Ann to say why she thought it was wrong, and we should receive herreasons kindly. 

_Sarah_. So I think; but I wish she would tell us what harm she thinksit would do to go. 

_Mary Ann_. Well, girls, I think, by trying to look into the future, weare apt to grow discontented and restless, and to forget that we haveduties to perform in the present. Then, if we do not believe in it, itis a waste of time and money, which might be better employed inrelieving the suffering of the poor around us. But the greatest evil ofall is, that we should believe even a part; she would of course tell usmany little circumstances which would be true of any one; thus we mightbe led to believe all she said; the prediction would probably work outits own fulfilment, and perhaps render us miserable for life. 

_Sophronia_. Oh, fudge! Mary Ann. This is altogether too bad andungenerous in you. In the first place, the few cents we give, bestowedas they are on a poor old widow woman, are not wasted, in my opinion, but well spent;--and if I spend an evening, granted to me by my fatherand mother for recreation, in listening to Old Kate, it is no morewasted than if I spend it with the girls in any other social way. Andwhen you connect fortune-telling and our duties in the present, you makeit too serious an affair. _Remember, this is all for sport_. 

_Mary Ann_. It may be so with you, Sophronia; but there are those whoseriously believe every word of a fortune-teller, and actually live morein the unseen but expected events of the future, than in faithfullyperforming their duties in the present. This is true, Sophronia. Thecontentment and peace of many young minds have been utterly lost, _sold_for the absurd jabbering of old, ignorant, low-bred women, who pretendto read the future. [_In a livelier tone of voice_. ] But just say, girls, do you believe there is any connection between tea-leaves andyour future lives?

_Eveline, Sarah, Sophronia_. Why, no!

_Mary Ann_. Do you believe God has marked the fortunes of thousands ofhis creatures on the face of cards?

_Eveline, Sarah, Sophronia_. Certainly not. 

_Mary Ann_. Well, do you believe, if God should intrust the secretevents of the future with any of our race, in this age, it would be withthose who have neither intellectual, moral, nor religious education--whocan be bribed by dollars and cents to say anything?

_Sarah, Eveline_. No, indeed!

_Mary Ann. (Turns to Sophronia, )_ You do not answer, Sophronia. Let meask you one or two more questions. Do you suppose Kate Merrill believesthat she has a revelation from God?

_Sophronia_. No, Mary Ann. 

_Mary Ann_. Do you suppose she thinks you believe so?

_Sophronia_. Why, yes, I do. 

_Mary Ann_. Then, is it benevolent to bestow money to encourage an oldwoman in telling for truth what she knows to be false?

_Sophronia_. I doubt whether it is really benevolent. 

_Mary Ann_. And if Old Kate speaks falsely and knows she does so, andyou know it, yet spend your time in listening to what she has to say, what good can come of it to head or heart?

_Sophronia_. None at all, Mary Ann. It is time wasted, and I amconvinced that I have been doubly wrong in wishing to go, and in beingangry with you. Will you forgive me?

_Mary Ann_. Certainly, Sophronia. And now, if you wish for amusement, Iwill be a witch myself, and tell your fortunes for you. 

_Sophronia_. Oh, do tell mine; and be sure you tell it truly. What linesof fate do you see in my hand?

_Mary Ann. (Takes her hand and looks at it intently. )

(To Sophronia_. )

 Passions strong my art doth see. Thou must rule them, or they rule thee. If the first, you peace will know; If the last, woe followeth woe. 

_Sarah_. Now tell mine next. 

_(To Sarah_. )

 Too believing, too believing, Thou hast learned not of deceiving. Closely scan what seemeth fair, And of flattering words beware. 

_Eveline_. Now tell me a pleasant fortune, Mary Ann. 

_(To Eveline_. )

 Lively and loving, I would not chide thee, Do thou thy duty, and joy shall betide thee. 

_Sophronia_. Thank you, Mary Ann, for the lessons you have given us. Wecan now, in turn, tell your fortune, and that is, Always be amiable andsensible as now, and you will always be loved. 

[Illustration. ]

THE BOY WHO STOLE THE NAILS. 

BY REV. MOSES BALLOU. 

I remember well, that, when I was quite a little boy, a circumstanceoccurred which I shall probably never forget, and which, no doubt, hashad some little influence on my life at many different periods since. Iwill relate it; and I wish all my young readers would remember thestory. 

My father was somewhat poor. He had no salary for preaching, except fora few months, perhaps not five hundred dollars for forty years of pulpitlabor. He maintained his family chiefly from a small farm, and, therebeing several children, we were deprived of many little things thatwealthier parents are accustomed to furnish for theirs. We had fewpresents, and those chiefly of necessary articles, --school-books, orsomething of the kind; while toys, playthings, and instruments ofamusement, we were left to go without, or take up with such rude andsimple ones as we could manufacture for ourselves. 

I wanted a small box very much. A handsome little trunk, such as most ofmy young readers probably have, was too much to hope for, and a plainwooden box, even, I had no means to purchase. 

I went without for a long time, and at last determined that I would tryto make one. But the materials, --where was I to obtain them? True, myfather had pieces of thin boards that would answer, but there werenails, and hinges, and a lock wanting. Where were these to come from?

After trying a variety of methods, I invented a plan for fastening itwithout a lock, and leather made a very good substitute for hinges, asit was to be out of sight. Still, I wanted nails. There were some oldones about the house, but they were crooked, and broken, and rusty. These would not answer if anything better could be obtained. 

My uncle, who at this time lived but a short distance from us, wasengaged in building, and I watched the barrel of bright new nails hisworkmen were using, with a longing eye. O, how I coveted them!

The temptation was too great. I sought the opportunity while the handswere at dinner, and, after cautiously looking about to see that no onewas near to observe me, with trembling hands seized upon them, _andstole enough to make my box_. O! how my heart beat as I hurried awayacross the fields home. I almost expected to see some one start up fromevery stump and bush on the way, to accuse me of the theft. I hardlydared to look behind me. It seemed as though my old uncle, with frowningbrow, was at my very heels. And then, too, the workmen;--were they notsuspicious from my hanging about them, and had not some of them watchedme? So horrid images began to dance about my brain. Dim visions ofcourt-rooms, and lawyers, and judges, and prisons, and sorrowingparents, and frightened brothers and sisters, rose in awful terrorbefore me. I began to grow dizzy and faint. I had laid up, for a longtime, all the pennies I could obtain, which, at that time, amounted tothe vast sum of twenty cents, contained in an old-fashioned pistareen;and the hope sprung up in my heart, that, possibly, by paying this tothe officers, they would not carry me to jail. 

Thought was busy in laying plans for escape, and I reached home in thegreatest excitement imaginable. 

Well, the deed was now done, and I could not undo it. I was really athief; and now, as I had got the nails, I thought I might as well usethem. I was too anxious about the crime, however, to do this at once. So I hid them away for a week or more, before I ventured to make my box. 

Taking such leisure hours as I had, --for I was obliged to work most ofthe time on the farm, --I crept away in the loft of an old building, andfinally succeeded in finishing my task. But, now that the box was done, my troubles were by no means ended. It would be seen. I could not alwayskeep it out of sight. My brothers, and sisters, and playmates, wouldexamine it, and possibly my father would get his eye upon it! Suppose heshould, and ask me where those nails came from?

O, how my poor brain was racked to invent some false story by which Icould escape detection! I thought of saying that they were old oneswhich I had polished up so as to appear new, and I even filed down therust on the head of an old nail to see if they would look sufficientlyalike. But nothing of this kind would answer. The cheat, I thought, would be detected; and so I was obliged, after all my trouble andsuffering, to keep my box hidden away when it was done. Every time Iwent to look at it, those bright new nail-heads were staring out at me, ready to reveal my crime to any one who saw them. 

For a long time, I did not dare to go to my uncles again. True, he knewnothing of my wrong; but I felt guilty, and did not care to see him. Finally, after some time had passed away, though I had by no meansforgotten the theft, and still suffered much every time it was thoughtof, I ventured to call and see him. I could hardly avoid the impressionthat he must know what I had done, and would accuse me of it; and whenhe met me in the yard at his door; patted my cheek with a half-laughing, half-reproving look; asked why I had stayed away from him so long; andsaid, that, to punish me, he should go and get me some very nice applesfrom the garden;--I could bear it no longer. It seemed as though myheart would break. What I said, I have now forgotten. I remember that Icried very heartily, and, as soon as my tears would allow it, told himthe whole story!

I can still see, fresh in my memory, the sad look that came over him asI confessed my crime; but not a single harsh or unkind word did heutter. He told me that it was very wrong; that I had acted nobly inconfessing it; and that, if I had only asked him in the first place, hewould gladly have given me all I wanted. 

Thinking I had suffered enough already, he promised not to tell myparents, in case I continued a good boy, and advised me to destroy thebox and bring him back the nails, as no one could then suspect what hadbeen done but ourselves. 

His kindness, I confess, pained me very much. I think nothing could havetempted me to do him any wrong again. 

I loved him better than ever before. He never alluded to the subjectafterwards, but I always thought of it when I saw him. He died in ashort time; and, twenty years after, as I stood by his grave, thecircumstance came up, clear and distinct, to my recollection. I havenot, indeed, from that to the present hour, felt the least temptation tocommit any wrong of the kind without recalling it; and, if all my youngreaders will think seriously how much suffering that one act cost me, and how much happier I should otherwise have been, I am confident thatthey will never commit a similar offence so long as they remember thestory of _the boy who stole the nails_. 

