went forth to seek a home for them at the forest-house. His dream was in his mind all the way, and he was considering how he should address the "gracious gentleman," and in what words he should thank him for his kindness to the children. Yet at the thought of parting from the fair and gentle creatures, who had bloomed like delicate flowers in his rude home, and whose sweetness of temper and manners had won his heart, the good man could hardly forbear weeping.

Just as he was about knocking at the door of the mansion, it was opened, and the overseer himself stepped out, with his fowling piece over his shoulder, and two great dogs behind him. A large fox-skin cap was on his head, and he looked very rough and fierce. Seeing the wood-cutter standing beside the door, he asked, in a harsh tone, what he wanted. He was sadly abashed by this reception; but he soon plucked up heart to state his errand in a few expressive words. "Had I but bread for them," were his closing words, "they should never leave me. But hunger is stronger than iron.”

The two children, meanwhile, held fast by his hands, for the rough aspect of the overseer, and the fierce dogs who came growling and snuffing round them, frightened the timid creatures. Their terror seemed to delight the gentleman greatly, who stood laughing to see them crouch and shrink away from the dogs. At length he turned to the wood-cutter, and, after calling him a fool to break his neck about beggars and vagabonds, told him to take himself and his brats out of sight, and not appear there again, on pain of having the dogs set on him. Then whistling to his hounds he struck into the forest, and was soon out of sight.

The good man stood for a minute or two as if in a dream. Then rising his cap, he looked forward and said "Thou that feedest the young ravens when they cry, forsake not these little ones!" took the children by the hand, and turned his face homeward. His way lay by a flower-garden adjoining the mansion. As he passed by a gate opened, and the lady of the house stepped out, and bade him good morning, in a sweet and cordial tone. She had watched the whole affair from the window, but had not dared to interfere; for her brutal husband was still harsher to her than to strangers. She now stooped down, took the children kindly by the hand, and spoke to them in their native tongue. Their sweet, pale faces lighted up at the familiar tones, and they replied with a childish grace

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which quite won the lady's heart. "Oh, that I could take them for my own!" she exclaimed, as the tears gathered in her eyes. Bidding them wait a few minutes, she returned to the house, and after a while came back, bringing a basket of provisions and a bundle of clothing for the children. To these she added a letter which she had hastily written, directed to her sister in Franconia. "What I would gladly do, but cannot," said she, "others must do in my stead. Take these dear children to my sister, Thomas; she has just lost two of her own by the small-pox, and my heart tells me that she will not reject these orphans. What is in the basket will feed you on the way. God speed you! Ah, my heart aches that I must send you to another's door!" Then she bent weeping over the children, and caressed and kissed them; and as they went she stood in the garden-gate watching them, as far as she could see.

Thomas thought over the whole matter on the way home, but could see no way by which he could take the children all the distance to Franconia. The little cart, if mended, would be just the thing for the journey, but where was he to find a horse, and how furnish him with fodder. "God will provide," thought he, as he laid himself down to rest. He rose early in the morning, repaired the broken wheel, and then went to the magistrate to obtain a passport. "Where are you going?" asked the clerk. "To Franconia." "To what place?" "To Martinbach, to the estate of the sister of the forest overseer's wife." At these words the clerk rose up and left the room, but soon returned with the magistrate himself. "You are going to Martinbach, to the estate of Madam Von Stanfenberg?" said he. "Yes, Sir." "You come as if sent for," said the magistrate. "A vagabond, whom we have now in our hands, has just stolen a horse from that estate, and we must send it back. As you are going there, you can take he horse along; you will go quicker, and will earn a reward in the bargain!" Thomas's heart, at these words, rose up as light as a feather. He ran quickly home, and made ready for the journey.

The next morning, by the dawn of day, they set forth cheerily; the children in the waggon, and Thomas walking beside them. His own children were entrusted to the care of his old mother-in-law. Jacques and Jacqueline (these were the names of the orphans) sat on a sack of oats provided by the magistrate for the horse, and they looked out from the canvas cover, beautiful as two

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saints' heads from the clouds. Many stopped and gazed at the odd little vehicle and its strange contents, and asked where he found these birds of Paradise which he was carrying to market. At dusk, one-third of the journey had been accomplished, and they stopped at a village inn. A handsome travelling-carraige was already standing be fore the door. Thomas shewed the children into the kitchen, then unharnessed his horse and led him away to the stable.

