WIHIIBA ST MIB IBS.
MRS. M. K. ADAMS.
SMy little book -
Go forth, with Mrtos style or plafil grace,
Winning young gentle hearts; and bid them trMs
With thee the Spirit of Love through earth and air;
On all the children of our mortal race.
So, do thy gracious work; and onward fare,
Leaving, like angel-guest, a blceming everywhere "
PUBLISHED BY JAMES M. USHER,
same&wotaing to an of Comp., m the ymu ING
Ut lam a UN UUEU
kbCh&o Cs .1tef dwpmuidcvtoEmamSuuII
To t him i lad patne s f the Amnal, we heul
pea t other molle tio of writing fr jarei ard-
er; .osuch s hope wil be worty a otinautid
their genms favor, and even a oomn tio
them to the may who are yet strmgerm t the wok.
To our correpoidenat we as iDerlay gitefil f
their aid, tnmmitted in orfings for these pqs, a
inute ting, ao simple, o intrutie, that they who read
will be mde better, and they who glame meely wil
be idoaed to red.
To our young fiends the readers, we would appeal,
for a attentive and itdiou perual of our lie bahk,
not beemse we are engaged in it, but beaume the
writer who have so kindly waited in its preparation,
hae done s for the good of all or readers. Among
the variety you will find a good number of tales, co-
ideable poetry, with a few pieces of another charar.
And here we would enteat our older redes ot to
pm by thdoe esmeDet articles, merly beous they
r o satris. They ae all with the ompseh
ofchildren ten jear of age; they should be red by al
who own the book or borrow it. Will you not read
them from respect to the authors a well a to benet
To patrons, correspondents and reader, we are hum-
bly grateful for the encouragement offered for the pre-
station of this second Annual. We hope it will in no
partiar diappoint the expectations of those who have
wanted its appearae or aided in its publication.
M. R. A.
The Long Day, . . .
Te Sea, . . . .
The Forbidden Path, . . .
Thoa slt Loe t rd t y God,
. *. . .. 16
. . . 18
. . ...
Charlie, .. ........... 31
English Willie, . .. .. . 35
The Old Pound, . . . . .
Tamerlane and Baj . . . . . 53
The Three Prayes, .......... 55
The Sorrow8 Old Man, ......... e
Childhood ....... . . 6
Evening Pye. ... . .
Heaven, . . . . . .. 75
The Cckoo, ...... . . . 81
Jenmalem,....... .... 8
Truth-telling, ........... 00
Wilderness of Sin . . . . ... 9
Trmt in d, ............ 1
Trailing Arbtu . . . . . 110
Te Consciene B ....... 11..
The od- . . . . . . 11
The Heavenly Memmwr, ...... 1
Keeping the Suabbsih Day H o ly. .. 1.1I
The Ma, .. .... . 1.. 26I
Dopig beamse Others do. . 141
T2 Evil$ of Gouuippug& ..... .. .1i8
Ou F*etwbkhoantiHaven, ... .156
UIslRainbo ..... .... ... 161
Thuvion, .V ....m ..... 163
Tl Diseccntned BOY ....... .. 165
lb Lini rl's Lumm4 .L...... 171
THE LONG DAY,
AND OW IT WIDD WMlM A IM TAIL
3r J M"UA A. Ir Wa .
"On, mother!" said Ned Willi, one bright
summer's morning, as he ran down stai wii
his little sail-boat in his hand, "oh, mother do
let me play all day to-day. I want to l my
boat and fly my kite, and do lotsof other things."
"You forget, my child," said M. Wills,
"that your teacher will expect you at choow."
School! dear me, that old schod! I wih
there were no such word as school, .k-u4e,
school I wonder what such places wer ever
made for!" muttered Ned, with a very res
To teach you to spell better than you do
new," said his mother, and to be more obediest
and industrious. You have often grieved me,
Edward, with your wish to stay from school, ad
play. To-day, I will grant your wish, as a
punishment. You must not go to school, do
any work today. Go and play. in the ,Il,
spend your time in any way you r lik,- l
rmumber, you must not do anything whish Ran.
THE LOnO DAY.
injure another. Be careful to commit no other
sin than wasting your time, for that is certainly
enough, and you will find, that it brings with it
its own unhappiness."
Edward waited only till his mother cease I
speaking and then he bounded away into thb
fields and woods, followed by his faithful Ponto.
He could not believe it possible, that he would b,
les happy at play than at school, and was almost
overjoyed to think his mother had given him so
much time for his sports.
What a nice punishment!" said he to him-
self, to play all the long day and not have a
lesson to recite. I would be naughty very often,
if I could get punished in this way always. But
I wish the other boys were here to play with
The morning passed rapidly away amid his
sports, but before noon he began to be fatigued.
He had watched his little boat, played with his
ball, trundled his hoop, and chased butterflies,
until play had ceased to be amusement. Even
flying his kite, which before had seemed a never-
failing resort, now seemed wearisome, and Ponto
was nearly as tired as his young master.
SEdward sat listlessly down in the shade, and
bgn to think what a long time must pass before
night, e had usually, so much to do, so many
lessons to learn, and so many little errands to do
mr se nay. a
ft his friends, that the hams passed taily
away. Now, it seemed as if it never wbuld te
When he went home to dlmw,e he felt secret
wish that his mother would prepo his going to
school in the afternoon, bat be did not like
to ask her, and she wisely thought it was better
for him to stay away, until be ad learned how
great a blessing it was to atted.
Do you not wish me to do some meage for
you, mother said he after dinner.
"No, Edward, this i yopar yda,-enjoy it
as much as possible," said hi n4ir, grp ey.
Edward turned sadly away, and rambled
to the fields, with very diflbt *1eb.g- &om
those with which he started tlte to tauig. he
had been an idle boy, he had' gis hi parents
often by teasing to stay at home Ahen he should
be at school, and once or twice, had evwn been
so wicked, as to play truant; bt nw he felt as
if he would be glad to get bak to school. He
seated himself beneath a large oak tree, and
there remained through the afternoon. Fortu-
nately, his fatigue, together wi the heat of the
day, made him feel sleepy, and blt tpet a hou
ot two of the time in a deep dflmbr, t even
with whistling, singing, atd b sto Ui
tb tier, he found the th*e to pose ^. '
ni Tr LMO DAT.
He w, at lgth, amoued by a glad voice
ma ng the trees ud bushes ear, singing Away
to school "
"iThere' Willi AisUto!" he exclaimed with
sudden joy, spdrining ap to meet his playate.
The next moment, Willim Ashton cau up
with a light tep, hearing a buket of flower on
his am. He was a oble-looking lad,-sme
years older than 4uadd and with a much more
thougtful coten He looked mpqised
when he saw Edward, ad sid, with a very
serious voice, Why, Ned, I am sorry to see
you heba! Wh bwSe you not been to school
Oh, adoher g me leave to go and play,"
sail Ned, o lkigit, ashamed.
SWell," aid Wiliua, I caomo think you
have enjoyed it as mch as if you had bees
at echooL We had a firt-ate time at recess
to-da. Then, 4 we all had good lesom,and
our teacher paeiad us, and looked so happy!
And se, I ave filed my basket with lowers for
sister Jane. Yea knew she has been nick, and
I at her aom esq nht as I go home, dhe
plase her so mop."
"I wid I was. good a boy as you ar,
Wils." maid .d;thaagtfully.
u I did at love pdy any better than ys an
TE LAG. Mv.
do, until after I began to attend Sabath bch l,"
sid William. "My teacher there talked with
me about it, and told o, Q4 had give me
a mind that I might get nw e, and I ought
to use it for some god pewp Then I deter-
mined to try, and now I love to atistd.hool and
learn all I can."
But I never aseMde4 Sab aehool," mid
Ned; "I always thoht it asm place, ad
it was badeeagh to have t go a hool other
That is a mistake, sfinubl Wllhnm, "and
if you will go with me neit~hltn you will be
convinced it is very plaraL"
I have not r m to writ dem.d- they Maid.
William talked long anrewmn sl hise young
companion, while the bheep & b were for-
gotten, and Ponte iood by, lbhiy as if he
understood every word.
Edward was soon a happy Suday school boy.
When he became old enough, he became a
teacher in the same msml; anl now, he is a
minister of the gospe, pseaiNI in a town near.
He often walks with Wilm Aalhtn to the
place where they met tht ~iata day, and as
they talk over their byhool un t haks
William, again and again, fr tpeu ucig him
to attend the pleasant Sabbath
J m. MM.
BT Mr. I. .* AMI.
Busme rm the msos !
How they come ad go;
Smwt ir i sMashine,
Winner w ish snow,
Sging dihowe usad blomoem,
Autuma with its sheave;
And eM w a early
Its ow lanm leaves.
Opening pri tadnw;
Mswe m- end shior
Sm oing VA in befsew
ShP disr aad,,
God's emowie power;*
Typ of infant glde.s,
lannoee ad love,
As or dhiaing moments
In life's. prgtimam moe.
som e thea mseweds her,
Wilh i w.ru r sky;
Hegigt cMund u
Its gpea tP a y;
As in life advuasl
Being Mpe eage ba;
BtCs d-omw rose
cla tng diew.
Autumn next is with us;
Fruit and bending grain,
Ready for the harvest,
Decking hill and plain;
Rich in life's experience
May we thus become,
And with truest pleasure
Wait our harvest home."
Winter, hoary winter,
Comes in white at lat,
With its cold and ices,
With its stormy blast,
Wrapping in its death-tebe
Every field and flowe;-
Thiu life's winter cometh-
Old age and death's hour.
Blessings on the seasons!
They se all of heaven;
So are life, its changes,
And its blessings given.
Let as hail them gladly,
As theyq ome and go; 0
Life and love are in them;
God hath told s so.
THE FORBIDDEN PATH.
BY1 I. A. iAUON.
CoKx, black eyes, and, blue eyes, and little
'urly pate, you have all hopped round the room
long enough to make the very chairs and tables
look dizzy with your antics. Now take your
little crickets and sit by my rocking-chair, and I
will try to tell you a story.