THE CHILDLESS MOTHER. 

BY MRS. M. H. ADAMS. 

There are many childless mothers in our land. In some homes there neverlived a little child to make them happy; but in others the spirits ofthe little ones have departed. They dwell in another home--the "dearheavenly home. " Their mothers, those childless mothers, weep day andnight in their loneliness and sadness. This sketch is of a mother whohad buried all her little babes--four precious children--all her littlefamily. The mother's name was Ellen Moore. 

For many months after the birth of her first child, Ellen was free fromsorrow as a bird in the morning. She never thought affliction might cometo her blessed home. It was not surprising, for she had never known whatbereavement and bitter disappointment were. She was educated to be achild of sunshine. She had always lived amid smiles and tenderness, andwhen the fearful cloud of sorrow broke, in an unexpected moment, uponher head, she seemed bowed down, never to rise again in health andbeauty. 

It was a sad day in our neighborhood when Ellen's first little babedied; we all wept. Not so much because he was dead, for we all felt that_he_ was at rest; but his dear mother was so sorely troubled, her heartached so grievously, it seemed as if she too would die. Days and nightsEllen wept, and moaned, and walked her house. The tears seemed to burntheir way down her cheeks. She spoke but seldom, yet that pitiful moanshe so often breathed out pierced our souls and made us all very sad. 

After a few weeks, the consolation we offered her quieted her feelings, and she became calm. She went to church, called on her friends, andattended to her duties at home. But there was ever a sadness in hervoice and manners. Her home was so lonely, so strangely still andvacant, and Ellen so silent, that the voice of gladness was not heard init again until a second beautiful boy was born under its roof. 

We were all happy then. Even Ellen smiled as she kissed her dearbabe--but a tear followed the smile and the kiss so soon, we knew herwounded heart was not _then_ healed. She was very sad, and felt thatthis babe, too, might only be loaned her for a short time. It was notlong before we all felt so. That little face, so pale, so sad, sobeautiful, evidently bore the seal of death upon it. He refused allnourishment, and pined slowly away. Ellen knew he must die, but couldnot say so. She could not shed one tear to relieve her sorrowful heart. She neither spoke nor wept, until her infant was laid in its coffin. 

A friend had woven a wreath of beautiful flowers, and laid it on thesatin pillow of the coffin, and placed a delicate rose-bud in the littlehand of the babe. Ellen went alone to take her last kiss, when, seeingher babe so beautiful in death, she seated herself on the floor and weptfreely. 

"Who loved my babe so fondly?" said she, when she came from the room. "Who has been so kind and thoughtful of me? It has unsealed my tears;now let me weep alone. " We left her. She came out of that room a changedwoman. She assisted us in our preparations for the burial of the dead, spoke cheerfully to her husband, conversed freely about her children inheaven, and remarked that henceforth her life should be worthy of aChristian. We buried the sweet babe by the side of his brother, andplanted a rose-tree over his grave. Then our thoughts turned to Ellen, whose whole manner indicated resignation and peace. 

We were not surprised at the effect of grief upon Ellen, for I have toldyou she was not educated to bear human misery with much composure. Yetwhat her parents had left undone seemed to be effected by those severedispensations of God. Our Father in heaven often educates us by hischastisements, giving us wisdom, patience, hope, trustfulness andresignation, according to the severity with which he afflicts us. 

Ellen maintained the same cheerful manner from the time of the burial ofher second babe to the birth of her third child. Her friends hoped manyblessings for Ellen in the life of this child. It was a daughter, apparently healthy; and as its mother had endured so severe a trial wehoped the Lord would deal mercifully with her in sparing this one toher. For one short year we had reason to hope for the life of the child. But it was too frail a creature for this world, and, like its littlebrothers, died in early infancy. And its mother--we found her to be apractical Christian indeed. 

Instead of moaning and violent grief, she held her babe as it breathedits latest breath, and was first to break the awful silence in the roomthat succeeded the final struggle, with these words: "She is with herlittle brothers now, and I have reason to bless the Lord. " She could sayno more then; and a few large tears fell on the cheek of her babe as itstill lay on her lap. Once only did she freely yield to tears. It waswhen her husband first heard of the death of his babe. His anguishovercame her composure. Soon recovered however, she maintained a trulyChristian deportment. The third little grave was opened in the buriallot of Mr. Moore, and the body of this babe laid by its little brothers. 

A fourth babe was born in the lonely home of Ellen, and fresh hopescherished for the long life of her child. The burden of every prayeroffered at that family altar was, "Lord, if it be thy will, suffer us torear this tender child!"

"Yet though I pray thus, " said Ellen, "my heart is strong to meet itsearly death; and if it dies, I shall not mourn as for my first-born. Godhas afflicted me, but I am profited thereby. "

"Very true, Ellen, but if this fourth dear babe is taken from us, weshall almost doubt the mercy of God. How can you, in your presentdelicate health, endure to lay this last dear babe by the side of thedeparted ones, and again find your home desolate and silent?"

"My body is weak, Mary, but my spirit is well instructed in resignation, and can calmly bear whatever new affliction God pleases to send. Youhave called me changed since Alfred died, and sometimes too silent andsad. I am changed and often silent, but not sad. _My_ treasures are inheaven, and my communings are more with the spirits of my children inheaven than with the friends who are with me here. And if this childdies, Mary, ----if he dies--his death will prepare me for the duties ofall the rest of my life. "

 * * * * *

The beautiful boy passed away just as his little lips had learned topronounce his mother's name--suddenly, unexpectedly to us all, and allyielded to our grief but Ellen. We greatly feared his father wouldbecome insane. 

But Ellen--believe me, she was transformed from a child of sunshine toan angel and minister of light in darkness. She sat by her husband asserene and collected as if her babe only slept; not a tear swept hercheek, not a tremulous word fell from her lips, as she soothed herstricken companion; her pale face wore no look of despair, and shedirected every funeral preparation with as much composure as if _her_heart had not felt the awful wound. The world called her heartless, --butChrist must have owned her as one of his brightest jewels, almost aperfect disciple. When she spoke, we felt as if some mysterious powerfrom heaven was in our midst. We thought as much of the saint-likefortitude and resignation of our feeble Ellen, and wept as much towitness her calmness and spiritual strength, as for the loss of ourinteresting little friend. 

Our pastor called to offer gospel consolations to the sorrowing mother, but he wept as Ellen greeted him, saying, "God hath much love for us, Brother Ellis, for he chasteneth much. Now, my only prayer is, thatHenry may be led to perceive it and be at peace. If you have words ofcomfort, go to him and still his troubled spirit. "

The aged came to console her, but went back to their dwellings feelingthat she was as well instructed in the wisdom of heaven as the oldestservant among them. The young and happy came to mingle tears of sympathywith her, but returned to dwell upon her words as upon communicationsfrom the spirit-land, rather than from a creature like themselves. Herwords found a way to the soul of the most thoughtless, fixing theirminds upon heaven, and revealing the unseen glories of a better home, and the beauty of Christian faith in an earthly one. 

She was a Christian mother. When she put on Christ, she was "_a newcreature_" She believed her first grief was almost a murmuring againstheaven. Surely we know she bore an equal love for all her children, butwhen her last one died, she loved God and her Saviour more, believingfully that God would not do her wrong, --that he only sought the good ofhis creatures in his dispensations, --that although they seemed grievousand inscrutable to them, he saw the end from the beginning, andchastized whom he loved. 

THE MOTHERLESS CHILD. 

BY MRS. M. H. ADAMS. 

To become a childless mother is indeed one of the most severeafflictions which woman can be called to endure; yet it may be, it isoften met with noble, Christian fortitude, with Christian humility andresignation, that soothe the acute pains of the mother's heart, andcarry her thoughts away from earth and above its sorrows; so that wefeel that she can and has found a balm, and has still left herconsolation and happiness. But when we see a little child, whose motherGod has taken, as fully realizing its bereavement, its loneliness, itsabsolute misfortune, as a child can do, we feel that to be a motherlesschild in this unchristian world, is indeed an affliction for which thereseldom appears a balm; though we doubt not our Father hath the balm forthis as for every other wound. 

A young man sat by the corpse of his faithful wife, the mother of allhis little babes. One child was gazing silently and inquiringly at herfather, as he held his head weeping and groaning in anguish of spirit. A tender infant of a few weeks lay asleep in the cradle at his side. Theyoung man's mother entered the room, and with tenderness of tone andmanner, endeavored to calm his grief; with words of gospel love andfaith to comfort him. 

"Abby has been to you a kind, faithful and devoted wife, David; anagreeable companion and constant friend. Before God she was a humblechild, and before the world a worthy disciple of Christ. You doubtlessfeel all this, and more. Few can speak evil of her, and very many willsincerely mourn her early death, and sympathize with you in thisdreadful hour. But remember, David, you have, before this, professedtrust and belief in the promises and love of God. Now is the time tomake manifest your Christian faith, your hope in God, your belief in thegospel. Try not to be utterly disconsolate in your loneliness. God isvery near to us, although this heavy cloud of sorrow lies between himand us. "

They were interrupted by the entrance of the oldest child of thedeparted one, a sensitive, intelligent boy of six or seven years. Tearswere in his eyes as he opened the door, and fell fast into the lap ofhis father as he tried to speak to him. 