All at once a great uproar was heard in the court, and many voices were heard in loud dispute. Jacques sprang up and ran into the court; his little sister ventured no farther than the door. A strange coachman was holding the good wood-cutter by the throat with one hand, and brawling without ceasing, "Rascal! horse! thief!" while with the other hand he tried to wrench the bridle away from Thomas, who held fast to his beast, and shouted "Murder!" At this cry all the servants came running together, and there was such a hubbub that no one

could understand another. Jacqueline wept in the door-way, Jacques hung on to the coachman's skirts, and begged and scolded in French. Presently the landlady came to add her shrill voice to the clamour; and, finally, a stately lady in mourning was seen coming down the steps to learn the cause of this strange tumult. This was the coachman's mistress; and after many ineffectual attempts, she at last made herself heard by the furious man. He let Thomas go, but still kept his grasp on the horse. It is our horse," cried he, "and I will have the villain hung that stole it!"

The wood-cutter now had a chance to explain. The lady called him to her, and asked how he came by the horse, and why he had given it out as his own. "That I never did," answered he. "It is not my horse, and the person to whom it belongs shall receive it the day after to-morrow, from my hands. But for this raging fellow to fall upon me, and tear the horse from me by main force, and abuse me as a thief, that I will never bear!" He now related how he came by the horse, and whither he was going.

You need not go any farther," said the

lady, smiling; "I am Madam Von Stanfenberg."

"If that's the case," cried Thomas joyfully, "I have something for you of more value than the horse" He now began his story from the beginning; how he had found the children in the highway; how he had buried their father, and kept them until his last loaf and potatoe were gone, and had then set out to seek for them another home. He now drew from his pocket the letter from the overseer's lady, and presented it to her. While she was reading the letter he watched her face with the utmost anxiety. When she came to the words "God send them to thee in place of the angels whom He has taken to himself," the tears dropped from her eyes, and she said in a soft voice, "Shew me, then, your foster-children!" He first presented Jacqueline, who stepped forward with the natural grace of a French child, and kissed the lady's hand. Jacques followed, but he would not let go his friend's hand, an action which pleased the lady not less than the frankness of the little girl. She gazed at them awhile, then took them one after the other into her arms, kissed them, and said in French, “I will be your mother!" The next morning they parted; Thomas on foot towards his humble foresthome, the children in the handsome carriage with the noble and rich lady.

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In the eye of the great Father in heaven, who had done most for the orphans, the wealthy countess, or the poor wood-cutter? The lady indeed did much, but she did it of her abundance; and we cannot doubt which name stands highest in His book, who reckoned the widow's two mites above all the costly offerings of the rich and great. Nor is the will to do of that noble heart in the forest mansion forgotten in His account; for by Him thoughts and feelings, not less than actions, are weighed. To no one of his human family has the great Father denied His own most glorious privilege of doing good; and perhaps at the last day the noblest deed of benevolence ever performed by mortal, may be inscribed against some humble individual, which on earth". was never heard of half a mile from home."

So softly move the wings of time,

So noiseless is its tread,

That like the past each day we find,
Till weeks and years have fled.

Twelve months have passed since we did raise
To God our annual song,

And now, with sweeter strains of praise,
We would those notes prolong.

For He who bids the seasons roll,
And marks their onward flight,
Takes knowledge of the humble soul,
For love is his delight.

And round our path the angel band,
Clad in their bright array,

Have scattered blessings from His hand,
On us from day to day.

BAXTER.

We to the house of God repair,
To learn His holy will,
And teachers kind are always there,
With truth our minds to fill.

While millions of our youthful race
No blessed sabbath know,
We all are taught that Jesus' grace
Can save our souls from wo.
Oh, God, inspire each youthful heart
With deep devotion's flame:
Thy saving love deign to impart,
That all may fear Thy name,

And now, to every little friend,
We ask, with hearts sincere,
That God His mercies still extend,
And grant a HAPPY YEAR!