Now don't look too wonder-struck, bright
eyes, for it is a tame story for your wild spirit;
for though I was a little girl once, and loved
ghost, witch and fairy tales, a little better than I
did arithmetic and grammar, I 'm a sober woman
now, and can tell nothing but fact stories about
Yes, darlings, my story will be good for
Ssomethiqg; it is all true; and I cold carry you
to the very spot where the events took place; but,
dear me! may be, the pond is all dried up, and
the fences torn down, for the speculators have
served my girlish haunts so shamefully, that
were I to give you a description of what it once
was, you would hardly believe me.
Bt, you look uneasy. Well,-there was a
* THI FOIIIDW PATH.
pond, and a beautiful pond too, beside the ead
which led to our village school; and it w
always a half-way place for us little loiters,
both in winter and summer. And O, the coam,
and slides, and paddles we had there! Why, I
could spend a day in telling you of them.
But, about our pond there was one bad thing,
which made us behave badly, sometimes. On
the opposite bank from the road, there was anu
rotten fence, and to show our skill, we wodd
sometimes venture on the narrow foot-patl be-
tween that and the pond, holding on the famas
for support, and a wet foot, or soiled frock, wai
soon be forgotten, when we crossed the path
But mothers heard, as mothers will, of thes
careless tricks, and their daily cautions kept a
in the right path, though the rotten fence
narrow foot-way looked very tempting. I uai
to think we had a harder trial than msher
Well,-one bright, beautiful morning, we took
up our march for school, as usual, the boys with
clean collars, and the girls with dean aprons,
looking as if we *nea to behave well, and reum
as good and neat as we started.
Good resolutions kept company wih allr am
as fr s he pend; there, sad to teU, they bk
tIE FORs~aDD PATE. .
some of our party good-bye; for, Oh, the morning
was so warm and sunny, and the bank, by the
rotten fence, looked so green and cool, overhung
with willows, what harm could there be in cross-
ing it ? So thought a little boy and girl, and
away they started, to show they were not so
chicken-hearted as the rest of us.
We all stood in silent admiration, to see them
glide along, though we could n't help whispering,
"What will their mothers say ?"
On they went with steady foot and hand, and
passed over half the distance, laughing and
shouting with glee at their courage and our
But, Oh dear! while they were rejoicing in
their own strength, they forgot the old fence had
none; and, very suddenly, off snapped a rail,
and down slipped the little girl! We all scream-
ed, but the boy seized her dress and drew her to
shore with much difficulty.
There she stood amid us, pale and dripping!
Should she return to her mother and tell her all?
No, like foolish children, we consented to shield
her, and thought we could coax a neighbor next
the school-house, to let her dry her clothes beside
the fire, and say nothing about it.
So, on we went, pitying the little culprit,
ad when any one pased us, we would shield
Tt POSSIBDUl PATR.
her from observation. But, a hore and chirai
appeared in the distance-what now could be
done I She must certainly be seen! The
wisest ones, said, "Oh, form a ring round her,
and the gentleman and lady can't look over our
heads." And so, a ring was formed, and some
of us came near sharing the fate of the frog
in the fable, all to no purpose, for the gentleman
and lady, after pitying us a little, mortiied us
dreadfully, by laughing, heartily, at our little
We reached the school before it commenced,
and the neighbor took the wrecked one, wrapped
her in dry clothes while she dried her drenche
ones; and, of course, she did not appear in the.
school-room that morning.
She looked so pitiful, sitting in the corner,.
wrapped in the old lady's calico gown, that I felt
it would n't be very naughty for me to stay with
her; so, there were two truants from school that
The clothes were dried, ironed and aired, and.
we went home with the scholars, after the school
was dismissed, thanking our stars for our good
luck, thinking the old lady would never, of course,
sy a word about it.
I don't know how our little diver felt about it,
for we didn't like to sneak of it aloud, but son-
TBE FONUIDDeN PATH.
times, a feeling of guilt would come over me,
even in my play, and I would resolve to tell
mother I had played truant, and why; but I did
not, and I thought it might be all forgotten in
One afternoon, there was a tea-party in the
village, and all our mothers were to be there:
and, woful to tell,-the old lady that lived near
the school-house, was to be there, also. We
all tremblingly waited our trials.
When mother came home, I sat in my little
chair, sewing very busily, and looking very
industrious. Mother came by me, and looked
down upon me, as I supposed, in anger and grief
a few moments. I dared not look up, and after
enduring it a moment, I burst into tears.
SWhy, what is the matter, my dear said
she. I was watching your busy little fingers;
what a little industrious girl you are!"
I looked at her with wonder, and exclaimed,
"Why, didn't Mrs. F- tell you I played
You play truant! No, I could not have
believed it if she had, and I was just thinking
how grateful I was, that you were not so disobe-
dient as little Martha, who crossed the pond by
the broken fence, and fell into the water, the
THE rPOm DEN PATH.
0, mother! and did n't you know I taid
from school with her?"
My mother confessed she did not, and weep-
ing, I told her all and obtained forgiveness.
Now, my pets, my story is finished, and you
must hear a short sermon, before you leave your
crickets. Don't say, little curly pate, as you do
when I'm going to read the moral to a fable,-
"Skip it, mother!"
In the first place, keep out of all forbidden
places, for slippery paths and rotten fences me
always found there. But if cool willows look
too tempting, and you are for a moment coaxed
there, and get into trouble, take the suret way
home: for you '11 find it just like winding a bad
skein of yarn,-if you go straight, yeoall
come out right at last; but if you slip through
the snarls, you '11 soon get into one there's no
But, above all, never disobey your parents;
then.you will not have the troubled conscience
that distressed me, and made me imagine my
mother was frowning, when she was, realy,
admiring her little girl.
Over go the crickets, and off you skip, bit,
dos't forget my story.
"THOU HALT LOVE THE
LORD THY GOD."
YT P. I. SWiUTSIL
FATIB," said my little boy, as he ran laugh-
ing to me one day, and put his arms around my
neck, I love you, father!"
"And what do you love me for I" I inquired.
I love you," said he, became yo are my
FATnn, and I WNT to loIe you!"
I was deeply moved by his reply, at the time,
and I have remembered it many times since. It
has caused me joy and grief. Joy, to reflect
upon the simplicity, significance, and beauty of
the sentiment,-grief, to think of the compara-
tive coldness of my own love toward our Hea-
venly Father, and that I had come so far short of
duty in the fulfilment of my obligations to him,
from whom proceeds every blessing we enjoy.
How few persons can say, with sincerity, when
addressing him, "Father, I love thee, because
thou art my Father, and I want to love thee!"
Did you ever seriously consider, my young
fiends, that God is your Father, and that, bsecm
THOU SALT LOI HR LOXD THT GOD." U
he is your Father, you should desire to lov
him If you had never seen your earthly
parents, you would feel an affection for them;
you would desire tobecome acquainted with them;
and, I doubt not, to honor them. You have
never seen your Heavenly Parent, but you have
seen the creatures which he has made;-you
enjoy the life which he has given you;-you
know that he is good, and you should love and
honor him. Your earthly parents, through
ignorance, may err, but God is "too wise to
err." Your earthly friends are liable to death,
but God can never die. He is infinite in being;
his care and goodness are infinite, and you may
confidently love, and trust in him.
You should love him for the blessings he has
conferred upon you. He has created you, and
filled you with desires, that He might satisfy
your wants. He has made the earth to bring
forth fruit to gratify your taste; and the air
which surrounds it, to be the medium of sweet
sounds to the ear, and pleasant sights to the eye.
He has given you friends to counsel and protect
you; knowledge, to make you wise, and religion
to make you happy. Jesus came on an errand
of mercy from the Father, and the gospel and
its promises are yours. These blessings are the
fruits of his love, of su& love as none but
30 TIOU SHALT LOVI TIB LORD TRY OOD."
the Father feels. You should love him, "be.
ase he first loved you," and is more willing
to bless you than you are to receive" his bless-
ing. O, give him all that he requires of you,
-your cheerful obedience and love. Let these
words be yours:
I love thee, Father, for I know
That thou my Father art!
I want to love thee, every day,
And love with all my heart !
You should love God, because, by so doing, you
will best secure your own happiness. To love,
is to be happy. Love will lead you to obedi-
ence, and obedience to the enjoyment of Hea-
ven's peculiar mercies. No person can be happy
without love; and no person can be unhappy,
whose heart is filled with love. If you love your
Heavenly Father, you will desire to be like him;
and if you strive to be like him, you will become
more and more like him, until you reach the
stature of perfect men and women, and partake
of the fulness of bliss. Hate is the antagonist of
love, and always makes its possessor miserable.
If hatred toward God, or your fellow-creatures,
has ever entered your breast, I need not tell you
it has made you most unhappy. Hate is your
latestt foe, and when you feel its deadly power,
THOU SNALT LOVB THI LOa D THY Wo." W
le love enter your souls, and hate shall prish in
its consuming fires.
Seek ye, my friends, true happiness
Then love your Father- God:
Love, trust, obey, revere and bless,
And sound his praise abroad!
You should love God, because He command
you to love him. Thou shalt love the Lord
thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul,
and with all thy strength, and with all thy
mind," is the language of Scripture; and what-
ever he commands, it is our .highest interest
to do. He has a right to command us, because
he is our Father; and for the same reason, we
ought to obey him.
The simple fact, that God has commanded you
to love him, proves that it is for your interest to
do so, for his requirements are always intended
for your good. You should endeavor to feel
that God is your Father, inasmuch as he has
created you, and upholds you, and in all things
blesses you, and then you will not need the force
of a command to lead you to the performance of
your duty. He commands you to love him, not
only by the words of his truth, but by every
other motive that ought to influence the human
heart. Then cheerfully yield your hearts to
9B "THOU BHALT LOT THE LOr D TIT GOD."
him, and bring forth fruits worthy of the great
principle of love.
'T is love that makes our willing feet,
In swift obedience move."
Your obedience to God cannot increase his
happiness, for he is perfect in all his attributes,
and consequently, perfect in bliss. He does not
require you to love him merely for his sake, but
for your own good and for the good of others.