"Father, " said he, "I have been down in the sitting-room, trying to readmy little books; but I think so much of my dear dead mother, I can'tread; and the tears come into my eyes so fast, that I can't see thepictures. I went to rock in my little chair, but I saw my mother's emptychair, and my little heart aches very much. It will be very lonesome andsad here, if I don't see mother anywhere. And who will take care of thislittle baby brother?"

No word was spoken by those present, but their tears and sobs toldplainly that they too felt how lonely and sad that home would be withoutthe gentle voice and cheerful song of that "dear mother. " As no onechecked him, Willie again spoke, and, as well as he could amid sobs andtears, told the bitterness of his young spirit. 

"I love you some, father, but not as I did my mother; and now my motheris in heaven, who shall I have to take care of me and kiss me, father;who will say a prayer to me every night? Aunt Susan's prayers are notlike mother's; and your voice doesn't sound so sweet by the side of mybed as my mother's did. Oh dear! what did my mother die for, and leaveme a poor little motherless boy?"

His father then took him upon his knee, wiped his tears, and soothed himto sleep with gentle caresses. No word could David utter. For a longtime he sat with his sleeping boy, beside his dead. The paleness of hischeek, and the frequent sigh, expressed his sorrow. His mother againtried to draw from him an expression of his Christian fidelity, fearingthat he was untrue to his God and his Master under a trial so severe. When at length he did speak, a hardened heart might have been moved byhis broken sentences and choking words, as he made an effort to assurehis anxious parent. 

"Mother, I have the utmost confidence in the mercy and goodness ofGod--even now that he has taken to himself one so very dear. I feel surethere is some great and important lesson which he would have me learnfrom this sorrowful event. I have all faith that Abby is at rest, andwill still love those of us who are left on the earth to mourn. Ibelieve we shall meet each other in the future, that we shall recognizeand love each other, with a far more perfect and a purer love than wehave cherished here. I shall be lonely, and miss from my hours at homethe counsel, the aid, the cheerfulness, sympathy and attentive love ofone of the best of women. Her beautiful example in the service of herMaster will often be remembered with deep and sincere grief. 

"All this I could bear calmly; if it were more bitter, I could bear itand not weep. But to think of my children--as motherless babes; to hearWillie tell his sorrow, and mourn so bitterly in his tender years for amother--so dear; to feel that with his susceptibility and keensensitiveness he realizes so fully his loss; to hear him sob on hispillow at night, and, when alone, call himself 'little motherlessWillie;'--oh, mother! what man or Christian would not bow beneath aburden like this?--It is the contemplation of _four motherless children_that wounds me most. It seems to me Abby herself would not reprove me, could those cold lips now bring me a message from her spirit in heaven. "

 * * * * *

With expressions like those in the chamber of the dead was every hour inthe home of David embittered, for weeks and months, by the littlemourning child. He gathered flowers and laid them before his father, saying, "I don't suppose you care about them, father; but my motherisn't here to take them. I pick them because they look up into my faceas if mother was somewhere near them. But they wither on my hand, andhold down their heads, just as I want to do now my mother is dead. "

Every object at home seemed to remind Willie of his mother, and keep hisbereavement uppermost in his thoughts. He did not weep as much after afew weeks, but through all his boyhood there rested a sadness on hiscountenance, that indicated a mournful recollection of that dear mother. Through his whole life he felt that he was like a tender branch loppedfrom the parent-tree; like a lamb sent out from the fold while too youngto meet the storms and travel the dangerous paths of which he oftenheard from his mother. This idea seemed ever present, and served manytimes to hold him back from adventurous pursuits and untried schemes. "Idon't know--but I should have known had my dear mother lived, " was theexpression of his general course in life. 

As long as he was a child he spoke often and tenderly of his mother. Hecherished a remembrance of her faithful admonitions and precepts, asvivid as might have been expected from a child bereaved at the age ofeight or ten. When older, he realized more fully his loss, especiallywhen he met one whom he believed to be _a good mother. _ He then seldomspoke of his mother; but his visits to the grave-yard, his sadness onthe anniversary of the day of her death, his conversations about herwith his brothers and sister, the value he attached to every token ofher love to him, convinced us that he remembered her with deepaffection. 

When a young man, he was several times beguiled by the tempter intoforbidden paths, and his eyes were not opened to behold the dangeruntil the fangs of the serpent pierced deeply into his heart. Then mostfully did he realize that he was _poor motherless William_; that he wasabroad in the world without those most effectual safeguards against sin, a good mother's counsels and a mother's daily prayers; that while otherscould express unreservedly to their mothers their hopes or fears, theirsuccess or misfortune, their faithfulness in the hour of temptation orweakness under its power, and be counselled, encouraged, urged orentreated anew, --he could only go to his mother's grave and shed bittertears of repentance in loneliness, or withdraw himself from all aroundhim, and, _a poor motherless child, _ call up the dim remembrance of thatyoung and cheerful being who once called him her precious son, hertreasured child, --and weep the more bitterly that no answering voice orsmile, or look of encouragement or hope, met _him_ in this sinful world!

Oh ye who have hearts to feel, who profess Christian principles to guideyou, and the holy love of our Master for your example, seek out the_motherless child_ of the poor, the ignorant, the vicious, and by thepower of Christ which is within you, according to the measure of thatpower, strive to be like fond mothers to the thousands who cry "We haveno dear mother--our mother is in heaven--is dead--and we know not whatis right or what is wrong!" Help and pity them. Rescue them from thatheart-breaking loneliness and sorrow that prey incessantly on thefeelings of a sensitive, intelligent, _motherless child_. 

FAITH. 

BY MRS. E. R. B. WALDO. 

 Upon the peaceful breast of Faith My troubled soul hath found repose, Free from the sad and starless gloom That doubting scepticism knows. 

 Though disappointment, care, and pain, Have bent my heart to their decree, One thought hath ever led me on, It is, _that it was so to be_. 

 Oft would my weary spirit faint, My heart yield almost to despair, Did not "a still small voice" exclaim, "There is no change, but God is there. "

 That mighty power which points the shaft, And forms the spirit to endure, Will, in its own peculiar way And time, perform the wondrous cure. 

 Still may my soul, through faith, rely Upon the promises of God; His mercy see in every change, And learn to bless his chastening rod. 

THE SNOW-BIRDS. 

A DIALOGUE. 

BY MRS. C. HIGHBORN. 

_Clarissa_. Pray, Mary, what are you going to do with those crumbs whichyou hold in your hand?

_Mary_. I am going to feed my snow-birds with them; and I should be veryhappy to have you go with me. I know you will enjoy seeing how merrilythey hop about and flutter their wings, and seem to chirp out theirthanks as they pick up the food I throw them. 

_C_. Thank you for your invitation; but I beg you will excuse me; it maybe pretty sport for you, but, for my part, I can enjoy myself muchbetter to stay here and arrange my baby-things, for I expect some girlsto see me this afternoon. I cannot conceive what there is in thoseugly-looking snow-birds to interest you; they are not handsome, surely;they have not a single bright feather; and, as for their songs, theysound like the squeak of a sick chicken. 

_M_. I am sorry to hear you speak so of my favorites; for, though theyare not so brilliant in their colors as many that flutter around us inthe summer, yet to me they tire dearer than any others, and far morebeautiful than those of a gaudier hue. 

_C_. Well, you have a queer taste, I must confess; you remind me of thephilosopher I read of in the story-book, who thought a toad the mostbeautiful of God's creatures. Come, perhaps you can show me why they areentitled to your regard, and point out their beauties. 

_M_. I will cheerfully comply with your request, for nothing gives memore pleasure than to speak of the good qualities of my friends. Examinethem for a moment and see how exquisitely they are formed, and, thoughnot gaudy in their colors, yet their feathers are soft and glossy. Butthese are trifles comparatively; what most endears them to me is theirconstancy. 

_C. _ That is a new idea, indeed. Constancy in snow-birds! Please explainyourself, Mary. 

_M_. Well, they seem to me like those rare friends that love us best inadversity, when the bright summer of prosperity, with its attendantjoys, has fled, and the winter of sorrow and misfortune shuts out, withits dark clouds, the light of life, and withers, with its frosts, thefew flowers which bloom along its pathway. There are summer friends, Clara, as well as summer birds, and they both wear brilliant colors, andsing enchanting songs, but they depart with the sunshine; the firstleave us to battle the storms of adversity, and the others, the cold andbarren prospect of winter; these little snow-birds, however, remain, andthrough all its dark hours they cheer us by their presence. They seem totell us that we are not entirely destitute of pleasure, but that thedarkest hours have something of beauty; and, while they serve to awakenin our minds a remembrance of the bright days that have gone, they bidus look forward to the end of our sorrows, and welcome the bright springdays, which shall return to us the joys that departed. 

_C. _ I declare! you have preached quite a sermon, and from a funny text;I confess there is both truth and poetry in what you say. I do notwonder that you love the snow-birds, if they awaken such pleasant andpretty thoughts in your mind. Henceforth I will love them myself, forthe good lesson that, through you, they have imparted. I trust you willforgive me the rudeness of laughing at you. 

