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Winter Pleasures.

VERY season brings with it some charm peculiar to itself. Spring-time fills one with fresh hopes, new life seems opening, and leaves bursting forth with their lovely green shades rejoice the heart and sunny days, When pale

please the eye. Summer comes with bright long evenings, trips to the country and seaside.

cheeks brown a little, and the step that was slow gradually becomes quicker, and strength returns-well may such a one welcome summer. Autumn has its beauties too; fruits and grain are gathered in, making man feel the faithfulness of God to him. Then comes winter; the time of frosts and snow; all bleak without-but what about home comforts? How the bright fireside draws all the household together !—such pleasant chats they have around it; and as evening comes on amusements of so many kinds (without the aid of exciting card-playing, which often leads the young to become confirmed gamblers) can be entered into by the young people. While father enjoys his comfortable chair and paper, mother sits opposite him, looking up now and then from her work, and feels how grateful she ought to be for homewarmth, and all the sweet influences that make life so happy. Then, when the boys find the snow is on the ground, what a shout of delight they give, and how sisters know what to expect on their way to school! How beautiful the snow looks! reminding the thoughtful of David's words, " Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow." How pure the Christian must become ! and nothing less than Christ's own precious blood can make him such.

Winter brings nipping cold days, when the fire is made to glow with an extra addition of fuel; and as warmth gradually cheers the heart, kindly emotions arise, and then the contrast vividly appears between rich and poor; and the kind-hearted mother sighs as she pictures benumbed little ones crouching up closely together with few clothes on, little hopes of their appetites being satisfied, and wretched night-shelter. A bright thought seems to have entered her mind: she leaves her pretty snug room, and finds in an old box some left-off clothing of her dear Grace's and Fred's. She smiles as she fastens up her bundle-for it really becomes one-and when Kate brings up the tea she tells her to quickly run over to those poor people who had lately had such sickness and sorrow in their home, giving her a trifle for the mother also, which she would never miss. Kate, a kind-hearted girl,

who knows what a hard time the Lees have had, goes off warmly wrapped up, and gives the grateful woman little time for thanks; and both mistress and maid feel that sweet peace after cheerfully helping a fellow-creature which sends a warm glow through them: they forget the nipping cold; the mother sings her soft lullaby to her lovely babe with more sweetness in her voice than ever, and Kate looks around at her clean kitchen, shining tins, bright hearth, and cheerful blazing fire, and thanks God that she is cared for by such a mistress.

Then there is the looking forward to Christmas Day, and meeting dear old friends. Young people wonder what their presents will be; the old ones think of how many they can give; and so the joyful day arrives. Poor relations' hearts are cheered by thoughtful and delicate remembrances, and winter, stern though it be, after all, is the time when hearts warm, and charity leads us by the hand away from our own comforts for a little while, and gently demands that we should with loving hearts think of others. Well may we pity the selfish beings who from morning till night are only engaged in thinking of themselves; they may well shiver and complain; little do they know of the luxury of doing good.

How lonely they must really feel! No one has to thank them for kindnesses done-no widows' earnest prayers arise to heaven, asking God's blessing upon them—no little voice utters its plaintive thanks-no youth is helped on by their kindly influence to future honours-no aged ones have their declining days made less bitter and weary by their sympathy.

Ah! well may the selfish find winter a dreary time; and what will the future of such be? Life is the time to show what stuff we are made of—whose side we are on; and as a tree is known by its fruits, so are men known by their fellow-men if they truly belong to Jesus. 'Tis the pleasure of their life-time to work for Him in pleasant springtime, warm summer, cool autumn, and snowy winter, till. they hear the voice calling them from their labours of love

to enter into an eternity of rest. Happy the child of God whose sins being forgiven can thus live, and die feeling at peace with God and man.

H. W. P.

Bob, the 'Bus-driver.

T is now three years since I happened to be in London, during the season when the huge busy town is at its busiest. I was going from the

extreme West-end to the City, on the last day of my stay, and I climbed to the box-seat of an omnibus, and gazed at the human tide which flowed along the streets, thinking it perhaps the most wonderful of all London sights.

The thoroughfare along which we were threading our way was very crowded at that hour, and I watched with the curiosity of a stranger the dextrous way in which the omnibus-driver guided his horses through the throng. But, expert as long habit had made him, he was guilty of one mistake, and his wheel came in contact with a small handbarrow which an old woman was pushing: the barrow itself was not overturned, but the shock threw off a basket which stood upon it. In spite of the woman's effort to save it, the basket fell to the ground, and out of it rolled handfuls of pence and halfpence over the pavement and amongst the horses' hoofs.

The next instant a swarm of boys, spying the booty, came flocking up-came flocking from nowhere, it appeared to me, for I had not seen one previously! The driver passed on, with a shrug of his shoulders; but not before I had heard part of the torrent of oaths which poured from the unfortunate woman's lips, as she tried in vain to protect her barrow and regain her coppers.

"Poor soul!" I said.

"Ay, sir, I'm very sorry," the driver responded, in a contrite tone, "but it was not exactly my fault; she should not have tried to cross just then."

"I pitied her more for using such words," I remarked, "than for the mere loss of her pennies."

"She

The driver looked sharply at me for a moment. didn't like to be robbed of her money," he said, "and small wonder !"

"But swearing only made matters worse."

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Right you are, sir; but she couldn't help it, you see: 'tis another proof of the truth of the old saying, 'Money is the root of all evil.""

"I beg your pardon," I said, "but that saying is not true." The driver stared at me more keenly than ever.

"Certainly it is a goodish while ago that I heard it first, but when I was a boy I learned it from very good authority," he said, rather grimly.

"From what authority ?"

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Something out of my line now, sir," he replied; "but it is my certain belief that I have the best authority. Those words are in the Bible!" There was a quiet triumph in his tone; he evidently expected that he had settled the question. "I beg your pardon again," I answered; "the Bible says

no such thing!"

"Well, sir, if I was in the way of laying a bet with a gentleman I'd risk heavy odds on it," returned the omnibusdriver, pulling up his horses with a jerk to set down a passenger.

"You would lose your bet, then," I said. "The Bible says, 'The love of money is the root of all evil;' which you will perceive is a very different thing."

I saw in a moment that my friend the driver was a man who sometimes troubled himself to think. His face lit up with a half-smile as he replied,

"You have me there, sir, and I'll allow you have me most fairly. The thing is different! The fact is we are always willing to lay the blame of our doings on anything but ourselves the devil, other people, or the poor money, 'tis all one, so long as we can manage to spare our own selves."

"Yes," I said, "the money is innocent enough, but it is the