You can show your love to him by deeds of
mercy towards his creatures. A new com-
mandment is given unto you, "that ye love
one another." If you love your fellow-beings,
your brethren, children of the same great Father,
and are ready to do all in your power to aid
them, you will be accepted of God, and it will be
the strongest evidence of your love to him. Love
will prompt you to act the part of the good
Samaritan to every object in distress; and you
need not be at a loss for objects of charity, for
there are sorrowing creatures all along the way
of life. I charge you, be active in deeds of
benevolence, in your early days.
While youthful joys, with sprightly danoe,
Beneath your morning star, advance, -
"n OU HALT LOTm Tn LOID THY GOD." S9
Life is but a day at most,
And not a moment should be lost.
Time is lost, when it is spent in idleness and
folly; and worse than lost, when it is used up in
trying to benefit ourselves alone. "Thou shalt
love thyneighbor as thyself." Studythecharac-
ter of Jesus. His was a life of love. No selfish
spirit marked his course; no act of folly mars
the beauty of his life; no idle hours were his.
Let your lives be such, that you can look back
with pleasure on the past, and let your confi-
dence in God be such that you can thank him
for his goodness, and see his ruling hand in each
event of life. Then, when death shall come,
and in whatever form it shall come, you will be
prepared to meet the summons.
During the great fire in Hamburg, which
happened a few years ago, an interesting event
occurred, which I will here relate.
The fire, in its awful progress, destroyed
hundreds, perhaps thousands of buildings, and
among them several splendid cathedrals. In the
tower of one, which contained a set of musical
bells, was an aged man, whose duty it was, at
certain hours of the day, to play upon them
some appropriate tunes. The fire had taken
30 "THOU SHALT LOVI TRH LORD THY QWO."
hold of the cathedral; the flames crackled and
ascended to the sky, and the steeple began to
shake, when the hour arrived for the old man to
commence the chiming of the bells. He began
the sublime anthem, Jow praise ye the Lord!"
and in the midst of the glorious harmony, the
tower trembled, and fell The body of the faith-
ful old Bell Player of Hamburg was buried amid
the blazing ruins below, while his spirit ascend-
ed, with the music of his bells, to the Great
Spirit of Love and Harmony above!
So may it be with you, that when death shall
come,-whether in the tempest, or the flood, or in
the flames, or in the calmer scenes of life,-you
0 may be found striving to the end, yet ready
to depart, with the spirit of love in your hearts,
and the celestial anthem on your lip, Nowt
* praise ye the Lord!"
Smm I SuOm DOmU.
" On, how I love our Charlie dear!"
Said little Ellen Gray;
" He went out in the fields with me,
To gather flowers, to-day.
" We went across the meadow green--
We climbed up o'er the hill, ,
And crossed the bridge above the stream
That pauses by the mill.
"Then he and Rover took a re,
Alqg the smooth green way,
Until, at last, a puff of wind
Blew Charlie's hat away.
"Away he went: his little feet
Sparse seemed to touch the grosd,
And of went Rover after him,
And soon the hat was found.
"Then he returned with laughing eyes,
And cheeks of rosy red,
Holding the little truant hat
Upon his curly head.
"And woen, as I was picking fowm,
A little nest I found,
Woven and wrought so curiously,
And built upon the ground ;
"Dear Charlie! then he really seemed
The picture of delight,-
He clapped his hbads and danced for joy,
At such a wondrous eight.
"Then, while I told him God had made
All things we see around,
And taught the bird to build her nest
So neatly on the ground;
" His soft blue eyes were fixed on me,
His lips were half apart;
It seemed as though each word I spoke
Went to his very heart.
"He looked up to the sky, and aaM,
How good I ought to be,
And try to be a better child,
For all God's love to me.'
" Al when he said his evening prayer,
He kissed me o'er and o'er,
And said that every day he lived,
He loved me more and more.
"Oh, God has given many things
To make me happy here,
But far the kindest gift of all
Is my sweet Charlie dear."
BY MRS. MART A. LIVRUMOUZ.
STOP a moment, little boy! do not hurry over
the leaves so fast; there is something else in
this Annual beside pictures. Here is a story,
expressly for you, about the engraving on the
opposite page, that you have just bese looking at
-can't you stop to read it ?
It is a story about English Willie. He is
looking up, as you see, very earnestly to his
aged grandsire, whom he has found sitting at the
shady side of the cottage, and with his tiny fin-
ger is pointing to a verse in the large Bibe, that
is lying open on the knees of the good oM man.
His spotted dog, Carlo, wearied with ~ir morn,
ing ramble, has laid down to rest beside them,
but his upturned face looks very much as if he
heard and understood every word they are say-
ing. On the bepch lies Willie's large straw hat,
and the hand of 't% eeble old man rests on iU
staff, without which' could not take his morn
iq rad evening walk with his little grandson
A beautiful vine creeps up the side of the cot,
tage; the roof, which is of thatched straw, in-
stead of pine shingles, as in American dwellings,
projects a little over the latticed windows, which
are rarely found but in English cottages, and
which are formed by bars that cross each other
like open squares of net-work; and above the
whole scene swallows are darting and wheeling
through the morning air. Now, will you not
like to read the story that explains this picture I
English Willie, whom everybody loved, be-
came of his mild disposition, loving heart, and
gentle makers, was so called to distinguish him
from another little boy in the neighborhood of
the same name, who was born in Ireland, and
was called Irish Willie. His father died when
he was a wee babe in his mother's arms, and all
that he knew of him was from his portrait which
hung in the parlor, and just as the little fellow
was entering his sixth year, as glad and happy a
boy as ever danced over the green earth, his dear
nmams was taken to heaven, to be an angel in ,
the presence of God.
Willie received her last %ji, ld her dying
blessing, and heard her bid a good boy,
sad then he saw her chee hirfully pale
am maw them close her d M'hich rAill
pty open, and while he wept bitterly they p
h fam the bedide, and told him his ---
^ ~ !
was dead. Night came, and they laid him in ib
cot to sleep, but oh! how sorrowfully he wep
when they told him that the soft hands which
folded over his as he said his evening pryer,
would take them no more, that the voioe whic
said good night" so kindly, was huhed fbter,
and that the lips which had so often kissed him,
had bestowed on him their last cares.
The day of the funeral came, and, eagles ia
a dark coffin, Willie saw his mamma bearn a
the grave-yard, and in the shadow of dthe
gray church towers, and underneath th yew d
cypress trees, he saw her bried desp in th
earth; and though he did not underand what k
is to die, nor why his mother was buried, he yet
felt that he was indeed separated from her.
After his mother's death, his home wu wih
his grandparents, who doeted upon him, bht mrl
their their kindness nor the afectim of al d
neighborhood, nor yet the liveliness of his petty
playfellow, Carlo, could divert Willie's thoeah
from his departed mother, whom he had leved so
One beautiful summer morning he put so his
straw hat, and whisfd for Carlo, walked dhg
the ein road slowly, then turned dwn h
gre amd owery lane that led to td r gm.
yap phehing the daisies, buttercup, tilhr
bedgearom, as he went along. Opening the
gate of the church-yard, he went in, and strew-
ing te powers over his buried mother, he sat
down amid the monuments and grave-tones,
bmet a willow that shaded his mother's grave.
Ab e hiS, the birds wes chirping and twitter-
ing vey merrily; grashopper were jumping, as
if for joy, up from the clover and tall gnu; beau-
til pointed butterfies were luttering from
Smms to Sfwer, industrious bees were dipping
mply into the dew-filled blooms, in each of
hamy; Sait hummingbirds, with plumage of
gid, gram, sad eple, wee hitting here and
thed ids M em. children at play; gentle flow-
emwneo adding their head gracefully to him,
as if adding him "gpod morning," and the
blesewh spring thre gh the leam of the tres,
mde a pleasant music-but all thi failed to
gidden Willie' heart His thoughts were with
his mother, his little bosom heaved with sorrow,
md showing himself on his mamma's gray
rse, the big tears rolled down his cheek as he
cried, Oh, mamma! dear mamma! come back
so me I eome back to your Willie I
while he was thu momrin-ga gentleman,
siding by, caught the esrrowful sound, and di-
atiuing fro his here, he entaud the gnmw
pld,4 Molnad Willis grieving deeply. Wadl*
taking the child by the hand, and putting the
soft brown hair from his face, he inquired ts
cause of his trouble, and then sought to comfort
He told him of the blessed Saviour, who died
and rose from the dead, as an assurance that all
should thus rise; of the Good Father, who, when
earthly parents die, loves, car for, and watch
over little children; of that holy heaven, iat
which his mamma had entered, and pointing to
the words of Jesus, found in the delsenth chapt
of John, "I am the Besurrectio and the Lif'
which were engraved on the mamental sbam
he asuued him that his mamma lived with ed,.
where he would at some time rejoin her, though
she might not return to him. Then taking the
boy in his arms, kissing the tears from lin heaek.
and commending him to the Father of the fdi.r
less, he bade him good morning," mounted his
horse, and hurried on his way.
Willie gased after him, as though he had been
an angel, and then, as fast as his feet wald
carry him, he hastened home, Carlo ruling
beside him, and found his grandfather, as yea
see in the picture, sitting on the beach in the
shade of the cottage. Bringing the large Bile
to him, he begged him to find the good words of
the Rede- er, that were on his mother's gwr e-
stone, and with his finger pointing to the verse,
with a bright and glowing countenance, he told
him all that the good gentleman had said to him.
Now, do you not understand and like the pic-
tare better, such better than before you read the
story connected with it
Shall I tell you more about Willie From
that day he was comforted, and though he often
spoke of going to dwell in heaven with his
mother, he was happy, and his bright blue eyes
were again lighted up by joy. Summer passed
away, and then the autumn and winter and
spring came again with her birds and lowers,
and found little Willie, who was always delicate,
sick and suering. Every day he grew worse
ad worse, and at last the doctor said the poor
boy must die.
Bat Willie was not afraid to die, for in hea-
ven, he said, the flowers were fairer than those
then blossoming, and the fields greener; and
there dwelt his blessed mamma, whom he so
logged to see, and the loving God, who had
always been so good to him. Lying in his
grandfather's arms, with his head resting oq his
bosom, he begged his grandparents not to cry
because he was going to leave them, for they
wold soon join him. n
e asked to be buried beside his mother, aa
ENGsmO WILUI 41
bidding them good night," as if he were going
to slumber, his blue eyes closed in the deep sleep
of death. They laid his little form,as he desired,
beside his mother, but his young spirit, so lovely
and beloved, ascended to dwell with its Father
and its God.