_M_. Cheerfully, Clara; but learn from this never to despise any ofGod's creatures; they can all teach us some important and beautifullesson which we should be happy to heed. And now, if you please, we willgo and feed the snow-birds. 

_C_. With all my heart!

[Illustration: MOUNT CARMEL. ]

MOUNT CARMEL. 

SELECTED. 

Mount Carmel is a high promontory, forming the termination of a range ofhills running northwest from the plain of Esdraelon. Mount Carmel is thesouthern boundary of the Bay of Acre, on Acca, as it is called by theTurks; its height is about fifteen hundred feet, and at its foot, north, runs the brook Kishon, and a little further north the river Belus. 

Mount Carmel is celebrated in Scripture history as the place whereElijah went up when he told his servant to look forth to the sea yetseven times, and the seventh time he saw a little cloud coming up fromthe sea "like a man's hand, " when the prophet knew that the promisedrain was at hand, and girded up his loins, and ran before Ahab's charioteven to the gates of Jezreel. (1 Kings xviii. 44-46. )

Towards the sea is a cave, where it has been supposed that Elijahdesired Ahab to bring Baal's false prophets, and where fire from heavendescended on the altar he erected. The present appearance of Carmel isthus described by Dr. Hogg, who visited it in 1833. "The convent onMount Carmel was destroyed by the Turks in the early part of the Greekrevolution. Abdallah, the Turkish pasha, who commanded the district inwhich Carmel is situated, not only razed their convent to the ground, but blew up the foundations, and carried the materials to Acre for hisown use. The convent is now being rebuilt, or probably is now completelyfinished, the funds having been supplied by subscriptions solicited allover Europe, and a great part of the East, by one of the brethren, Giovanni Battista, who has travelled far and wide for that purpose. " Dr. Hogg gives the following account of the condition of the place at thetime of his visit. 

"The whole fabric is of stone, and, when completed, will possess thesolidity of a fortress. The first story only is at present finished, andhereafter will be solely appropriated to the accommodation oftravellers, when another, to be raised above, will be exclusivelydevoted to permanent inmates. In the centre a spacious church has beencommenced, and already promises to be a fine building. The principalaltar will be placed over the cave so long held sacred as the retreat ofthe prophet. This natural cavern exhibits at its farther extremity somesigns of having been enlarged by art. When the edifice above iscomplete, it will be converted into a chapel; and a projecting ledge ofrock, believed to have been the sleeping-place of the prophet, will thenbe the altar. The superior himself kindly conducted me to see one of thecelebrated caves which everywhere abound in the district of MountCarmel. Descending two thirds of the mountain by a narrow path, scoopedin the rock, we entered an enclosure of fig-trees and vines, whereseveral caverns, that of old belonged to the Carmelites, are nowinhabited by a Mohammedan saint and his numerous progeny. We firstentered a lofty excavation of beautiful proportions, at least fifty feetlong, with a large recess on one side, --every part chiselled with thenicest care, and inscribed with numerous Greek initials, names, andsentences. Here Elijah is believed to have taught his disciples, andhence its name, 'the school of the prophets. ' Some smaller adjoiningcaverns, fronted with masonry, now form the residence of the saint andhis family. A deep cistern for the preservation of water has been hewnin the rock, and the entrance is closed by a gate shaded inside byvines. 

"The memory of Elijah is equally venerated by Christians and Moslems;and the votaries of each faith are liberally allowed access to theseveral caves. At the time of our visit the general appearance of MountCarmel was dry and sterile; but the superior assured us that in springit was clothed in verdure and beauty. "

THE PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE. 

BY MISS ELIZABETH DOTEN

 "Daily striving, though so lonely, Every day reward shall give, Thou shalt find by striving only, And in loving, thou canst live. " Miss Edwards. 

"On dear!" said Annie Burton, as she sat down under the old apple-treeby the spring; "I wonder what ails me; there's been such a chokingfeeling in my throat all this afternoon, and though I winked andswallowed with all my might, the tears would come in spite of myself. Here I've been wandering for more than three hours, up hill and down, through brambles and brier-bushes; my hands are scratched and bloody, and the sun has burnt me as brown as a berry. Three long precious hoursin the sunny month of August! and what does it all amount to? Why, Ihave picked a basket of berries that can be eaten in half an hour; andhere is a bunch of flowers for little Katie, that she will take andadmire, and then tear to pieces; that will be the end of them. But thatisn't the worst of all; no, not by a great deal; there is a great rentin my frock, gaping and staring at me, waiting to be mended; and nobodyknows how long 't will take me to do that. Oh dear! how I hate to work!I don't see how it is; there's mother takes care of the children, sews, makes bread and washes the dishes, just as willingly and cheerfully asif she were playing on the piano or reading a pleasant book. They saythat good people are always happy; but I _never_ am. Oh, I believe I amthe worst creature that ever lived!" and she bent her head upon her lapand burst into tears. 

It was not long before she was roused by the sound of footsteps; sheraised her head, and saw an old woman coming down the road with a largebasket on her arm. She looked tired and weary, as well she might be, forshe had travelled a long distance; it was a hot, sultry afternoon, andevery footstep stirred a cloud of dust. She came towards the spring; butbefore she reached it, she struck her foot against a stone and fell. 

"Have you hurt you?" exclaimed Annie, as she sprung to her side. 

"Not a bit, not a bit, " she replied, as she shook the dust from herapron, and replaced the things that had fallen from her basket. 

"Oh, yes, you have!" said Annie; "see, the blood is streaming down yourarm!"

"Oh that's nothing; only a scratch. Blessings on the good Father thatwatches over me! I might have broken my arm, and that would have been adeal worse! How fortunate I happened to fall just by the spring here!I've been longing for a drink of cold water, and I sha'n't need it anythe less for getting such a mouthful of this hot dust. "

"Heart's dearest!" she exclaimed, as she put down the iron dipper thatalways hung by the spring, after having satisfied her thirst, "what isit troubles you? Such sorrowful eyes and a tearful face belong only toolder heads and more sinful hearts; and God forbid it even to them, unless it is wrung out of the agony of their very souls; for though hisprovidences are just and wise, yet nature must have its way sometimes. "

"Oh, " she replied, as the tears filled her eyes again, "I have beencrying to think how wicked I am. "

"Well-a-day!" said the old woman, looking rather droll; "it's verystrange such a young creature as you should come down here to weep onaccount of great wickedness. You don't look much like a Salem witch, ora runaway from the house of correction. "

Annie could not help laughing at such an idea; but as the smile passedaway, the troubled waters of her heart seemed to burst forth in aflood, and she wept violently. 

"Ah, " said the old woman, shaking her head sorrowfully: "I ought not tohave spoken thus; I see how it is. Poor lamb! she hears the voice of theShepherd calling her, but she is bewildered and knows not the way to thefold; and may the Lord Jesus look upon me, as he did upon his sinfulservant Peter when he denied him, if I fail to point out to this dearchild the path wherein he himself has taught me to tread. "

She sat down beside Annie and laid her arm gently around her. "There's adear girl, " said she, raising her head, and putting back the locks ofmoist hair; "listen to me a little while, and I will tell you what willmake you happier. " She took the cool waters of the spring, and bathedher burning forehead, and washed away all traces of dust and tears. Thewater had a cooling and soothing effect upon Annie's troubled brain. 

"There now, " said the good dame; "don't you feel better?"

"Yes, " said Annie, almost cheerfully. 

"Well, " she continued, "God's love is just like this spring; it is fulland free to all. Now don't you suppose, if you could cleanse and purifyyour heart from all traces of sin and sorrow in its blessed waters, justas you bathe your face in this spring, that you would feel happier andbetter. "

"Yes, " said Annie, slowly and thoughtfully, as if a new idea was passingthrough her mind. 

"Well then, I will tell you how. I have felt just as you do now. When Iwas a girl I was a restless, idle creature; useless to others, and aburden to myself. Of course I was unhappy, miserable. It was in vainthat I went to school with such a discontented mind. I had a harderlesson to learn than any that my teacher could learn me. God grant youmay not have to learn it in the same way that I did! I learned it byexperience; a sorrowful way that is to learn anything, although it isslow and sure; you may be pretty certain that you never will forget it. I have found out, by experience, that the only way that we can live andbe happy, is by loving and serving others, just as the blessed Jesusdid; and if you will try it you will find it so. "

"Oh, " said Annie, "I am a little girl. What good can I do? If I was theLord Jesus, I would go about doing good; then I would cast out devils, and heal the sick, and raise the dead. "

"Yes, yes; I know you are yet but a 'wee thing, ' and have much to learn;but 'the race is not always to the swift and the battle to the strong;'it isn't the tallest men and the oldest heads that do the most good inthe world. But I'll tell you what _you can_ do, if you can't workmiracles; though there's many a devil cast out in these days of sin andsorrow, that men know not of; those who struggle and strive with theEvil One, and thrust him out of the doors of their heart, do not sound atrumpet before them in the streets, for they are true followers of thedear Lamb of God. That same old spirit of selfishness that tempted Evein the garden of Eden has gone through the world like a creeping, wilyserpent ever since. It has wound itself round and round our hearts, coilupon coil, until we scarce seem to have any heart at all. It is thisthat troubles you, and you must cast it out; you must forget your owninterest, and learn everybody to love you; then you can't help lovingeverybody, and you will be happy. Oh, it will be hard, very hard, to dothis; you will stop, and perhaps turn back; but when it is the darkestyou must take the gentle hand that our dear brother, the Lord Jesus, stretches out to you, and he will lead you safely to the very bosom ofthe Father. 

