TRUE STORY THE FOURTH.

THE BLACKBIRD'S SONG ON THE CHIMNEY TOP.

I ONCE was a teacher in a sabbath school of about seven or eight hundred children; amongst whom two or three of the boys belonged to a business in which, happily, the laws of our country will not allow boys to be employed at present. Two of the teachers, one day passing along the street, had their attention fixed by a right merry sound-a whoop, a halloo, and a rantan-somewhere over head; then a prolonged "All up, sweep!" They looked up, and some little black thing sat perched upon a chimney. Sure enough it was one of our hopeful pupils! The little fellow was heard distinctly to give out the words, "Come we that love the Lord, And let our joys be known; Join in a song with sweet accord,

And thus surround the throne."

These words he sung, just like a lark at heaven's gate, at five on a May morning. Then came the words,

"The sorrows of the mind,

Be banished from the place;
Religion never was designed

To make our pleasures less."

These, too, were sung, and a fine echo was heard, wheeling and booming amongst the chimney tops,

and along the streets, which drew the admiration of several smiling listeners. The teachers looked at each other, "Well," said they, "the sorrows of the mind banished from a sooty boy-banished from a chimney top! well, this is worth something, in the midst of a good deal of discouragement: our black little pupil has, for once, given us a lesson about what we are to do with our 6 sorrows of the mind,' if they should intrude into our 'place.' So good bye little fellow, till we meet you on sabbath day, with that sweet voice, a smiling face, and a skin as clean as a penny! that you may receive some more lessons from us.”

Take notice,-I lately saw some boys at a Sunday school whose skin was not as clean as a penny, and were they sweeps? If they had been there was no need of having a begrimed face, and ten dirty fingers on the sabbath. Oh dear!

W- m.

LAMBDA.

TRUE STORY THE FIFTH.

GOOD OLD SARAH.

GOOD old Sarah Pugh! I remember her well. In Manchester she lived, and there also she died, seven or eight years ago. She had been left a widow, with three children; but, without troubling any person, she managed to support

herself, and to bring up her children, with much credit and comfort, by means only of carrying on her arm, about the country, a basket, well stored with such treasures as needles, pins, and laces; combs, thread, and brushes; toys, aud divers trinkets, and chimney ornaments manufactured out of the well known Derbyshire spar : and many a long journey she took, through all weathers, betwixt Manchester and the Derbyshire works, disposing of her wares at the several houses by the way, as she paced over the journey to and fro.

Poor Sarah! When old age came, she found that her travelling days were over, and that her favourite basket and store must now be laid by for ever. But old Sarah was like the ants, who are "a people not strong, yet provide their meat in the summer," so that when winter comes, they may not have to starve, or steal, or beg. She had always "the widow's mite" to bestow upon a good object, and would never consider that her little store would be made less by thus "lending to the Lord." So old Sarah found that the trifle she had laid by in her better days, was of great value to her when the winter of life came, and when she was now glad to find a home for herself, in the house of her only surviving daughter.

The best of all was that Sarah was a true