THE OLD POUND.
BT MRS. N. T. MUnOU.
My readers have doubtless heard of what is
called a pound; it is an enclosure for the con-
finement of horses, cows, or any stray animals,
that may have broken into fields, or have been
found feeding upon the road unwatched. It is
the duty of persons called field-driver, if they
ee any such stray animal r animals on the road,
to dve then to the pound, where they are
se-ed till cel for by the owner, who cannot
tako thm t without the payment of damages,
hmt er they may chance to be, and al a fee
to the turnkey.
great deal of anger is often shown by the
owea who come after their property. Accusa-
ti. of injustice and extortion are heaped by
tem upon the head of the poor turnkey, who, in
his turn, tells them he is but doing his duty, and
if they do not wish to have their cattle put in the
pound, they must take better care of them. But
threats and loud words generally avail little.
The property is safe under lock and key, and not
TUE OLD POUND.
tll the money is safe in his hand, wil the mbh
ou turnkey deliver up his charge.
The pound of which I am to speak wa ery
near a school-house, and the poor animal that
weie often confined there were not more uneasy
than the restless urchins, their nearest neighbors.
And it was a great deal harder work to beep
under control their impatient and buoyant spiths,
than to impound a whole drove of cattle, fr'be
turnkey had but to drive the latter inoer d
prison-house, and bar the gate, and khrwoe w*a
done till te owner called. Baut o eai y G
teacher's task; his resaes d uove ulY
needed his attention, and I d(uk t fAt i o
the tired and wearied pedgoge ha sAe
wished himself in the situation of tOhet airy;
that he has often thought kM best endutl, I
the turnkey's, have been repaid by mauranirm
and unjust accusations.
A grand place was that old pound, when epty,
as it often was, for a play-ground. Begpahr at
intermission was it filled with wild and eager
childhood. The favorite game in summr w
"Puss in the Corner." The enclose ws jst
square, and there was considerable distanso bfs
one corner to the other, and swift muw L the
Ibot, and quick the eye, to elude tlhe ~d
"oldposs"inthecentre. Oh,itw M if ii
THI OLD POUND.
enough. But when winter came, then that old
pound was the place for many a pitched battle;
snow-balls flew thick and fast from side to side,
and when the hated bell sounded in their ears,
each eager combatant must wait to throw just
one now-ball more.
But this was years ago. That school-room
has been removed for the accommodation of a
new one, and the old pound has been removed to
other part of the town. It stands now in a
plmsnt place. A cluster of locust trees rises in
ts back ground, an apple orchard is on one side,
the min road passes by it, and the entrance looks
towards the only meeting-house in town. It
commands, too, a fine prospect. To the south
and east lie the cities of Cambridge and Boston;
fahe east are harlestown and Bunker Hill
with its monument; still farther are the ruins of
the Convent on the celebrated Mount Benedict.
To the north the Mystic, like a stream of silver,
fows along, and white houses, peeping out from
amid the green hills, complete the picture.
Surely the occupants ought to be thankful for
their superior advantages. But enough of de-
On one very warm summer day, one of the
Is-drdives might have been seen walking be-
hied am old, lean, wretched-looking hone, which
THE OLD nOUND.
it was evidently his intention to put into the
pound, as he was walking in that direction.
Passively the wretched-looking beast obeyed his
driver. He was soon fastened in, and the maa
walked away. He had been gone but a few
minutes, when the cry of a child was heard, and
looking in the direction whence the sound pro-
ceeded, was seen a little, ragged-looking boy, of
about eleven years of age. He was crying bit-
terly, and uttering some passionate expressions
of grief, unintelligible by reason of his sobs and
"What is the matter, my little boy?" sid
some one near him.
"They've put my horse in the pound. Oh
dear, what shall I do I"
"Your horse! is this yor horse ?"
"Oh, yes! and how shall I get him out?" and
again the poor little fellow abandoned himself to
grief. He was a bright, sturdy-looking child,
and although his clothes were old and patched,
and his feet uncovered by shoes or stockings,
there was nothing ugly or malicious about him,
but his appearance bespoke honest and hard-
working poverty. His skin was dark, both by
nature and exposure to the sun and wind. His
black eyes and high cheek-bones spoke his Cans-
TI OLD oroO.
But how came your horse in the pound, my
"Why," said he, lifting his head from his
hands, and shaking back his long, straight, black
hair, I was feeding him by the side of the road,
and I laid down under the wall and went to
sleep; when I waked, my horse was gone; I
looked all around and saw a man driving him off.
I ran after him, but I could n't catch him, and he
has put him in here, and now I don't know how
I shall get him out."
"But how came you by the horse, and what
are you going to do with him "
Why, he is my horse, and I was feeding him
on the road."
"But where do you live "
I used to live in Burlington; my mother lives
thee now; but my brothers and I came to Boe-
ton to get work."
"But what did you want of the horse I"
"Why, he was our horse, and we brought
him with us; we thought he might get work too.
But we can't find anything for him to do. My
brothers work in Boston, and we can't afford to
buy anything for the horse to eat, so I come out
with him in the morning, and feed him on the
road. and then go back at night. But he never
got ia the pound before."
TI OLD SOUND.
But how came you to get to sleep; you ought
to have kept awake and watched him."
"I was tired," said the little boy, "and laid
down; I didn't mean to go to sleep." And
again he cast a wistful look at his old companion,
who stood there very composedly, looking through
the wooden bars of the enclosure.
The boy's simple story was readily believed by
all his listeners. He was now seated on the
doorstep of a house opposite, where he could see
his poor imprisoned companion, and every little
while he would raise his hand to brush away the
falling tear; for his passionate grief had now
given way, and he was considering what he
should do next.
It was some ways to the house of the field-
driver; it was in the heat of the day, and even if
he should go and see him, he had no money to
take the horse out, and it was quite improbable
that he would be released without this one thing
needful. The boy was evidently conscious of
the difficulties of the case, as he sat looking at
the animal with sad and tearful gaze.
Well, what are you going to do, my little
man ?" said a kind-hearted gentleman, who had
just come up, after hearing the case.
I don't know, sir," said the boy, looking ear-
nestly up in his face.
THB OLD POUND.
I suppose, if you get him out once more, you
will be very careful not to let him get in again "
Oh, yes, sir."
"Well, then," said the gentleman, "I'll take
my horse, and you can jump up behind me, and
we will go and see the man, and ascertain what
can be done."
The boy's dark eyes flashed with joy; he
jumped eagerly from his seat, and while the
man went for his horse, he pulled up a few hand-
fuls of grass, and threw in for his own miserable-
Come, my lad," said the man, who was now
The boy sprang up behind him, and they were
soon out of sight.
In about twenty minutes or half an hour, they
returned with the field-driver, who, however,
refused to let the boy have the horse short of
half a dollar. Remonstrance was in vain. Al-
though the poor old creature had done no damage,
the man said he had a right to half a dollar, and
half a dollar he must have, or he should not
open the gate. The poor boy had no money;
but the gentleman who had aided him before,
now put his hand in his pocket, and taking out
half a dollar, gave it to the inexorable man, who
Tn OLD POUND.
instantly unlocked the gate, and brought forth the
Thanking his benefactor very kindly, while
tears of gratitude stood in his eyes, the boy
mounted his horse, and after many cautions and
admonitions not to get into the same difficulty
The summer after the occurrence just men-
tioned, the gentleman of whom I have spoken
happened to be riding through the town of Bur-
lington. As he rode leisurely along on one of the
back roads, he saw, at a little distance, a small,
old-looking house; this, however, did not strike
him particularly, for he had passed many of the
same description. But in front of the house, on
a spot of green grass, a horse was feeding; and
in a little garden close by, an old woman and a
boy were very diligently at work. Surely he
had seen that old horse before. Yes, it was the
same one he had released from the pound the
summer previous, looking but little better, not-
withstanding he seemed to be in such good quar-
ters. The gentleman looked very earnestly at
the animal and at the boy;'he was sure he was
not mistaken. At the sound of wheels, the boy
and the old woman both stopped their work and
looked up. It seemed that the boy reeogmed
the gentleman, for he spoke a few words very
THI OLD rOUND.
earnestly to the woman, who instantly went into
the house, while the boy came towards the car-
riage. The gentleman stopped his horse, and
speaking first to the boy, who seemed somewhat
Well, my man, you have got your horse now
out of danger. Do you live here ?"
Yes, sir," said the lad; "I couldn't find any
work in Boston, so I came home."
"But where are your brothers "
"In Boston, sir."
"But what do you do here ?"
"I work on the farm," said he, with some im-
portance. I raise potatoes, and beans, and
peas, and sometimes I go to market with them."
At this moment the old woman came out of the
house, and holding out her hand to the gentleman,
with a silver half-dollar between the thumb ana
forefinger, seemed very desirous that he should
accept it. She looked almost like a gipsey. Her
skin was dark, her eyes very black, and her hair,
thickly sprinkled with gray, and unconfined by a
cap, was streaming out from under her sun-bon-
net, giving her a very wild appearance.
But what is this for, my good woman I" said
the gentleman, to her earnest solicitations that he
would take the money.
It is to pay you, sir, for being so kind to my
Tr OLD rowan.
son; he says that you are the gentleman who
paid for taking our horse out of the pound."
But I don't wish for your money; keep it
But we are willing to pay you, sir."
"I don't doubt it; but I would rather you
would keep it." And being so hardly urged, the
woman withdrew her hand, and put the money
into her pocket.
Do you own this place 1" said the gentleman
to the woman.
No, sir, it is not wholly paid for. I have
two boys at work in Boston, and they pay some-
thing towards it every year. Tommy and I do
the work, and we think we shall pay for it before
long. We sell some vegetables, and we have
some apples oo," pointing to a small orchard at
the back of the house. "Tommy," said she, "run
and fetch some of those early apples fo the gen-
Tommy did a his mother directed, and soon
returned with some bright red apples, which he
tossed into the carriage, much to the delight of two
or three children who had listened eagerly to all
The gentleman now went on his way. Tommy
and his mother watched them till they were en-
tirely out of sight, and then returned to their work.
u T on OLD POtrD.
