"Good friends! why, you have ten," replied his master. "I'm sure I haven't half so many, and those I have are too poor to help me." But sober dress, or simple note, The greenfinch twits in glee, In some low bush or tree. Four little birds, with gaping beaks, Will soon be cradled there, "Count your fingers, my And nursed with all a father's boy," said Mr. pride, And tender mother's care. O! 'tis a mean and cruel thing From those that cannot speak. God made the birds to give us joy, With all their wondrous ways; He gave to some the brightest plumes, To some the sweetest lays. But unto all the needful skill To find their proper food, And how to build the little homes In which to rear their brood. How lonely would the spring-time be, If not a bird were seen; If not a chirp or song were heard Among the branches green. And sorely would the farmer miss The little feather'd friends, That save for him the roots and crops, On which his gain depends. The caterpillars, worms, and grubs, Would soon the land o'erspread, And blighted fields and trees would fill The tiller's heart with dread. Dear boys, your brave and kindly hearts Will surely hear my plea; Nor will you ever steal a nest From bank, or bush, or tree. LITTLEJOS." HE little fellow of whom I am about to write was a scholar in one of our Wakefield Sunday-schools, and had been taught to pray and sing, and to love Jesus Christ the Saviour. He had two little sisters, but "Jos" was the only son of his parents. Long ago they had a little boy named Samuel, who used to go with his father on the steamboat which draws the barges along on the canal. One day, while his father was at the end of the boat, little Sam fell into the water, and though his father sprang in at once to save him, he was drowned. This happened some years since. One day "Jos" said to his mother, "I have been dreaming that I saw Sam and Jesus Christ, and He is a nice man! They both asked me to come.” This dream has been remembered and much talked about, and I am going to tell you why. One Sunday afternoon, very lately, "Jos" was at school as usual, and when the schooltime was over he went home, and then ran out again for a short walk. He had not been out of the house long before he came in, and said, "Mother, I have something to say to you." "What is it Jos'?" the mother asked. The lad went up to her, and began to repeat, "Our Father Which art in heaven; Hallowed be Thy name: Thy kingdom come," going through the prayer he had been taught at school. He then went out, and as he passed the door, turned round, and waving his hand to his mother, said "Good-bye!" "Bless the boy," said Mrs. L-, "I hope he is coming back again." "Jos" and a little companion of his then wandered to the side of the canal, which was not far from the house. Not long after he had left, some one knocked at the door. 'Is your name Mrs. L—?” he asked. 66 Yes." "And have you a little boy history that you may thank named Jos'?" "Yes," said the poor woman, as the worst foreboding came, "and he is drowned!" And so he was. Dear "Jos" was brought home dead. He had fallen into the water, and before any one could rescue him, his life was gone. His funeral took place some days after; nearly all his fellow-scholars were present, and four of the elder boys carried him to the grave; and there the children stood around while the service was read, and I told them that ་ Jos" was not lying in the cold ground, but was up among the angels, where— "Around the throne of God in Jesus for opening to us a heaven of rest and happiness, where all who trust Him and love Him shall by-and-by gather, never to part. There is another and sadder death than that of the body, but Jesus has said, "Whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die." "He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life." I. E. P. THE ROBIN AND THE ROCK. A FABLE. T was autumn. A faint tinge of red was just creeping over the trees; on the gray rock which rose up straight and tall from amongst them were patches of crimson and brown and yellow, mixed with the deep dark green of the ivy. Not that the autumn had had any hand in painting these: they had been there for a hundred years, summer and winter all the same. I doubt if they had ever been young, those lichen stains-I question if they would ever grow old, because lichens don't grow as you or I do. The rock did not frown; it did not hang over; it only stood there as proud and stiff as if it had never bent its back a bit, and never meant to do it either. But it managed somehow to look down at the fading leaves below, and at the river at its base rushing on-not one drop the same as yesterday—away, away to the far-off sea, with a sort of sorrowful compassion for things so different from itself. "What ages I have stood here!" it said: "and yet I don't change as they do; I am firm and solid, without thought of decay." a Nobody answered: all was silent, except the gurgling of the river, and that seemed only part of the stillness. However, what should spring up but a little bird!-a pert, jaunty-looking robin; and he jerked his head on one side, and began to sing just as if he was among his equals down in the wood or shrubbery, instead of being in the presence of this stern, and ancient, and most respectable old rock. "Be quiet, robin," said the rock: "you disturb my meditations-you, a young upstart, a creature here to-day and gone to-morrow, and I with all my years and dignity; and yet you presume to sing one of your idle, frivolous songs before me! It is most unfitting, and I beg "I did not mean to interfere with you, dear rock, I am sure; but it seemed so grim and solemn up there, that I thought perhaps you would like a little something cheerful. And besides, the world is made up of small things as well as great ones, and I suppose there's room in it for robins as well as rocks." "Of course there is," returned the rock, gruffly; "that's just what I say; and so, as there's plenty of space, you need not come here, right under me. Be off, and mind your own busi ness. 66 'And that's just what I am doing," said the robin. "I don't cover so much ground as you do, certainly; but then, though my place is small, I've got to fill it all the same, just as much as you have. And I've got my business, and my own work, which if I don't do, nobody else will.” "It must be very important," remarked the rock, with an air of contempt upon its cold gray face. "It is," replied the robin, gravely. "I have my autumn sermon to preach, and preach it I must. I have my autumn song to sing, and nobody else knows the tune. The river there is singing something, but it is its own song, and not mine; and the wood-pigeon is cooing up there, but it does not say what I say. I am telling you that the leaves are falling, the flowers are fading, the summer is passing; and though it is rather melancholy,-I don't deny that, yet it is not death, it is only change. Nothing goes back in this world; it is all going forward; it will all come again brighter than before. "The leaves fall; but they only make the soil richer for the next year's flowers. The river hurries to the sea; but the moisture returns in drops of dew upon the dry and thirsty earth. Even from you, unchanging as you think yourself, old rock, the little fragments fall and form a bed for the green mosses and waving ferns. Spring rises out of autumn; life springs from what looks like death. "And this is my autumn sermon which I have to preach," continued the robin, feeling rather as if he had been talking too long, and must bring matters to a hasty conclusion: "the skies may be dark; but hope, wait, trust; look forward and look upward." The little preacher, having finished his discourse, hopped down at my feet as I sat on the hill-side, and picked up some crumbs. He did this, three times, and the third time was in such a hurry, that he left one of the pretty feathers of his breast behind him. I picked it up, put it in my pocket-book as a remembrance of him and his message, and then thoughtfully walked home. THE POTTER'S WHEEL. HE practice of forming ves sels or utensils of various sorts out of clay, kneaded with water, and hardened in the fire, is of great antiquity; we find mention of earthenware in the writings of Moses. The Greeks at an early period had potteries at Samos, Athens, and Corinth. Demaratus, father of Tarquinius Priscus, is said to have instructed the Etruscans and Romans in this art, of which the Etruscan vases, often seen in Museums, show the great perfection. In the several kinds of |