"But look up, dear one, the sun has gone down behind the hill, and youmust hasten homeward. The mother bird must needs feel anxious when hernestlings are away. But don't forget what I have told you. "

"No, " said Annie, raising her head, for she had been thinkingearnestly; every word that her kind friend had spoken went with apowerful influence to her heart; "I will _try_ and _do what I can, "_said she. 

"Ay, " said the old woman, "that's right! not even an angel can do more. But stop, " she added; "do you remember what day it is?"

"Yes, " said Annie. 

"Well then, just a year from this time, if the Lord permits, we willmeet again by this spring. Now good night, and may the blessing of theGreat Father go with you. "

"Good night, " said Annie, and with a cheerful heart and light footstep, she hastened homeward. 

No sooner did she come in sight of her home, than she perceived a horseand carriage standing by the gate. She recognized it in a moment; it wasthe doctor's. A cold shudder passed over her, and an indefinable fearentered her mind. She hastened onward and entered the house. 

Upon the bed lay little Katie; her eyes fixed upon the wall, seeminglyunconscious of all that passed around her, sending forth low moans, asif in great pain. Beside her sat the doctor, counting the beatings ofher pulse, and closely observing the alterations of her countenance. 

"I cannot give you much encouragement, " said he. "It is a disease ofthe brain. All shall be done for her that is possible, but I fear thereis not much hope. "

Alas! it was even so; all was done in vain. She laid day after day, ahelpless sufferer. It was long before the vital energy was spent; butthrough all this weary time, there was one constant watcher by herbed-side. 

Annie, with the impression of a deep truth upon her soul, felt that_now_ was the time to act, and most faithfully did she perform her duty. And when, at last, sweet Katie died, with a warm gush of tears she laidone of the flowers that she had gathered from the hill-side upon herbosom, and clasping her arms around her mother's neck, she said:"Mother, dear sister is gone, and now I must be both Annie and Katie toyou; and if God will help me, I shall be more of a blessing to you thanI ever yet have been. "

Oh, it was like a ray of sunshine to that weeping mother's heart, tohear her once wayward child speak thus! and though it was like takingaway the life-drops from her heart to give up her cherished little one, yet she felt there was still a great blessing remaining for her. 

Time passed on. Autumn came with its ripened fruits and golden foliage;winter laid his glittering mantle upon the streams and hill-tops, andspring brought blossoms for little Katie's grave. 

Annie, the gentle Annie, where was she?

Firm to her purpose, she had gone onward. At times the struggle was hardindeed. Then she would go to the spring, and kneel down, and talk withher Good Father, until the evil feelings had left her heart, and thecheerful smile came again to her countenance. 

At length summer, bright, beautiful summer, beamed over the land oncemore, and as it drew to a close it brought the day on which Annie was tomeet her friend at the spring. 

It was the close of the Sabbath, and the last rays of the setting sunstreamed through the branches of the trees that surrounded the spring, and tinged its waters with a rosy light. There sat the old lady, lookinganxiously up the road. 

"I wonder why she don't come, " said she. "Perhaps the young thing hasforgotten me. Sure 'twould be a sorrow to me if I thought she had. "

"No indeed, " said a pleasant voice. A light form sprang from a clump ofbushes close by, and she felt a warm kiss upon her cheek. "No, I havenot forgotten you, but I have come to tell you how happy I am. Oh, Ihave seen trouble and sorrow _enough_, since I saw you; but for allthat, I am much happier than I was then. You told me that I must learnto love everybody, and so I did; and now it seems as if everybody andeverything loved me, even our old cat and dog. Strange, isn't it?"

"Heart's dearest!" said the old woman, as soon as she could speak, wiping away the tears from her eyes with the corner of her apron;"there's a philosophy in all things, even in baking bread and washingdishes; but the true philosophy of life consists in loving and doing;and, blessed be God! that is so plain, that the least of his childrencan understand it. "

[Illustration]

THE STARVING POOR OF IRELAND. 

BY REV. J. G. ADAMS. 

 A wail comes o'er the ocean, Though faint, yet deep with woe! A nation's poor are falling Before the direst foe! Grim Famine there hath seized them, And over Erin's land The multitudes are perishing Beneath his blasting hand!

 The father gives his morsel To his imploring child, Himself imploring mercy, too, With voice and visage wild. The ever-faithful mother Her portion, too, will share With those who lean upon her, And plead her dying care. 

 Then father, mother, children, Must listen, one and all, To Famine's surer, sterner voice-- To Death's relentless call. For means are all exhausted; Bread! bread! There is no more! And in that once glad cabin The conflict now is o'er. 

 Fond, faithful hearts there perished; Affections deep and true As other homes and loved ones Now know, or ever knew. And why this visitation So sweeping and so sore? Why? why? Repeat the question The wide world o'er and o'er!

 In that same land is plenty, Profusion, wealth, and power, Enough to stay the famine-plague This very day and hour. Yes, while the poor are starving By scores and hundreds even, Riches and luxury send up Their impious laugh to heaven!

 Wrong! wrong! this destitution, While there are means to save A nation of strong-hearted men From famine and the grave. Thanks, thanks for riches! but a woe To this our earth they bring, So long as they shall fail to save God's poor from suffering!

THE SABBATH SCHOOL FESTIVAL. 

BY REV. HENRY BACON. 

In these days of "exhibitions" and "excursions" which give such richpleasure to our Sabbath school children, it may be well to turn backsomething over twenty years, and see what used to be "great things" tothe pupils of the Sunday schools. The only festival I ever knew while ina Sabbath school, in my youth, was at Dr. Baldwin's church, Boston. As Iwas cradled in a different faith, I ought to tell how I came to be ascholar in a Baptist school; and I will do so, as it may give a goodhint to some teachers to be impartial. 

At the school I attended a decision was made to give a silver medal tothe best scholar. A good many of us worked hard for it, especially theboys in the round pews near the pulpit, who had reason to think that theprize would fall to one of their number. A right good feeling prevailedamongst them; all were willing to acquiesce in whatever should be thedecision of the superintendent or committee. When the time for decisioncame, a lad, the son of a deacon, and who had left school and had notbeen at school for six months, was sent for, and _to him_ the silvermedal was given! We all felt outraged, but did not dare to say much. Ibegged my parents, with good reasoning, to let me go to another school, where I had many friends; and I went to Dr. Winchell's, in Salem street, where Mr. John Gear was superintendent. 

What lessons I did get! Whole chapters were recited from the NewTestament, because so many verses brought me a reward, so many rewards amark, and so many marks _a book_! We had no libraries then. Well, theannual meeting came round, and one evening the school met and marcheddown to Dr. Baldwin's church. I remember the children did the singing, and while they were singing, of course, I sung; and I have not forgottenhow crest-fallen I felt when Mr. Gear came along, and whispered to me, "Don't sing _so loud_;" but he might just as well have said, "Don'tsing, " because I knew he did not want me to sing, for I could not keeptime. But it was festival-night, and he was extremely good-natured, anddid not wish to cut short the privileges of any. A prayer was offered, and then we sung again. A big man, in a large black silk gown, got up, and delivered a sermon; but we did not heed it as we ought to have done, because some _tea-chests_ were ranged along at the base of the pulpit. It was not the _tea-chests_ that attracted our attention, but the sweetsthat we knew were _in_ them. 

After the sermon was over, and the scholars were ranged in order, insingle file, they marched up to the table near the chests, and each onereceived _a quarter of a sheet of gingerbread!_ How rich we were! Howsweet the cake tasted! We were in perfect ecstasies at the "great piece"given to each of us! Such rows of happy children are seldom seen, andall because two cents worth of gingerbread was given to them all alike!We had thought of it for weeks, and it was delightful to anticipate theoccasion. We felt paid for all the trouble we had met in learninglessons, in getting to school on rainy days, and keeping still andorderly when we got there. And why all this happiness from so slight acause? Because we all felt loving and happy; we loved our teachers andour school; and it seemed _so odd_ to get gingerbread in the church andfrom the Sabbath school superintendent. 

But how is it now? A long ride or sail; swings, music, cakes, pies, fruit, lemonade, and a vast variety of "good things, " must be had, orelse the Sabbath school children do not have "a good time!" After allthis is had and enjoyed, I do not believe it is any better than oursimple quarter of a sheet of gingerbread, unless the scholars love eachother more, and their schools better, than we did. Do _you_, reader?

[Illustration]

NELLY GREY. 

"Nelly! Nelly! Where can the child be? Nelly! Nelly!" But Nelly Grey wasaway off in dreamland, and the cheerful tones of her mother's voice fellall unheeded upon her ear, as did the impatient touch of her little dogFrisk's cold nose upon her hand. She was sitting on the last step of thevine-covered portico in front of the cottage, --the warm June sun smilingdown lovingly upon her, and the soft wind kissing the little rings ofchestnut-colored hair that clustered about her temples. 