Every summer after, at about the time early
apples were ripe, Tommy, with his old horse,
and cart borrowed for the purpose, would stop on
his way to Boston, and leave at the house of the
gentleman, whom we have so often mentioned,
about a peck of those same beautiful red apples,
as a payment for the slight kindness which was
Surely a kind deed never goes unrewarded.
TAMERLANE AND BAJAZKT
X M&M .. mX. BM-.
FAB in Ua Eatern country,
There lived long year ago,
A famu king odaled Tuamerh,
Who had a mighty foe.
They fought a long nd bloody war,
And ua the bt'ry ha it,
This fapos king the viet'ry woe,
Over his foe Bajae.
He led him to hi princely hoe,
And sked, What would yeo do,
If you were conqueror like me,
I, priser like youl"
"What would I do!".Ba&jms edl,
With anger on his brow;
I 'd put you in so iron cage,
And ride you round to show."
"Good," quoth the hkghty Tame rie,
A punishment is hund;
Come, eodiersp, ui eage
And ride BjpuMeedi& "
And so tiia L. the # a4l d 1me,
Whivk*S MAl his pride
He oold not bear the deep dig.ne,
But stkened till he diqd.
64 TIAMBKLARE AND BAJAIKT.
Now I'll not like Bajaset be,
Nor yet like Tamerlane,
Who loved to fight their wicked warn,
And give each other pain.
Bet I will strive to train my hart
For peace and holy things;
Then shll I have a happier lif
Than war or conquest brings.
And if a mighty enemy
Should oome in some dark hour,
And uak me, what I'd do with him
If I but had the power,-
From out a kind and loving heart,
I 'd answer something good;
And that might melt his hardened soul,
And soothe his angry mood.
Then he would give me liberty,
And aoop perhaps would Amd,
The gretet victory i gained
By being good ad kind.
THE THREE PRAYERS.
IT UT. s. FrANKS.
AT the close of a beautiful day in Autumn, a
bright-eyed little boy was kneeling by his
mother's side. His hands were clasped as if in
prayer. He had not been able to talk but a few
months. His innocent prattle, however, had
already made the hearts of his parents leap for
joy, and led them to serious reflections as to their-
future course of conduct and instruction, to pre-
pare him for usefulness and make him what they
hoped he would one day become-a good man,.
beloved and respected. They felt the need of the
assistance of the GRaAT FATmEa, to direct them
in the right way, and therefore wished their son
might early learn of his dependence on him for
life, health, and all things.
His mother had been talking with him about
God, and telling him how good and kind and
lovely God is. He had asked various questions
about God, which his mother answered as well as
she could, to make him understand that he pro-.
vides for and lesse little children and all man--
6 TH THREB PlAYTUS.
His mother, as it was time for him to go to
bed, had told him to come close to her, and get
upon his knees, fold his little hands, shut his
eyes, and she would teach him howto pray. He
repeated the words after her, in a gentle and sin-
cere manner. The sentences were short and
simple; but they were heard in heaven. When
he said amen, and stood up again, he felt very
And this was the little boy's FIRST PRAYER.
"God always lends a listening ear
To what the youagert child ea say."
In ui-semmer, a young girl lay upon the pil-
low of disease. For several years she had been
a sch6lar in a Sunday school. Her health had
ever been delicate, but her affection for her
teacher and the school was so strong that it was
seldom her seat was vacant when the hour
arrived for the school to commence. Her parents
cared but little about sacred things, yet they so
loved their only child that they would do almost
anything to promote her happiness. As she
never liked to be absent or late, they would assist
her to be regularand punctual in her attendance.
Her lemons were always well learned, and she
Tnl TEnI nuY1lS. W7
allowed nothing in them that she did not widir-
stand, to pass without getting the explanatidh she
needed from her teacher. These things she
treasured in her heart. The time came when she
was deprived of the opportunity of going up to
the house of the Lord, to hear of God, of Jesus,
of the Gospel, and of duty. As she lay there at
home, prostrated by sickness, suffering under a
burning fever, she would talk much of the Bible,
and of the goodness of our Heavenly Father;
and as it became evident that she could not
recover, a smile of trustfulness and resignation
settled upon her countenance, and a desire for
more patience to wait the coming of the messen-
ger death, often escaped her lips.
Not far from this home there was a young
man who had been for a few months engaged in
studies preparatory to entering upon the saeted
duties of the ministry. He was not ace~utotled
to public speaking, nor had he ever visited the
sick to administer consolation. Being acquainted
with this young girl, however, he called to see
her, and one time as he was about to leave, she
looked up into his face with a holy sweetness.
and said, Will you pray with me ?" He had
never prayed aloud in the presence of others,
but this plea could not be resisted. The father
and the mother, with one or two frinds, were h
THR THREi PRATYU.
the room. The young servant of Christ knelt by
the bedside, and (as she wished) taking her hand
in his, with broken accents petitioned for words
to express his feelings, faith to strengthen, hope
to support, and patience to be vouchsafed to the
uncomplaining one. Thus did he begin the
work of his Master in that part which bade him
smooth the pillow of the dying.
This was his FIRST ORA PRAYEa.
"Prayer is the Christian's vital breath,
The Christian's native air;
His watchword at the gate of death;
He enters heaven with prayer."
It was spring-time, at the hour of midnight; an
aged man wept like a child. His frame was
bowed under the weight of years. The snows
of more than seventy winters had fallen upon
his head. He had seen much of hardship and
want. His life had been chequered with sin
and wrong, and the infliction of the penalties of
broken laws. For more than thirty years he had
been confined within the walls of a prison. In
his youth he became a slave to appetite. He
bowed to the monster tyrant alcohoL He was
often intoxicated. At these times, when his
nB T2UI rPuATs.
main was craed, his moral sensibilities dad.
ened, his passions enraged-he committed crimes
which in his more sober moments he would have
shrunk from with horror. But the deeds were
done-it mattered not by what influence-and
the magistrate pronounced the sentence imposed
by the statute. These things occurred before the
Washingtonian had gone forth in the spirit of
kindness and love to perform his noble mission.
The morning sun shed a pale sickly light into
his narrow cell; the small taper of evening glim-
mered feebly there. Day after day moved along.
Months and years began and ended, as he brooded
over his youth and innocence, and his succeeding
manhood and evil acts. He attended the priso-
er's Sunday worship, and regularly did his allot-
ted work. Yet all this touched not his heart.
He felt that he was an outcast from society; aad
looked forward in expectation of closing his eyes
in death, within the limits of the prison yard.
But by-and-by the hour came when the period
of his sentence expired-when he might go
abroad once more and be a freeman. He knew
not where to go. The friends and associates of
his youth had most, if not all, gone to that city
where the wicked cease from troubling, and the
weary are at ret." He was a stranger in the
land of his fathers.
1 mlMU AB.1TMs.
He croaed the bridge which connected the
mon whee he had been with the metropolis, and
by some means fell in with a man whose whole
oul was full of the milk of human kindness, and
who was familiarly termed the PuNomR's
Fame." This man greeted him as a brother
-a father, perhaps, and taking him by the hand,
led him to his own home. He was himself poor,
but of his poverty had something to give to the
fortunate; he therefore fed him at his frugal
board, and at night gave him a comfortable bed.
All this was new to that poor old mm. He laid
ofhis garments and sought repoe; but in vain,
He wet his pillow with the tars of penitence
and gratitude. He tnmed every way, he laughed,
he cried, but lumber came not to his eyelids.
He had never been so dealt with-as though
he was a man-a brother, before. He never
dreamed of such heavenly traits moving one
human bosom. And so the time passed on to the
small hour of the night." The man bethought
himself that there was On above who never
slimber nor sleeps; who can hear at midnight
as well as at noonday, who is everywhere present
ad fall of bMssing.
For a time he dad not pray. He had never
prayed in his life. Threescore years and ten
'had been his, and should he now beginI He
TaH THaIt lrataU.
shuddered at the thought. An angel seemed to
whisper encouragement. At last he arose, and,
kneeling by a chair, at that still, quiet hour,
poured forth in secret the burden of his soul.
And God heard and answered. Again he laid
his head upon the bed and gentle slumber re-
freshed him. Such was the time and the occa-
sion, when that sin-stained, aged man offered ms
"Prayer is the contrite sinner's voine,
Returning from his ways;
While angels in their songs rejoice,
And cry,' Behold, he prays.'"
My little readers, this that I have written is
not fiction; bat the incidents related are tue. I
could give you the facts if it were necessary. Do
you ever pray I None are too young, none 1do
old to pray. Let us all try to have prayerful
hearts, for it will make us better.
"Prayer is the soul's sincere desie,
Unuttered or expressed,
The motion of a hidden Are,
That lies within the breast."
THE SORROWFUL OLD MAN.
ST RlT. J. WILtY BISON.
I saw an aged man weeping. His white hairs
were thin and scattered. His brow was filled
with wrinkles, and his form was bowed with
debility. His steps were slow, and he tottered as
he walked. With a staff in his hand, he groped
his way, and I saw tears flow freely from his
Dark clouds hung over his path; the cold
north wind beat upon his head, and be strove in
vain to warm his shivering body with the tattered
mantle which blew loosely around his trembling
As I listened, I heard him complain: "0
youth! 0 young days of pleasure' 0 blessed
days, when I, a child, knew not sin, and was
always happy! Would I had improved my
youth! When I lived in CHmL-LAND, those who
loved me came to me,-they gathered around
my path, and pressed me earnestly with kind
counseL Why did I not obey? Why did Ire-
ject their admonitions ? When my father, kind
Tn SOflOWlUL OLD KAN.
old man, who stood where now I stand, with his
shadow stretching across the grave, warned me,
why did I not obey He said, Youth is the
golden time to form life's path. Labor now to
do right, and old age will be serene and happy!'
Father, would I had obeyed thee! I forgot thy
counsels, and now life has no pleasure. Dear
hours of youth, would you were here once more!