SHE was a beautiful and lovely child,
Full of affection, gentle, pure, and mild:
One of those joyous spirits who might seem
The bright creation of a poet's dream.
Her happy face, and bright engaging smile,
Would oft our anxious hearts of care beguile.
No angry, fretful passions ever rose
To cast a shadow o'er her sweet repose;
We looked on her as one of heavenly birth,
A precious treasure lent awhile to earth.
For health had never glow'd upon her cheek-
Each day she grew more languid, pale, and weak;
She droop'd and wither'd like some fading flower,
Which the dark storm has blighted by its power;
Disease and pain were wearing life away,
And bent her fragile form beneath their sway.
Oft when, at night, her feverish couch she press'd,
Her throbbing temples sought in vain for rest;
In weary tossings to and fro she lay,
And longed in touching accents for the day.
Then would her gentle sister softly tell
The simple stories which she lov'd so well,
And try that little sufferer to soothe
With the sweet narratives of sacred truth.
Once, when the child awoke with plaintive moans,
She told to her, in rich expressive tones,
How, when an angry storm arose at sea,

And waves like rolling mountains seem'd to be,
When red-fork'd lightning darted o'er the head,
And dark forebodings fill'd each mind with dread,
The Saviour, by his own Almighty skill,
Said to the raging waters," Peace be still."
Then the fierce tempest yielded to his sway,
And the proud sea in meek subjection lay.

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This simple sentence soothed with magic power
The little mourner in that midnight hour;
And, as the gentle infant sinks to rest,
Calmly she slept upon her sister's breast.
Months roll'd away-and still she linger'd here,
Oppress'd with languor, worn by pain severe,
Yet patient and submissive-full of love!
She seem'd preparing for the courts above.
Though often, with consuming fever press'd,
Weary and faint she sought, but found no rest,
Oh! never did the holy influence fail,
Which first accompanied that touching tale.
In those dark hours, the whisper, "Peace be still,"
Would in her ears like heavenly music thrill,
Pidding the sounds of grief and sorrow cease,
"Till, tranquil and composed, she slept in peace.
At length, the hour of sweet release drew nigh,
When she should join the white-rob'd hosts on high;
Too pure for such a darken'd world as this,
The Saviour call'd her to the realms of bliss.
The brilliant eye was dim and clouded now,
And death was written on that marble brow:
Yet, ere the gentle spirit took its flight
To the fair world of uncreated light,
She ask'd in trembling accents, once again,
For those sweet words to ease her dying pain;
"Oh, sister! will you tell me-yes you will—
How Christ said to the waters, 'Peace be still!'"
She listen'd-faint and fainter grew each breath;
She smil'd serenely, in the arms of death;
One gentle sigh escap'd her heaving breast,
And all was pure, seraphic, endless rest!

EXERCISE, air, good temper, and temperance, are the principal sources of growth, health, and longevity.

LET woman be decked with all the embellishments of art and nature, yet if boldness be read in her face, it blots out all the lines of beauty.

MAKE not a servant a confidant; for if he find out that you dare not displease him, he will dare to displease you.

RICHES are but ciphers-it is the mind that makes the sum.

THE FUTURE.—It has been beautifully said, that the veil which covers the face of futurity, is woven by the hand of mercy.

THE DEATH OF A WIFE.-"The death of a man's wife," says Lamartine, "is like cutting down an ancient oak that has long shaded the family mansion. Henceforth, the glare of the world, with its cares and vicissitudes, falls upon the old widower's heart, and there is nothing to break their force or shield him from the full weight of misfortune. It is as if his right hand were withered, as if one wing of his angel was broken, and every movement that he made brought him to the ground. His eyes are dimmed and glassy, and when the film of death falls over them, he misses those accustomed tones which would have soothed ave." his passage to the

BE ORDERLY.-Order and distribution, and singling out of parts, is the life of despatch; so as the distribution be not too subtle; for he that doth not divide, will never enter into business; and he who divideth too much will never come out of it clearly.-Bacon.

THE MIND.-The mind has a certain vegetative power, which cannot be wholly idle. If it is not laid out and cultivated into a beautiful garden, it will of itself shoot up in weeds or flowers of a wild growth.

EXTEND thy generous aid to him who is suffering and in distress; for thou knowest not how soon, the same proffered services will need be extended to thee.

WE hate some persons because we do not know them, and we will not know them because we hate them. Those friendships that succeed to such aversions are usually firm, for those qualities must be sterling that could not only gain our hearts but conquer our prejudices.

Nothing sits so gracefully upon children and makes them so lovely, as habitual respect and dutiful deportment towards their parents and their superiors.

To Adam, Paradise was home; to the good, among his descendants, home is Paradise.