What could make the child so quiet? It must be some weighty matter thatwould still _her_ joyous laugh. Why, she was the merriest little bodythat ever hunted for violets. There was a laugh lodged in every dimpleof her sunny face, and her busy little tongue was all the day longcarolling some happy ditty. 

"Nelly, what are you dreaming about? I've been calling you this longtime, and here you are in this warm sun, almost asleep. "

"No, no! mother dear, I've only been thinking, and haven't heard youcall once. Only to think that you couldn't find me mother! how funny!"

"And what has my little girl been thinking of?" said Mrs. Grey, as shelifted Nelly into her lap, and smoothed hack the silky curls from herbrow. Nelly laid her rosy cheek close to her mother's, and wound hersmall arms about her neck, and told her simple thoughts in a low, sweetvoice. 

"You know it's strawberry time, mother, don't you?"

"Yes, darling. "

"Well, I was thinking, if you would let me, I could pick a big basketfull, they are so thick over in our meadow; and maybe Mrs. Preston wouldbuy them of me, for she gives Mr. Jones a heap of money every year forthem. "

"And what does Nelly want of a heap of money?"

"Why, mother, little Frisk wants a brass collar, --don't you, Frisk?"Frisk barked and played all sorts of antics to show his young mistresshe was very much in need of one. "Think how pretty it would be, mother, round Frisk's glossy neck. Oh, say that I may--do, do, mother!"

Nelly's pleading proved irresistible, and her mother tied her littlesunbonnet under her chin, gave the "big basket" into her hands, and thelittle girl trudged merrily off, with Frisk jumping and barking by herside to see his young mistress so happy. 

Shall I tell how the long summer afternoon wore away, dear littlereader, and how the big basket was filled to the tip-top and coveredwith wild flowers and oak leaves? Shall I tell, or shall I leave you toguess, my little bright eyes? You say, yes? Well, I will tell you abouther walk to Mrs. Preston's after the sun had gone down and the azureblue sky had become changed to a soft, golden hue. 

It was a pleasant walk under the drooping trees, and Nelly Grey, swinging her basket carefully on her arm, tripped lightly on her way. Oh, how her blue eyes danced with joy as she looked down upon the littlemerry Frisk trotting by her side; her bright lips parted as shemurmured, "Yes, yes, Frisk shall have a nice new collar, with 'NellyGrey's dog, Frisk, ' written upon it;" then Frisk played all sorts offunny antics again, probably by way of thanks. 

Ah! but what calls that sudden blush and smile to Nelly's face?--and shehad well nigh stumbled, too, and spilt all her strawberries. No wondershe started, for, emerging from under the shadow of the trees, was ahandsome lad some half a head taller than Nelly. He was gazing, too, with a witching smile into her face, waiting till it should be thelittle maiden's pleasure to notice him. She nodded her pretty littlehead as demurely as a city belle, laid her small hand lovingly uponFrisk's curly coat, and walked with a slower and less bounding step thanbefore. But Phil Morton was not to be abashed at this; so he steppedlightly up to Nelly, saying, "Let me carry your basket; it is too heavy for you. "

The little girl, with many injunctions to be careful and not tip itover, delivered the basket to him; she then told him her project ofbuying Frisk a collar with the money got by the selling of thestrawberries, which young Phil approved of very much, and offered to gowith her to buy it, for he knew somebody, he said, that kept them forsale. Nelly joyfully assented to his offer, and thanked him heartily, too, for his kindness. 

"There, Phil, we are almost there. I can see the long study window; wehave only to pass the widow Mason's cottage, up the green lane, and weshall be there. "

On they walked, laughing merrily for very lightness of heart, till theywere close beside the poor widow's low cottage window. Suddenly Nellystopped, and the laugh was hushed upon her bright lips. "Did you hearit, Phil?" she said softly. "Hear what, Nell?" and Phil turned his blackeyes slowly round, as if he expected to see some fairy issue from thegrove of trees near by. "Why, Lucy Mason's cough. Mother says she willnot live to see the little snow-birds come again. Poor, dear Lucy!" Thegreat tear-drops rolled fast over Nelly's red cheeks, and fell like rainupon her little hand. "Oh, Phil, I'll tell you what;--I'll give thesestrawberries to Lucy. She used to love them dearly. "

"Poh! poh! Nelly; what a silly girl! to give them away when Mrs. Prestonwill give you such a deal of money for them!"

"But, Phil, Lucy's mother is poor; she can't buy them for her, and youcan't think how well Lucy loves them. "

"Well, what if she does, and what if she is poor? can't her mother pickthem over in the fields, if she wants them so bad? I wouldn't give themaway. "

"For shame, Phil Morton! To think of poor old Mrs. Mason's going over inthe fields to pick strawberries, leaving Lucy all alone, and so sick! Ishouldn't have thought it of you, Phil. No, indeed I shouldn't. Give methe basket, " said Nelly sorrowfully; "I shall give them to Lucy. " Philsilently handed the basket to her, and, without speaking, he followedNelly as she went round to the cottage door. 

The tears ran silently down the poor widow's cheek as she led thechildren to her sick child's room, for it touched her heart to see youngand thoughtless children so attentive to her poor Lucy. "And did youcome all this way, you and Phil, Nelly, to bring me these nicestrawberries?" without waiting for her to reply, she turned to a littlechoice tea-rose that stood beside her, and, breaking off two half-blownbuds, she gave them to Phil and Nelly, saying as she did so, "It's all Ihave to give you, darlings, for your kindness to me, but I know that youwill like them as coming from your sick friend. "

The bright blood flashed over Phil's dark brow and crimsoned even hisears. Poor Phil! The shame and remorse of those few minutes washed awayhis unthinking sin, and Nelly forgave him, and tried with all her powerto make him forget it. But the kind though thoughtless boy was notsatisfied until he had sent Lucy a pretty little basket filled with rareand beautiful flowers, gathered from his father's large garden. Then, and not till then, did he look with pleasure upon the rose Lucy hadgiven him. 

Some time after the above occurrence, perhaps a week, Nelly was sittingin her low rocking-chair, under the shadow of the portico, sewing asbusily as her nimble little fingers would let her, when a shadowdarkened the sunlit walk leading to the house. Nelly saw it, and knewwell enough who it was; but there she sat, her pretty little mouthpursed up, and her merry blue eyes almost closed, working faster thanever. 

"Oh! is it you, Phil?" she exclaimed, as Phil Morton bounded lightlyover the railing beside her, (for he disdained the sober process ofwalking up the steps;) "how you frightened me!" _He_ frighten _her!_Though he was naughty sometimes, and scared the little birds, he wouldnot think of frightening Nelly Grey. No, not he. 

"Oh! Phil, I have something to show you, " said the little girl, after awhile, and then she raised her voice and called, "Frisk! Frisk!" Friskwas not far away from Nelly, and presently he came lazily along, shakinghis silky coat as if he did not quite relish being waked from his nap soabruptly. 

"But what is that shining so brightly around his neck--can it be acollar? Well, it is, sure enough. But where _did_ you get it, Nell?"said Phil, turning to her in amazement. 

"Mrs. Preston, the minister's wife, gave it to me; how she came to knowI wanted it, I can't think. "

"But I can, Nell. She heard us when we were talking, I'll bet; for youknow she came in just after we did, and she gave it to you for being sogood. "

"Oh no, Phil! I only did what anybody else would have done. "

"_Anybody_? You know _I_ didn't want to Nelly, " said Phil sadly. 

"Oh, never mind _that_, Phil; you did afterward, you know. "

"Well, but, Nell, I _know_ she gave it to you for being so good. Isn'tthere something on the collar?"

"No, only Frisk's name;" and she turned to examine it with Phil. 

"There, Nell! what do you call this?" and Phil triumphantly held up theedge of the collar, on which was written, "_Nelly's reward forself-denial. "_

"Why, Phil, I never saw it before; isn't it queer?"

"Queer, that you didn't _see_ it before? Yes; but it isn't queer thatshe gave it to you No, not at all; I should have thought she would. "

"Oh, Phil, how you praise me! you mustn't, " said Nelly, her pink cheeksdeepening into scarlet. 

She deserved praise, did not she? for she was a very good little girl. But I will not tire you with any more about her now. So good-by, mysweet little reader. 

NORA. 

[Illustration]

THE FOUR EVANGELISTS. 

BY REV. H. R. NYE. 

My Young Friends:

I love to hear and to tell stories nearly as well as when I was a child;but I cannot write them for others to read. Even _small_ children aresometimes _great_ critics. At any rate, I shall not venture atstory-telling here. 