I would not tread the precious moments under my
feet, like worthless sand-grains; I would improve
them all,-and like the setting of the morning star
should be the end of my life; it should not go
down in darkness behind the western hills;-it
should fade away in the bright glory of the morn-
Then the old man wept, and I could not for-
bear joining with him as I saw his grief. We
A change came. The clouds fled away.
Slowly they journeyed towards the east, and
their billowy edges rolled like waves of gold in a
sea of purple light. The north wind died away,
and the western breeze lifted the little leaves, and
bang among the clover blossoms, and waved the
old man's snowy locks.
He changed also. His tears were dried; his
04 33 souoWVUL OLD 311.
hair assumed a darker hue, and in a little tiie
he became a youth again. A little boy he frol-
icked before me, and with a clear white brow and
a light step, I saw him go out and sit under
a tree. Youth had returned! The beautiful
days for which he had sighed had come back,
and he was able to commence a course which
would bring him abiding peace.
With a holy step he moved. He walked in
the ways of wisdom. In youth he was obedient
to God and the laws of his own soul, and when,
at last, old age came again, it found him prepared.
He went down into the grave cheerfully. He
shed no tears. The grave was not dark to him.
There were no clouds around him. The sky
was blue over his head; the earth was green
with waving gram beneath his feet; birds sang;
running streams chanted; and when he entered
the gates of death, the angel of life took him by
the hand, and led him to the fadeless realms of
glory. As he left the earth, I saw a beautiful
silver star glow on his forehead, and golden
wings rustled around him, while songs of rejoic-
ing welcomed the traveller to the spirit-land. He
had spent youth well.
My little friends, this is a parable. When
once you are old, you will never again be young.
Bat in this allegory you may see how an old
THn SoROWSgl OLD MAN. 66
man, who looks back upon an ill-spent youth, will
regret the waste of years. He would gladly be
a child again. If he could he would be happy
to commence life over, and he would try to live
You are young. Would you live happily
Do you desire a pleasant old age, and a quiet
journey to the tomb? Then shun whatever is
wrong, and always do that which is just and
right. A good and virtuous childhood will make
a happy old age, and a beautiful ad serene death.
BT MR. I. T. MUI00.
Taf merry laugh of childhood,
It soundeth in my ear,
Like a strain of vanished music,
Yet sweetly, sadly dear.
It brings no bitter feelings,
Though in my silent home,
The sound is hushed, and sadly,
I sit alone- alone!
The happy voice of childhood,
'T is the sweetest sound e'er heard,
Like the gushing of a rivulet,
Lie the warbling of a bird.
'T is like all and happy things,
But it bring the burning tear,
And I list within my silot home,
But it isaot-is not hee!
The bounding step of childhood,
0, when it cometh near,
Its very sound brings gladness
To many a listening ear.
But it oroeses not my threshold,
It enters not my door;
And childhood's graceful shadow
Fall not upon the oor.
The sMnny face of childhood,
How many a mother now
Is gazing with love's earnetnoes,
SUpon her fair child's brow!
The soft eyes meet her lovingly,
The lips just press her own,
0 they wist not in their joyouness,
How many homes are lone.
The gladsome heart of childhood;
As sunshine to the earth,
As lowern around or pathway,
So ae their herm e rth. .
a t how eft the light is dmiemd,
How Oi the low defy,
A bnah a shadow co h,
The loved hae passed awy.
The merry lagh of dbilMed,
Its Toie of irh, a ie,
And bounding tep of g ahs,
Am ever dea to u.
Like a vision that hath la,
Is its bright and soonyre,
And its heart is with all cherished things,
That in my heart hath place.
They speak of vanished happiness,
Of hopes that now have fed;
Yet they bring up blessed memories,
Sweet memories of ti ded.
And oft, dark eyes are beamig
Beneath a fair, young brow,
And sagel tones ar breathing
Upon my pirit now.
IN THE CLIRGYMAN'S FAMILY.
st MUs SAIAS C. IMAsOXE.
Da. ELWOOD was a clergyman, who, in his
youth, had been very poor, but who had received
from nature an ambition so holy, and an energy
so unconquerable,that he never for a single day
relaxed his exertions till he had acquired the edu-
cation that was requisite to admit him into the
It was not until he was forty yeas of age that
he found himself in a situation to marry; at that
time he chose from the circle of his acquaintances
a young lady, whose amiable qualities and Chris-
tian virtues had been long known to him, and who
fulfilled all his hopes by making him one of the
best wives in the world.
Two children were given to this affectionate
pair-a daughter and a son. At the time of
which we write, Rose Elwood was thirteen yeaa
of age, and George only eight. They were very
good children usually, though it must be com
fessed that they had some Wtlts that rquire4
much watchfulness and correction. Rose had
nearly conquered hers; but George, who was
several years younger, found that he had yet
some labor to perform before he could be as good
a boy as he earnestly wished to become.
One afternoon, Rose, in making up a bouquet
of flowers for a sick friend, had gathered some
roses from a large bush which George claimed to
be his. She did not suppose he would make any
objection to this, as she knew him to be usually
very ready to give away his flowers. But it so
happened that, unknown to herlpeorge had been
reserving these roses for a birthday present to his
mother; and he was so disappointed to find them
gathered just the very day before, that, notwith-
standing Rose sorrowfully apologized for her
fault, and tried to comfort him by the assurance
that fresher and more beautiful blossoms would
open upon the bush the next morning, he was so
angry with her for having taken them without
his leave, that he struck her violently with a
stick and called her inany hard names.
His father, who was sitting at his study-win-
dow, overlooking the garden, witnessed this un-
pleasant scene, and was grieved to the heart to
fnd his little boy the victim of such a violent
temper. He said nothing, however, but watched
who ni d sulky and unkind towards
mamll the af on.
It was Dr. Elwood's custom, every wrsng
after tea, to call together his little family, and
kneeling around the table, to invoke the blessing
of Heaven upon their heads. On the evening of
this day, he opened the family Bible, and read
simply that verse of the Lord's prayer which
says, Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive
those who trespass against us;" then bowing
his head in prayer, he said, "Oh, Father! has
any one wronged us to day I If so, give us the
hearts to forgive! Thy son Jesus, who spent his
whole life in thing holy truths, and dog
blessed deeds to men, was cruelly nailed to the
cross and left to die there by the very bhags
whom he so much loved. Did he cure thea for.
this and call themangry names Oh bs! He
lifted his eyes to heaven, and said, 'f~ter, for-
give them!' If then the great and good Jesus
could forgive such awful injuries, shall we, poor
sinning creatures ourselves, refuse to forgive the
little wrongs we sometimes resive I Oh, Father,
forgive us that we are ever angry, and help us to
become more ready to exsea and to love each
other, and to be worthy of thy love!"
Here the good man ceased his payer, and reme
from his knees without speaking. George, who
felt that every word had been a peculiar suppli-
cation for himself, was overwhelmed with dM
74 sVImrNo L.AYT.
and remorse. He sprang toward his sister Rose,
and throwing his arms around her neck, burst
into tears, crying, "Oh, dear Rose! do forgive
me. I have treated you very wickedly, but I am
sorry enough for it now. I know you did not
mean to vex me by picking my roses, and ever
since I struck you, you don't know how unhappy
I have felt; but I was too proud to let you see
that I regretted it. Now I am not proud, bat
ashamed. Do forgive me; do, dear Rose."
Rose fondly kissed him, and assured him of
her love and full forgiveness. Uis father called
him to his knee and blessed him, while his
mother, overcome by tenderness, burst into tears
of joy. N.w George was good and happy!
NT INT. IZNRT ACOOW.
A PRIMND has asked me to write about Bs-
ms, and reminded me of what a singular man
once said of what he was ure would be in hea-
ven. He was called the Crazy Poet, and usd to
advertise in thappers to write poetry for any-
body who would pay him for it. He had vey
queer images in his poetry sometimes, and one *d
his figures I love to repeat; it is a poem about
Evening, and he describes the coming on of the
evening, and the appearance of the evening star,
very beautifully and quaintly, thus,-
"The twilight lets her certain dowa,
And pins it with a star!"
He was walking one day in a very beautiful
place called Greenwood Cemetery, where he had
often asked to be buried. A friend was with
him selecting a spot for a grave, and telling him
that all the arrangements which he desired should
be attended to when he was buried, and he was
very much pleased. "I hope," he said, "the
children will come. I want to be buried by the
side of children. Four things I am sure there
will be in heaven,-music, plenty of little chil-
dren, flowers, and pure air."
This shows what he most loved. It was hea-
ven to him to be surrounded with pure air, flow-
ers, children and music. These were all good
things, that could harm no one, but could do a
great deal to keep his craziness from growing
But some will be all ready took me if I think
that such things will be in heaven. I certainly
do. Little children will be there, because Jesus
the Saviour smiled upon their innocency and
blessed them as heirs of heaven. When I see a
little child die, I feel that the grave will only hold
the body, but the spirit goes to heaven. I don't
know how it goes, nor where it goes, any more
than I can tell how the perfume of the flower
goes out from its crushed leaves, and where it
flies in the air. I cannot tell you how the grass
springs up, and everywhere there are things I
cannot understand. There is a beautiful verse
of poetry which I always love to remember when
I am thinking or talking on this subject. You
have been out in the woods I suppose, and seen
the broken shells of the birds' eggs thrown out of
the nest, and have found the naRt ielf all ea&*.
Mrs. Hemans wrote a piece of poetry in which
she mentioned such a thing as that, and said,-
"Who seeks the vanished bird
By the forsaken net and broken Idbe
Far thence abe ings unheard,
Yet free and joyous in the wods to dwel."
