oak, crying out piteously, "Ah! help me, help me. Hold me fast, let me stay with you.”

"You shall not be touched," replied the Oak. "Take away thy hand, cruel woodman, and leave my companion in peace."

"do man,

"Foolish tree," said the you not know that in time this Ivy will kill you? Cast it from you, and in a few years you will become the pride of the forest. Keep it, and its treacherous embraces will gradually rob you of your life. Every leaf will fade, every branch will wither away."

"I care not," cried the Oak. "Your words may be true, but I would sooner die than cast from me my faithful friend."

Finding that no persuasion on his part could induce the tree to part with the Ivy, the woodman took up his axe, and prepared to cut it down without wasting any further words. But the Oak made yet another effort in its behalf, and rearing his noble head, called the strong north wind to his aid. And before a stroke had fallen, the north wind came sweeping by, driving the woodman from the grassy knoll, and casting his axe with so much force to the ground that it

broke in two. Ever after the Ivy was allowed to remain unmolested, and it grew and flourished, entwining itself so firmly around every part of the tree, until at length, as the woodman had foretold, the once noble Oak died away, having sacrificed his life for that of his companion.

But although dead it was far too beautiful an object to be cut down, and every day it became more and more so, for the Ivy grew over every portion of the trunk, shielding it with loving care from the weather, and rendering it ever green. Each year it struck fresh roots, thus forming an endless succession of plants, springing from one which would last for ever. The only danger to which the tree was liable was being blown down, but even this it escaped, having a firm friend in the north wind, who remembering its noble character, followed the example of man, and spared and protected it.

What a contrast did the Oak present in death to the fallen Beech! The one an object of admiration and beauty, the friend and safe haven of the birds of the air; the other useless and unvisited, save by the toads, vipers, and other loathsome animals that abounded amidst the fungus,

brambles, and nettles, with which it was overgrown. Truly may the saying be quoted with regard to the Oak, that—

"Virtue will live after death."

“Thank you, Mr. Bell," said little Jenny, rather wearily, when the story was finished. "That is very pretty, I am sure.”

"But for all that it has nearly sent you to sleep," said the Bell, gaily. "Ah! I fear that at times I am only a stupid old fellow after all, not fit company for a merry little bird. However, I will try and think of a more amusing story for to-morrow, Mrs. Jenny."

"Oh! thank you," said the little Robin," and do please let it be about birds this time. I don't care to hear so much about trees or plants, they are such still quiet things, and never move about. How tired they must be of always staying in the same place!" Next day little Jenny reminded her old friend of his promise, and he commenced as follows:

THE CUCKOO AND THE THRUSH.

NOT very long ago, a couple of fine thrushes built their nest in this very ivy, that you, Mrs. Jenny, have chosen for the same purpose. It took them some time to finish their home, for they were very particular in making it quite round and very smooth in the inside. All the little sharp bits of twigs and straws were neatly packed away, so that it should be quite comfortable for the mother bird, and for the tender little ones when hatched. It was a great pleasure to me looking at the clever little creatures, and before long I discovered that they had another watcher besides myself, and this was a fine large cuckoo who came every day and stationed himself near the belfry window, where, unobserved by them, he could watch the birds' proceedings. One day I heard him chuckling to himself as though greatly delighted, and soon after he flew off, calling out "Cuckoo, Cuckoo!" in joyful tones. I then saw that the thrushes had finished their nest, and a very nice. one it was, so carefully and cleverly built. A few days later I heard a great noise outside the window,

and the next moment two cuckoos flew into the tower. One of them was my fellow-watcher, and the other I supposed to be his wife. They were laughing so heartily that my curiosity was excited, and I ventured to ask them the cause of their merriment.

"Hallo, old fellow!" said the husband bird, rudely; "who told you to speak? Mind your own business!"

"There was no offence meant," I replied. "You seemed very merry and-"

"Merry!" he exclaimed interrupting me. "Ha, ha! Yes; we've good reason to be so, haven't we wife? We've done a very clever thing, old Bell."

"Indeed," I replied; "and what may that

be?"

But the bird could not speak for laughing. The remembrance of what he had done evidently was very pleasant to him, for he laughed so long that he was nearly choked, and the tears rolled from his eyes. The other bird was much quieter, and seeing that her husband was unable to answer my question, she undertook to do so herself.

"I will tell you, Mr. Bell," she began in an