You have all read some portions of the book we call the Bible. But doyou know who wrote the Bible? at what time it was written? or anythingof the men by whom it was composed? It was not written by any one man, at one time, and by him sent out to all men in every part of the world;but by various persons, in different ages, and first addressed toparticular churches or people. I will not attempt, in this article, tofurnish you with an account of all the individuals, Moses, David, Isaiah, Paul, John, and others, who wrote portions of the sacred volume;but I will try to give you some sketches of _the four Evangelists, _Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, who wrote the four _gospels_, or Lives ofJesus, to which their names are now attached. And, 1st, of MATTHEW, by whom the _first_ gospel was composed. He wascalled, also, Levi. He was a Jew, born in the province of Galilee. Wesuppose that from his youth he was familiar with the worship of thesynagogue and temple, and educated strictly in the religion of Moses. Hefilled the office of a publican, was a collector of taxes from the Jews, to which place he was appointed by the Romans, who, in his day, ruledover Judea. While engaged in these duties, he became acquainted with thepreaching, miracles, and character of Jesus, the despised Nazarene, andleft all, --his business, friends, home, --to follow him. He journeyedwith Jesus in his ministry, and, after his Master went up to heaven, heleft his own land to preach the gospel among the Gentiles. Some peoplesuppose that he was a martyr, but this is not well established. Matthewwrote his gospel either in Hebrew or Greek, (some say both, ) about 1800years since, --very soon after his Master had finished the labors of hismission, and returned unto his Father. I said, I think, that this manleft all; made many sacrifices to become Jesus' disciple. But we do notfind this in _his_ book. With other virtues, he was an _humble_ man, quite too modest to praise himself. Luke, in his narrative, mentionsthis fact concerning Matthew. Modesty is a rare virtue; an ornament tothe aged, and very beautiful in the young. But I will tell you, 2d, of Mark, sometimes called John, and once, John Mark, in the NewTestament. Very little is known concerning this man. He was probablyborn in Judea, and, it is supposed, was converted to Christianity by thepreaching of the ardent, zealous Peter. At one time, he was thecompanion of Paul and Barnabas; but, when a quarrel sprang up betweenthese men, each went his way. Christians quarrelled then sometimes aswell, or as bad, as in our days. Chiefly, Mark travelled with Peter, ashe went forth among Jews and Gentiles, and aided him in his arduoustoils. He went, at last, to Egypt, where he planted churches, and where, also, he died. Mark was not an apostle; neither did he attend on theministry of Jesus. Do you ask, how, then, could he write a correctaccount of our Saviour's life? Here is one fact worth remembering. Markwas the companion of Peter, who was an apostle, who saw the miracles andheard the discourses of Christ. He examined the account which Mark hadwritten, and gave it his approval, as being correct, --true. Very few menwho write histories have vouchers like his. So, did we not regard theBible-writers as inspired men, we should place the utmost confidence inthe truth of Mark's gospel. He composed it about A. D. 65. We come now, 3d, to LUKE. He was a Gentile, --all people not born in Judea were calledGentiles, --born in Antioch, the capital of Syria, where the disciples ofJesus first were called Christians. Luke was a learned man, we are told, having studied in the famous schools of his own land, also of Greece andEgypt. He was a physician by profession; and physicians assure us, that, in his gospel, he has given a more accurate account of the diseaseswhich Jesus cured than any other New Testament writer: that he oftenuses medical terms in his description of the miracles which werewrought. He was a good and careful thinker, not at all credulous, butdisposed to prove all things, holding fast only to the good and true. Hewrote his gospel (perhaps you know that he was the author of the book ofActs, also) in Greece, about 35 years after the ascension of Jesus. Hewas associated with Paul in his travels, went with him to Rome, andcontinued there during the imprisonment of the apostle. Historians arenot agreed in regard to the time or manner of his death. Some affirmthat he suffered as a martyr; others, simply, that, in due time, he"fell asleep, " or died a natural death. We are sure that his talents, learning, and time were given to the diffusion of the Christian faith. Lastly, and

4th, of JOHN, the beloved disciple, so termed because of his mild andgentle spirit, and because he most resembled his and our Master. He wasborn in Judea, near the sea, or lake, of Galilee. Zebedee, his father, was a fisherman; and John, probably, engaged in his father's businessuntil he became a preacher of glad tidings. You must not, from thisfact, conclude that they were certainly poor men, for then, at least, men of wealth were engaged in the business, and I suppose many now are. John was the youngest apostle, and "the disciple whom Jesus loved;" youmay recollect that he leaned on the bosom of Christ at the "LastSupper. " He, only, was present, of all the apostles, when Jesus wascrucified, --and Jesus commended his mother to this disciple's care. After the resurrection of Jesus, John preached "the gospel" in variousparts of Asia. 

He wrote his gospel at Ephesus, and, by his labors, the truths ofChristianity spread everywhere among men. The story sometimes told, thathe was put into a caldron of burning oil, by a Roman emperor, and cameout unharmed, is not true. He lived to a very advanced age, and diedwhen not far from 100 years old. Late in life, when too feeble topreach, he was often carried into the meetings of the disciples, at hisown request, and, stretching out his hands, as he sat in his chair, waswont to say, "Little children, _love_ one another. " And, when asked whyhe so often gave this precept, he would say, "If this be obeyed, it isthe Lord's command, and it sufficeth. "

Children, will you think of that precept?

Conversing with two lads once, I asked one, Who wrote the Bible, goodmen, or bad men? "Good men, of course, " was the response. "But how doyou know they were _good_ men?" I rejoined. And he said, "Because, "--avery common and very foolish answer, --and was silent. "I think, " saidthe other lad, the younger of the two, "that good men wrote the Bible, because _good_ men _love_ the Bible, and _wicked_ men don't. "

Can you give another reason as good?

Now I have told you, briefly, of the four evangelists. They were goodmen, honest-minded and sincere. Wicked men, all men, act from motives. But _they_ could have had no motive to deceive. They lost friends, andwealth, and honor, and ease, and gained contempt, persecution, andsuffering, by preaching the gospel. Their conduct is full evidence thatthey were pure and good men. And, if they were good men, they wrote_the truth_; and, by their labors we have a correct and faithful accountof the life of Jesus. Study these books, and by them be made wise. Aboveall, remember the precept of John, "Little children, love one another. "

[Illustration]

MAY-DAY. 

BY MRS. NANCY T. MUNROE. 

It is spring, --a backward spring, it is true, for now it is the firstweek in May, and not a flower to be seen except the yellow dandelion, not a blossom even on a cherry tree; nothing is green but the grass, andthat--yes, that is very green, especially this piece before my window;it seems a relief to look upon it. 

Poor May-day revellers! May-day this year was pleasant; that is, the sunshone, the sky was blue, and the grass was green, in spots at least; butthe cold north wind was blowing, and one needed to be told it was thefirst of May. 

The sun was higher than usual on such occasions, when the children cameupon our hill;--yet they did come with wreaths and May-poles, but, ah!the flowers were artificial. Some of the children had on sun-bonnets andthin shawls; they should have worn hoods and cloaks, and then they mighthave been comfortable. But it takes a great deal to discourage childrenfrom going "Maying. "

Our hill is a famous place for children on May-day, for it is green andpleasant; it is glorious to run down its sides, and pleasant to sit onits banks, which once were forts, and behind which, in less peacefuldays, lurked soldiers with weapons of war. Ah, those children were apleasant sight, and as I heard their glad laughter, and saw them chaseeach other down those green banks, I said, Peace is better than war. 

"Please, ma'am, will you tell me what time it is?" said a little girl, coming forward from one group of children. 

"Quarter of nine, " was the reply. 

"I didn't think it was so late; did you?" said she, turning to hercompanions. They had been out perhaps two hours, and thought it was mostnoon, and back they went to their sports. 

Soon I heard a sound of weeping. I went to the door, where stood a groupof children around the pump; one poor shivering child, looking blue andcold, was having her hands and face washed by another, with water coldfrom the pump, the tears streaming down her cheeks, and she sobbingpiteously. 

"What is the matter, little girl?"

"Oh, " said the one who was performing the washing operation, "she fellfrom the top of the hill to the bottom, and made her nose bleed and hurther dreadfully. "

The poor child still sobbed and shivered. We carried her in, set herdown before a hot coal fire, and tried to warm her red hands. Her littlecompanions came and stood beside her, and told her not to cry; but, oh!she was so cold, and "the tops of her fingers did ache so!"

And this was going a Maying! But yet, next year, these very girls, Idoubt not, will start with just as buoyant hearts for May-day sports, forgetful of the fall, the cold, and all inconveniences. Ah, childhood'shopeful heart is a blessed thing!

I well remember now a May-day of by-gone years. Then we had a queen, atent, and a table set with numberless delicacies. We had rare sport thatday. The weather was not as cold as the day of which I have beenspeaking; we had a few _real_ flowers, and some hardy girls evenappeared in white dresses. The forenoon passed pleasantly; numerousvisitors thronged to see us, and we were the happiest of all May-dayrevellers. But all pleasure must have an end. Soon word came that wemust surrender the sails of our tent, for the owner had need thereof. This caused a general _strike_, and, in the confusion which ensued, aboy had the misfortune to sit or fall upon the queen's straw bonnet, which had been laid aside for her flowery crown. It was literallysmashed, unfit for further use. "Ah what will mother say?" was all thedisappointed queen could say. Some few laughed at the queer, misshapenthing, but more looked on with sad countenances, for it was the queen'sbest bonnet. 

We separated, tired, and, it may be, a little out of humor; but yet, afew days made everything bright again; we remembered the pleasure withpleasure, and thought of the disappointments only to laugh over them. 

And that bent, spoiled bonnet! When the ex-queen appeared in a fine newone, with gay ribbons, many looked on, and almost wished that they hadbeen so fortunate as to have had their bonnets spoiled. 