I love to think of little children wha hve did,
a having gone away from the body a the happy
bird flew away rom the shell ead the t. I
do not know where the bird is; M my be here
now, and in the southern part of oar toutry in a
few months, but I love to imagine how she is
situated, and think I hear the sweet music of bar
song. And when I do so, I alw s thbk of
powers and pare sweet air. I think of a beuti-
ful garden. Heaven has been 6aagbt of as a
garden by a great many nations. Pradie i a
word that is used to mean ke.i, and that sign.
faes a garden, where there is everything delight-
ful to see, more beautiful than Eden, where Adam
and Eve lived, and lovelier than anything ever
seen on the earth. It wil do us no harm to think
oe heaven in this way, for there is muk in a r-
den to make us feel kind and hsrp; and whb
we cannot be in one, it is pi sat to tak (
me, for the thoughts of it do us good. So will
it be with thoughts of heaven. When I think of
a garden I think of nothing but what is quiet
and gentle; the music of birds and running
streams; the beauty of the foliage of the trees
and of the flowers; the sweet, pure air that re-
vives us, and seems to give us better health in a
moment. I love to imagine children there,- they
are always so happy when they get where the
birds and flowers are. How they will clap their
hands I They skip about so free, it always does
my heart good to se them.
Little children, like the bird's song, the freak
air, and the sweets of flowers, can make the heart
of the sorrowful happy. I have seen the poor
sick man begin to smile after walking in the gar-
den a little while, looking at the roees, the pinks,
and the beautiful plants all around the walk.
How cbeerful he looked when he leaned on his
cane and kept still, so as not to frighten the birds,
and listened to their sweet song! And then
when he walked along again, I've seen him take
offhis hat and open his hair that the fresh breeze
might come to his head, and he would look up to
heaven so thankfully, that it seemed to me he
was praying. And I don't doubt but that he did
pay a heart-prayer, blessing God for the fresh,
lue air. But when he sat down to rest on a
little eat covered over by an arch, on which
bloomed the sweet brier, and the little children
from the village school gathered around him, all
gentle and quiet, because they knew he was a
sick man, and wanted to make him feel as happy
as they could, 0 then I thought that he had
found a heaven indeed. "Bless ye, little chil-
dren!" said he; "I felt happy in seeing the
flowers, in hearing the music of the birds, and
in feeling the fresh air upon my head, but your
sweet faces and bright eyes and gentle voices,
make me happier still." And then they sang to
him some of their Sabbath hymns, and recited
some of the pieces they had learned at school,
and a happier group I never beheld. He could
not talk to them of anything but of God, and
his great love, as shown in the Gospel by his
dear Son, and every face looked as holy as the
Ah, then I understood what the crazy poet
was thinking of when he spoke of heaven as he
did. He was sure there would be everything
in heaven to make people good and happy. He
thought of that, and it comforted him, as he stood
over the place where he was soon to be buried.
He'did not add to his trouble by asking, Where
is heaven I" for no one could answer him; but
he kept dwelling on what heaven is,-and was
sdtided with thinking of it as a state of health -
where there is no sickness and death, and where
there is beauty and music and innocency to
gratify the intellect and the heart; and to which
God would take him when men said he was
Will my readers think of heaven, so that they
may grow better, more gentle and kind I Re-
member that we need not wait till we die to find
more happiness than we now enjoy; for we can
be better than we are now, and the better we
grow, the more happy we shall become. "An-
gels are happier than men, because they are
better." Love the Sabbath school, and then you
will be able to sing as I tried to sing the first
hymn I ever learned,-
I have been there and still would go,
'Tis like a lile heme below;
Not all my pleasures and my play
Shall tempt me to forget that day.
0 write upon my memory, Lord,
The holy precepts of thy word,
That I may ever seek to be
A good, obedient child to thee."
MI U. I. WZas.aU HuJAIO.
A YouNo bird flew from his nice, warm nest,
Where the long summer night he had taken his ret,
He lighted beneath a tall maple-tree,
And sung out with joy, most sweetly sung he:
Pray, how do you do?"
A little boy saw him alight on the ground,
And softly crept he around, and around,
And he coaxed the bird with him to Mtay,
But the little bird sung, u he hopp'd away -
CO oo! C oewo!
Pry, how do you do "
Then the lad placed corn on the grams so green
As nice yellow corn a ever was seen,
And hoped the bird would approach him nigh,
And be caught,-but he sang as he looked in his eye:
Pray, how do you do?"
The boy went away and left him unharmed,
And-he ate, and ate, and was still unalarmed,
And he picked up the kernels, so plump and nice,
And ung as he flew away in a trice:
Pray, h do you d? "
Many times after, I aw the lad,
After that bird, -'t was really too bad I
But I always saw with extreme delight,
That he sung, as he flew away in a fright:
Pray, how do you do?"
My dear little friends, 'tis cruel and wrong
To catch little birds, and bush their song!
How much more pleasant to se them fly,
And hear them sing from the clear blue sky:
Pray, how do you do "
And now each day, first thing in the morning,
When the cloud-shadows sail in the red of the dawning,
When I lift my head from my tumbled pillow,
I hear him sing from a neighboring willow:
Pray, how do you do "
And out in the meadows all day long,
As I work I hear the same glad song,
Up goes my cap, -I answer him loudly,
But he, nothing daunted, sings back proudly:
Pray, how do you do? "
Sing on, pretty bird! do not cease you to sing,
You are pleasant to me, bright prophet of spring!
Let me hear you sing, as I meet you in life,
With sympathy-voioe for my sorrow and strife:
Pray, how do you doI "
31T nv. .. s. A. .
PuAssTnI is a wonderful land, because the
occurrences which belong to its history are among
the most marvellous the mind can know. I
should be glad to take my young readers with
me all over this land, in history and description;
but this would require a large volume, while the
article I am now penning must be very brief.
I can here peak only of the most renowned
place in this Holy Land-the far-famed Jeru-
This city is in the southern portion of Pales-
tine. It was built on four hills: Sion, Arm,
Moriah, Bezetha. It was taken from the Jebo-
sit by David. An account of the capture is con-
tained in the fifth chapter of the second book of
Samuel. The first temple was built by Solomon
on Mount Moriah. East of the city, and opposite
Mount Moriah, stands the Mount of Olives,
separated from the city by the Valley of Jehosh-
aphat. The hill of Calvary is in the wet of
the city, and was formerly without the'walk.
Many were the improvements made in the city
in the days of Solomon. He has written thus
of his work there in Ecclesiastes i. 4-6. I
lhade me great houses; I planted me vineyards;
I made me gardens and orchards, and I planted
trees in them of all kinds of fruits'; I made me
pools of water to water therewith the wood that
bringeth forth trees."
Great and lovely as this city was, it was
doomed to destruction. This destruction came
upon it by Nebuchadnezzar the Assyrian. The
multitudes carried away by him into Babylon
were doomed. to a captivity of seventy years.
In succeeding ages the power of this people was
regained; the temple was rebuilt by Zerubbabel;
and in fulfilment of the Scripture prophecy,
Christ came. This holy city was blessed with
his holier presence. He walked its streets-did
miracles among its inhabitants taught in its
synagogues, and in the temple. It was into
this temple that the children came on that
memorable occasion of Christ's entry into R-
salem. Yes -their young and innocent voices
were heard in the glad shout, Hosanna to the
Son of David! Blessed is he that cometh in
the name of the Lord!" That was a welcome
which our Lord could most truly understand.
He loved the free and pure soul of innocent
childhood. The devotion of such a soul be
wopid bless. And so he will now. Precious .o
him and to his Father is the devotion of the
young heart- precious the true hosannas of child-
hood's lips the praises and prayers they may
utter in spirit and in truth. That old and
magnificent temple has passed away. But the
welcome to Christ shouted by those children,
will live forever. Let all my young readers ask
themselves if they can now bid Christ welcome.
To its blinded inhabitants, and to his country-
men who came to Jerusalem, Christ predicted its
overthrow. And about forty years after his
ascension this overthrow took place. It was
accomplished by the Roman general, Titus, com-
missioned by his father, the emperor Vespasian.
And never was ruin more complete. The
glorious temple went down in flame. Every
dwelling was the abode of famine-every family
of faction-every street ran with blood. Christ
had prophesied of this very event: For there
sh be great tribulation, such as was not since
the beginning of the world to this time, no, nor
ever shall be." Matt. xxiv. 21.
Since this destruction of Jerusalem, it has seen
many changes. Heathens, Christians, Moham-
medans, all have contended for the holy city-
and each in turn have possessed it. The lj-
tory of the Crusades is most intimately coni#
with this portion of the history of Jerusalem. To
recount its risings and failings--its glories and
desolations--the number of its captive and its
slain, would be only to examine a most unwel-
come record. Let the past be explained by that
wisdom which is able to make all its dealings
plain to us, and which speaks in every age that
"righteousness exalteth a nation, but" that "sin
is a reproach to any people."
Of all places in our wide world, no one is
more replete with interest at the present hour
than the city of Jerusalem. How the memory
starts-how the heart throbs-how the eye
beams at the name! It calls up David and
Solomon, and the long line of the prophets.
We seem to see in it the throngs who came up
to the temple service on the old Jewish feast
days. We hear the praises chanted to Jehovah
by those myriad living voices long since hushed
in silence. We walk with Christ as he ta ght
the people. We hear his gracious words- Ahr
him rebuking sin and giving encouragement to
goodness and truth -see him resisting the proud
and giving grace to the humble. His death-his
resurrection the spread of Christianity, like the
beams of the sun, from this central place of its
power! these, too, pre before us. Its events,
is people, its history, all come thronging upon
us like occurrences of some wondrous drem.
Such is Jerusalem.
Travellers and pilgrims from all the nations of
the earth come hither now the Gentile and the
Jew Barbarian and Scythian, bond and free."
