moreover, that the expedition was dangerous, if not impossible, and thought we should be glad enough to get back again, if only we could. There was that terrible "May Moss," too! We bade him good-bye, my heart trusting hardly less in my wife's extraordinary gift for finding her way, than in an ordaance map and a mariner's compass I carried in my pocket. Still, what are compass, map, or instinct, when balanced against local knowledge, against actual experience?

"Turn to the right hand" was still ringing in our ears as we lost sight of the last gables and chimney-pots of Salter's Gate, and we had a thoroughly enjoyable tramp as far as Ella Beck. The morning was sweet and fresh, the air most reviving and delicious, and the heat not in the least degree oppressive. We passed at some distance two persons loading a cart with cut peat, much used for fuel. They looked at us with that kind of wonder which, as soon as it escapes from fear, is found very much the same as contempt. Arrived at the little brook or beck-Ella Beck-our landlord's often reiterated direction to turn to the right was not forgotten, and, in spite of some misgiving, we felt bound to try to follow it. We made out one or two faint tracks near the beck, and followed first one and then the other till they were lost as completely as if they had never been made. Were they the attempts of some who had tried those moors before us, and who, as soon as convinced of their being out of their course, had carefully retraced their own steps? After many failures to find the way, we determined at last to run the risk of separating. The rider charged straight for the top of a long ridge that seemed to divide the moorland for a long distance, and from which it was hoped her keen, far-sighted eyes might discover somewhere something like a probable road. I on my part groped carefully round in every direction, anxiously scrutinising turf and heather, grass and moss, hoping to find tracks. My stick fixed upright in the ground, with a white handkerchief at the handle, served to mark the point of departure and return.

In half an hour (what a long half-hour it seemed!) we met again, and not without difficulty, the waste was so trackless and deceptive, and the surface of the ground so varied and uneven. We felt it would not do to lose much more time in this way, so determined, come what would, to strike out boldly "to the right" from Ella Beck. I have walked in Derbyshire, in Scotland, in Germany, in Switzerland, but, except actual mountain climbing, I never met with anything better adapted to "take it out of you" than that Yorkshire moor-the turf frequently too soft to afford the least spring, and the heather higher than the knees, and requiring a prodigious straight-up lift of the foot at almost every step in order to clear it.

A

Autumn Leaves.

UTUMN leaves, autumn leaves,
Ye hasten to decay;

Autumn leaves, autumn leaves,
How fast ye fade away!

One day upon the topmost bough,
The next upon the ground;
To-day found waving in the breeze,
To-morrow strewn around.

Autumn leaves, autumn leaves,
What gorgeous hues ye wear!
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves,
Why leave yon tree so bare?
Ye are the sport of every wind,
As seared and dry ye lie;
Or rustle 'neath the buoyant step
Of every passer-by.

Autumn leaves, autumn leaves,
What lessons do ye teach?
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves,
What sermons can ye preach?
Ye teach that beauty will not last,
That it must fade and die,
All that adorns man's mortal part
Must seared and withered lie.

Autumn leaves, autumn leaves,
Ye teach that rank is naught;
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves,

This solemn truth ye've taught:
He who is high must be brought low,
That "
pride must humbled be;"
That rank and wealth will not avail
To save from misery.

Autumn leaves, autumn leaves,
Ye say that summer's gone;
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves,
Old winter's frost will come :
And we with ye were in the spring,
As blithe, as gay, as free;

And though not in our summer age,
May not the winter see.

Autumn leaves, autumn leaves,

Ye shadow forth man's doom;
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves,

We're hastening to the tomb:
To-day we're buoyant, light, and gay,
We're active, healthy, proud;
To-morrow sees a clay-cold corpse
Wrapped in its burial shroud.

Autumn leaves, autumn leaves,
Ye'll pass and be forgot;
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves,
Man is remembered not:
He lives and breathes a little space,
A short ephemeral day;
Then passes-and oblivion sets
Her seal upon his clay.

Autumn leaves, autumn leaves,

Spring will return again; Autumn leaves, autumn leaves,

Ye ne'er shall rise again:

But man, through Christ, shall pass safe o'er

The river Death's cold tide;

Yea, he shall rise above the tomb

Immortal, sanctified!

H. D. 1.

I

Might have Been.

NTO some sunless human lives-ay, into most, I ween,

Has shone a glimpse of Paradise-a radiant "might have been;" A Paradise so sweet and fair-ah, me! so wondrous fair, With yearnings infinite, the heart uprose to enter there.

But, lo! before the portal stood an angel grave and stern,

In vain all pleading tears and prayers, he would not, might not

turn;

Trembling, amazed, the longing heart waited in dread and doubt,— My beauteous dream, my Paradise, so near, and yet without !

Our Father is all merciful, and Him I will obey;

But can it be His messenger that barreth thus my way?

Poor, doubting mortal, cease thy fears, and trust thy Father's grace, Bethink thee, is it good that thou shouldst enter this sweet place?

In such an earthly Paradise that first fair couple fell;

They were more good and pure than thee-oh, more than words can tell,

Thou art but sinful, weak, and frail; subtle the foe would be,An earthly Paradise, be sure, is no meet place for thee.

Weary and dark thy way outside; heavy and hard the soil, Sharp thorns and weeds where flowers should be, much labour, thankless toil.

But, mortal, One there was most pure, perfect, and true and good, Who toiled there long and patiently; thou art where He has stood!

Is not that Life most beautiful? How canst thou then repine
To work where the great Master worked?-is't this thou wouldst
decline?

Nay, give thy labour, tears, and pains-a willing sacrifice;
The tender Master leads thee to a heavenly Paradise.

H. P.

The Hunter's Story.

E was an old hunter who had spent years in the forests, sometimes six months at a time without seeing a human face. I was sitting, leaning against a tree, just at sunset, when he came and

sat down near me,