As I look back, other May-days throng upon my mind. The memories of someof these are sad, yea, very sad! One was the birth-day of a little onewho now rests beneath the green sod. And well do I remember anotherbright May morning, when I wandered out over the hill, holding the handof a little fair-haired child within my own. Her tiny basket was filledwith flowers the children had given her, and her bright, sunny face wasradiant with smiles. That was her first May-day walk, and much did thelittle being enjoy it. 

It was her last! Ere the spring breezes came again, she lay within herlittle shroud. The snows of winter fell silently upon her little grave, by the side of him who had gone before, and, ere another May-day, thesod was green above them. 

These are the memories that come over me when I look out upon therevellers; yet just as well do I love to see them at their sports, and Ican look upon their light, graceful forms, and hear their merrylaughter; and, though my heart goes to the grave-yard and mine eyes restupon the spot, yet I can smile upon the gay, living creatures before me, for I know that childhood is a glad and joyous thing, and that thesebeings are the light and joy of some homes, and I pray that these homesmay be never darkened by Death's shadow crossing the threshold. 

These my May-day reveries have begun lightly, and ended, as May-daysthemselves have done, in sad thoughts. But sad thoughts and life'stroubles are, or ought to be, the heart's discipline. For this purposedo they come to us, and we should go forth from them purer and better. 

THE SNOW-DROP. 

BY MRS. M. A. LIVERMORE. 

 The gentle, laughing, spring had come With eye and cheek so bright; The bird glanced through the clear, blue air, On wing of golden light; And earth, in gladness, lay and smiled, To see the beauteous sight. 

 The streams went singing to the sea, And dancing to their song; Its carpet, had the young grass spread The hills and vales among; Yet not a flower its bloom had shed, The fresh green earth along. 

 Not yet the violet had unsealed Its blue and loving eye; Nor had the primrose dared unfold, For fear that it might die; And on the tree-tops shook the leaves, Which oped to kiss the sky. 

 But so it chanced, one gentle day, While softly wept the rain, And sadly sighed the mourning breeze, The flowers to see again; A silvery snow-flake fell to earth, Escaped from winter's chain. 

 And daintily it laid itself Where greenest grass was spread, And where the bland and warm south-wind, Soft-footed, loved to tread, And here the white-robed fugitive Made for itself a bed. 

 The flower-goddess smiled to see This new-born snow that fell; "I'll change it to a flower, " said she "By magic touch, and spell; For 'twill be long ere blossoms ope, That spring doth love so well. "

 Then with a wand of living light, She touched the feathery snow; And on it, radiant from her cheek, There streamed a sunny glow. Forth from the tiny, crystal flake, The pearly petals came; The stem sprang up--there waved a flower, -- The SNOW-DROP was its name!

CAGING BIRDS. 

I never liked the idea of rearing birds in cages; of confining thoselittle creatures, that seem to enjoy liberty most of all God's vastfamily, in the little, stinted prison-house of a cage. Girls seldomincline to keep them caged; I wish, fewer women did; but boys seemalmost to possess a different nature. Many really enjoy taking thelittle helpless fledglings from the nest, hid away so slyly among thethick boughs of the forest-tree; crowding two, three, or even four, intoone cage, oftentimes not eighteen inches square. They are even soheartless as to laugh at the fluttering, slapping, and beating of thepoor prisoner against the wiry walls of his gloomy, unnatural home. 

To be sure, I once owned a caged bird. It was a robin. A dear brotherhad kept him several years, and, on leaving home for a residence inBoston, where he could not take care of the bird, he gave him to me. Itwas not at a season of the year when we could safely release him fromconfinement; and, besides that, our oldest brother had taught him towhistle parts of several tunes, and we feared, moreover, that he mightsuffer even in the best season of the year, from the fact of his havingbeen taken when so young from other robins. Confinement, probably, doesnot destroy the instinct of birds, so that they would starve ifreleased. After having been an inmate of our family nine years, havingsuffered countless frights and manglings from the many kittens we hadkept in the time, he at last died by the claws of the family cat, whenreleased one fine afternoon for an airing, and to have his cage cleaned. 

I never since have wished to own a caged bird. The song of a canarybird, born and reared in a cage, never pleases me like the cheerfulwarbling or merry whistle of the wild, free birds of our woodlands. Theone seems but the expression of a cheerful forgiveness of unkindtreatment, the bursting forth of a happy nature in spite of man'scruelty; while the other seems a free outpouring of perfect happiness, and the choicest notes of a grateful little being directed to the goodGOD of nature. 

I know we often hear of happy, contented little pet birds; yet I neversaw one that did not seem to prefer the freedom of an out-of-doorexcursion on the strong, free wing, to the hopping, swinging, perching, and fluttering, within a narrow cage. The taming and petting ofsparrows, robins, yellow-birds, snow-birds, and swallows, round thedoors or windows of one's house, I admire. There is nothing inhuman inthis practice. It rather calls forth some of the better feelings of theheart--gives pleasure to us and the birds, yet violates no law ofnature. 

I here give you a little story of a pet swallow that I met with in alittle English book, which, perhaps, few of you have read. The childrennamed in the story were certainly kind-hearted towards their little pet, and very indulgent. Mark well their reward! Some of you may be inducedto imitate them; at least, I hope you will not again be so selfish as tocage a bird for his song, while, with the exercise of a little patienceand kindly attention, you can tame them so easily at your door. 

THE PET SWALLOW. 

One day we had been out gathering primroses, and, to put the pretty paleflowers neatly into baskets, we had sat down under one of the windows inthe old church tower. Mary was sitting next the wall, when somethingtouched her shoulder, and fell on her knee. It was a young swallow, without any feathers, that had fallen, or perhaps had been thrown, outof the nest, by some quarrelsome brother or sister. 

The poor primroses were cast away, and every little hand was ready toseize the prize. When we found it was not killed, or even hurt, by itsfall, some called for a cage; others said, "Let us put it back in thenest; we do not know what to give it to eat; we may be sure it willdie. " And this seemed so very true that we were all obliged to agree;but, alas! the poor swallow having built in a false window of the tower, there was no way of getting to the nest, and so the cage was brought, and the little bird did not die, but grew bigger and prettier every day, until at last it could skim through the room on its pretty, soft wings, and would dive down to us, and light upon our shoulders, or let itselffall into our hands. How we did love that little bird! and oh, how sorrywe were one day, when it flew out at the window! We all ran down to thelawn; we were quite sure it would never come back to us again, for itseemed so happy to be free; and we watched it flying here and there--nowhigh in the air, now close down to the ground. We had called our prettybird Fairy, and it really seemed like a fairy now; one moment it wasquite out of sight, the next so near it almost touched us. At last, Fredgave a long, loud whistle; when he began, it was up in the air, high, high above our heads, but, before the sound passed away, it wasfluttering its pretty dark wings upon his face. From this time Fairy wasallowed to go free; and it would skim about before our windows all daylong, coming in from time to time to pay us visits, and to sleep atnights in its old post on the top of one of our little beds in thenursery. 

At last August came, and then our pretty Fairy skimmed through the air, far, far beyond the reach of Fred's whistle, for it had set out, withall the other swallows, on its long voyage across the seas. 

We had never thought of this, --never thought that our faithful Fairywould so leave us, --and it was many days before the hope of its comingback next year could make us feel at all happy again. 

But Fairy, our own dear little Fairy, _did_ come back, and it rememberedus all, as if it had been away only for a few hours, instead of nearlyeight whole months. 

It was a very happy day, the day that Fairy came back, and it seemed tofeel as much joy as we did; first it flew to Mary, and then to Fred, andthen to one after the other, twittering its wings, and rubbing itspretty black head on our hands or faces, as we see dogs and cats dowhen they want to show great kindness. 

It flew to the top of the little bed at night, pecked at the window whenit wished to get out in the morning, and would dart down at Fred'swhistle as readily as it had been used to do the year before. In short, notwithstanding the long voyage it had made, Fairy seemed to haveforgotten neither its old friends nor its old ways. 

When it came near the time for the swallows to fly away again, we grewvery sad at the idea of losing our pretty Fairy: some thought it wouldbe wise to put it into a cage, and keep it there until all the otherswere gone; while some, who were wiser, said it was Fairy's nature to goaway, and that Fairy must go. But what do you think was our joy to find, that, of its own good will, Fairy stayed with us? All the others wentaway; and, whether it had grown fonder of us, or that it had not likedthe long voyage it had been led into by the example of others, I cannotsay; but for four winters it stayed always with us, taking a flight nowand then in the open air, but spending the greatest part of the day inthe school-room, till summer came, when it would again join its friends, and always build its nest in the very window from which it had falleninto Mary's lap. 

Six years had passed since then, but what now became of it we couldnever learn. For a long time we hoped it had gone again over sea andland, to visit far countries with all the others, but whether it had ornot we never knew, for we saw our pretty Fairy no more. 

LAST PAGE. 

 The last bright page before you, Kind reader and good friend, Is of another Annual The very pleasant end. 

 Our Book's communication To goodly themes applied, None of its pages would we wish To change, expunge, or hide. 

 With us be Life's brief pages, When looking back to youth, So filled with kindly words of love, And timely Christian truth, That with an honest confidence In what our deeds shall say, With steady and firm hand we write Our "last page, " and away!