They come, and behold on the very elevation
where now stands the Mohammedan Mosque of
St Omar, the exact site of the old temples of
which we read in the Bible. Though few of
Jerusalem's antiquities retain their original ap
pearance, yet here is Mount Siao to be distin-
guished, and the brook Kedron and the valley
of Jehoshaphat and Hinnom, and the Mount of
Olives, the Garden of Gethsemane, the Tomb
of Abealom, the Pool of Siloam, with its steps
worn by the polish of ages. Four thounind
dwellings constitute the city, mosques and mina-
rets rising from the midst of them. Around
the west and north of the city the country is
dreary and barren; and the city itself is but a
mockery compared with its former magnificence
and glory. She who was once "beautiful for
situation, the joy of the whole earth," is now
sitting as in the shadow of death. The ihabi-
tants are few, poor, oppressed and miserable. A
modern writer has given us this strange descrip
tion, true, I suppose, to the life:
"No suburbs, no surrounding busy population
none of the stir and activity of enterprising life
is to be witnessed; but only one rude scene of
melancholy waste, in the midst of which the
ancient glory of Judea bows her widowed head
in desolation. A few goats and sheep, straggling
about the rocks which overhang the shattered
remains of the village of Siloam, a few swarthy
shepherds, plying their listless occupation with
here and there a fierce armed Bedouin, from the
surrounding deserts and mountain fastnesses,
and now and then a cowled monk or wandering
pilgrim, steal in upon the picture; and except it.
be the sound of the muezzin from the minarets,
proclaiming the hour of prayer to the followers
of the false prophet, you may sit on the hill
slopes, on either side, for an hour together, and
not hear the vibration of a human voice from
that spot, which once echoed to the strains of
sacred song and royal triumph and national
glory, and the busy din and tumult of 2,000,000
What renders Jerusalem and Palestine doubly
interesting, is the fact that its old inhabitants and
children, the Jews, are still looking for it to be
restored for their Messiah to come for their
nation to be exalted. We would not, as Chris-
tins, speak lightly of any good hope they may
have concerning the future. Yet we think we
have higher expectations, even for them, than
they have for themselves; a better hope, estab
lished on better promises embracing Jew and
Gentile-and declaring God's salvation to the
ends of the earth -building up, not a temporal
city merely, but one that hath foundations of
righteousness and peace. We are looking for a
Jerusalem not only on Sion, Acra, Bezetha and
Moriah, but "the New Jerusalem come down
from God out of heaven," in which the words of
Hebrew prophets and lofty singing-bards shall be
more than fulfilled. It is for such a moral Pal-
estine, such a Christian Jerusalem, that we hope,
and trust, and pray; when almighty TanUm,
bespeaking MAN's REDBMPrIO, shall so shine
"Wandering Gentiles to its ray *,
From every nook of earth shall elasr,
And kings and princes haste to pay
Their homage to its rising lustre."
Then shall our wide earth be one blessed'
Sion. Its highways shall be those of holiness;.
all its city walls shall be salvation, and all their
M 1"y. 1r21 SA&ooM.
Owcs, when I was a small boy, I heard my
father's voice calling for me, as though some"
thing terrible was the matter, and I quaked with
fear, lest some great evil was approaching. I
soon discovered that I had been charged with
going into the yard of a house where a children's
dancing school was kept, and overthrowing some
pots of flowers! I was perfectly innocent of the
sin, and begged the privilege of going directly
to the house and meeting my accuser, who was
a notorious falsifier of the truth. My mother
took me by the hand, and we went speedily to
the place where the destruction of. the flowers
had taken place. There I met my accuser's
mother, and she told the story which her eldest
son had invented; just then, he came in, and his
younger brother was present in the room. The
elder boldly told his lie, and while he was
relating it, his father entered, rather wusteady,
which, however, was net thought so much of in
those days as now. He stood with a lobster in
his hand, eating the meat of some of the smaller
parts of it, and listened to the recital of the
romance then repeating. When the story was
ended, the younger son looked keenly into the
face of his brother, and with indignation of a
most manly character in his eye, he said, Sam,
you know you do not speak the truth, for he was
not in the yard all the afternoon, and by an
accident the flower-pots were thrown down." I
never shall forget the attitude and looks of the
father that moment. He raised himself up to
his full height, and with his countenance full of
animation, he stretched forth his hand, holding a
piece of the lobster shell as a sceptre, and ex-
claimed, addressing my mother, "TAere, I'd
believe Horace just as if God spoke!"-The
whole difficulty was finished. The elder brother
poutingly stepped out of the way, and after
exchanging a few words with the rest of the
family, we left for home.
How frequently during the subsequent twenty
years have I recalled that incident. It has
spoken to me many times of the worth of a truth-
ful boy. How much evil it is in his power to
prevent by the testimony he can give which no
one will dispute. I was very forcibly reminded
of the incident I have sketched, on hearing of a
remark made by a school-mistress in the town of
Medford, Massachusetts. Some of her scholar
were desirous of leaving school at an earlier hor
than usual, and had received permission to do so
from their parents-but not in writing. The
schoolmistress hardly knew what to do; the
children saw that she doubted their word, and so,
in the despair pf the time, they exclaimed,-
" Well, ask Eddy, for he never tells a lie." His
testimony decided the case in a moment. But
what an admission did those boys make in the
praise they bestowed on their brother and cousin!
Hear im, for he NEVER tells a lie,-thus con-
fesing that they did tell a lie sometimes! This
shows the truth of the common proverb, "The
punishment of the liar is, not to be believed when
hetellsthetruth." Asadcasetruly! Yethow
many boys soon become such,-by telling false-
hoods they lose the confidence of their parents
and friends, and a~ not believed when the truth
is spoken by them! The fate of such wicked.
ness is well illustrated in the case of the boy who
troubled the shepherds in a certain country very
much, by crying out, The wolves are coming!"
They were alarmed several times by his wicked
sport, and at last did not heed him. Once he
was left alone with some sheep, and the wolves
did actually come, and he screamed out the old
cry, "The wolves are coming!" but though it
was heard by the shepherds at a distance, yet
they did not heed it, till the aes of th by
beme so piercing that real danger was app-
headed, and they rushed to the place whe he
was. But before they could deliver him, he ws
terribly torn by the hungry and wild wlos.
Such a fate ua this may never come to my f my
readers, but there are many evils to which tey
will make themselves liable by indulging in hle-
The grief of-a father or a methr whe is
discovered that a child has indulged in )yif,
cannot be described. It is wrse than ehas- .
It takes away all joy and all plmasem Thy
look on their little boy or girl with si d kee,
and their hearts are pained to think that lr
child has been deceiving them. Bees dtt,
they believed every word which wa spebark
them, but now they have to doubt, doet
thing! And how ashamed must thab ty agirl
feel who comes to their parent with some astry
they wish to tell, and finds that they cannot be
believed because they have not always told the
If any-of my readers have ever indulged the
habit of telling falsehoods, let them now resolve
to never tell any more. Let them be careful to
tell the truth in everything, even though it may
expose them to punishment for having done
wrg. Be nomb, like young Washingto, who
had cut down carelessly a tree which was very
vrlulUe to his father. When his father asked
him if he knew who did the wrong, he answered
like a good boy a he wu,-" You know, father,
I cant tll a lie, and must own tht I did it-I
cut it down with this little hatchet,"-and he
lied up a little hatchet which his fsa r had
given him. His father kissed him, and tol him
how glad he was to find his George such a truth-
ting boy. And Washington was always a
trath-teller. Nobody ever doubted his word, or
,mistrumtd tt he was deceiving thm. So let
be wih all my readers, and they till find a
u whic any loe. They will grow up
by all; and when matters of diiculty
r testimony wil have great weight, fr
thato hear them speak will my," That is the
ts tr hb wma never known to ell lie."
WILDERNESS OF 8IAI.
3T 3m. 3. 3. lAMs.
Tat ikture of this wilderes may not be very
attrac9ie to little folks; very likely it was not
place hen solely for its beauty; in making
books for young readers, we try to instruct them
as well as pM the eye. If yo will study the
pictua of Sinai, and think of it a a real moon-
tain, a el wilderness in Arabia, i mre
then pro*il you will be benefited Iy edin
this little account of it.
Holdout your left hand, shut all the
but the forefer, care that a very
keep the thumb straight. Your fsrA p
thumb i this position ensemble the p
Red See that run up ito Arabia at the
extremity of the se. That part d thf
in the place of your lag i oe ed the Qif of
Suez; that in place of the'thmb the'9ulf of
Akkabs. Close down between'these arms of the
sea, is the group of mountains called by lae di .
tinguisbj travellers, Horeb," and one single
peak in group, is calle Sinai."
Should you have a full description of theee
WILDERNtI OF BSIAI.
mountains, you would not be pleased to hear of
such immense quantities of bare blackened rocks
as are seen in every direction, of such soul-sick-
ening solitude as reigns there, such awfully grand
scenery meets the eye on every side in this
little world of mountains." No grass, or shrub,
or tree, grows on these piles of dingy rocks.
Prom the summit of Mount Sinai may be seen
"the silent and empty plains" where thousands
of the Israelites encamped, waiting for the com-
mandments of the Lord.
It is quite probable that all who read this
account are perfectly familiar with the Ten Com-
mandments, yet very few children know much
of the circumstances under which, or the place
where, they were given. As near as can be
ascertained by observing and sensible travellers,
the place where the Israelites encamped was the
level land seen in the picture, called The Plains
And Moses went up unto God. The Lord
called to him out of the mountain, saying, Tell
the children of Israel, if they will obey my voice
and keep my laws, they shall be a peculiar trea-
sure unto me, a holy nation.
"All the people answered together, All that
the Lord hath spokespwe will do.
"The Lord said to Moses, Lo, I come unto
WlFUUM sW NAI.
thee in a thick cloud. Be ready the third day,
for I will come down in the sight of all people
upon Mount Sinai. Thou shalt set bounds for
the people round about the mountain, saying,
Take heed that ye go not up to the aMtital or
touch the border of it: whosoever 4gcheth it
shall be put to death: whether it be man or beast
it shall not live."
On the third day, in the morning, a thick cloud
rested on the mount, and the sound of an "ex-
ceeding loud" trumpet was heard resounding
among those mighty chasms and "splintered
peaks." Terrific thunders echoed among those
mighty cliffs, and lightning flashed through a
thousand ruptures in those rocky walls, and fell
like a cloud of fire upon the plains around the
camp. The whole mount quaked and all the
people in the camp trembled."
At the command of Moes all the pepl left
the camp and approached the bounds set by their
leader. A dense smoke rose from the meant
because the Lord descended upon it in fire;" the
trumpet grew louder and louder, until Moses
spoke. The Lord answered by a voice. He
called Moses to the top and desired Aaron and
seventy of the elders to go up with him.
There, on that fearful 4ay, God delivered to
Moses the Ten Commandments, with two tablets