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The Children's Corner.

THE ORPHANS-BROTHER AND SISTER. A gentleman walking down the streets of Edinburgh saw a procession of boys and girls belonging to one of the charity schools, who were going out for a holiday. He says "My attention was then directed towards two young boys about fourteen years of age. Each was driving a small cart, drawn by a pony. The first boy, when he saw the children, called out to his young friend, who was a little behind, and the moment his eye caught the sight, he leaped from the cart with a spring, crying out, "James, I'll see my sister, I'll see my wee sister." He drew his horse quickly to the side of the pavement, and left it alone, the instant the girls came towards him. Just as he commenced his anxious search his horse moved off, he sprung to its head and checked its progress, and, in an instant, he was at the front ranks of the girls, keenly glancing along the line to discover his little sister. Being all dressed alike, it was not easy to distinguish any one in particular without the strictest search. On they passed, but his sister came not. Poor boy, thought I, his kind heart will be doomed to suffer disappointment, as his little sister does not appear to be amongst them, and from his sorrowful look he thought so too. They all passed but twohis face glowed with delight-his sister was one of them. The anxious boy rushed to her, and grasping one of her hands in his, he placed the other gently on her neck, and could only say "Mary." The little girl, who appeared to be about seven years of age, looked up, and, oh, such ecstacy! she was by the side of her brother. She clasped her little arms around him, and her

sweet face was lighted up with smiles. He bowed down his head to catch the few hurried words she spoke to him, and to let her hear his little tale. He took his eye from off her face but once, and only once, and that for a moment, and this was to see that his pony was still where he left it. The poor brute seemed to be sensible of the sacred mission on which its conductor had gone, as it moved not. He again bowed down his head to breathe into the ear of his beloved and loving sister his few parting words, for he could not go any farther. They grasped each other's hands and exchanged looks of tenderness, and the little girl moved on with her companions. His eyes saw nothing but that one loved object- they followed her along. The children in front turned down Yorkplace, and before she was out of her brother's view, she turned round, and with a sweet smile, held out her hand in token of adieu. The boy started as her face met his gaze, and moving one step forward, held out both his hands-the next moment she was hid from his sight. He slowly returned towards his horse, and, whilst a tear moistened his eye, and a cast of melancholy shaded his countenance, there was still something like an expression of satisfaction and pleasure on his features. He mounted his little cart, and, as I turned from beholding the scene, there was a dimness over my eyes which took a few applications of my handkerchief to remove." This is an interesting little fact. How lovely to see such an example of brotherly and sisterly affection! There is not on earth a more pleasing sight than children of one family dwelling together in peace and love.



[The following justly admired Poem by BURNS, the Scotch Poet, is inserted in our pages, that it may excite in English Peasants and Mechanics, a desire to imitate their Scotch neighbours, in the practice of family worship. Some little things in it might have been as well omitted; but we dare not attempt to alter or abridge. How much is it to be regretted, that this self-taught child of genius, like our English Shakespear, wrote so little that is truly good and useful, and so much that is objectionable and injurious. The Scotch words will, we expect, be easily understood.]

My lov'd, my honoured, much respected friend,
No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end,


My dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise.
you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene;
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;

What AIKEN in a cottage would have been;

Ah! tho' his own worth unknown, far happier there I ween!

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;

The short'ning winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;

The black'ning train o'craws to their repose;
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes.

This night his weekly moil is at an end,
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does homeward bend.

At length his lonely cot appears in view,

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;

Th' expectant wee-things, todlin, stacher thro'

To meet their Dad, wi' flichtering noise and glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnily,

His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee,

Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, An' makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.


Belyve the elder barns come drappin in,
At service out, amang the farmers roun';
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin
A cannie errand to a neebor town:

Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,

In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e,
Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown,
Or deposit her sair-worn penny fee,
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

Wi' joy unfeign'd, brothers and sister's meet,

An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers;
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet,
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears;
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view.
The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers,

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new;
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.

Their master's an' their mistress's command,
The younkers a' are warned to obey;
"An' mind their labours wi' an eydent hand,

An ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play;
An' O! be sure to fear the Lord alway!

An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night!
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,
Implore his counsel and assisting might:
They never sought in vain, that sought the Lord aright!"

But hark! a rap comes gently to the door;

Jenny, wha kens th' meaning o' the same,
Tells how a neeber lad cam o'er the moor,

To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
The wily mother sees the conscious flame

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e and flush her cheek;
With heart-struck anxious care inquires his name,
While Jenny bafflins is afraid to speak;

Weel pleased the mother hears, it's nae wild worthless rake.

Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben;

A strappan youth; he takes the mother's eye;
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en;

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy,

But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave;
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy

What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave; Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave.


O happy love! where love like this is found!
O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!
I've paced much this weary, mortal round,

And sage experience bids me this declare-
If heaven a draught of heav'nly pleasure spare,
One cordial in this melancholy vale,
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,

In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart—
A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth!
Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembling smooth!
Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd?
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child! Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild!

But now the supper crowns their simple board!
The halesome parritch chief o' Scotia's food:
The soup their only Hawkie doth afford,

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cud;
The dame brings forth in complimental mood,

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck fell.
An' aft he's press'd, an' aft he ca's it good;
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell,
How 'twas a tawmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell.

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace,

The big Ha-Bible, ance his father's pride;
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,

His lyart haffets wearin thin an' bare!
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales a portion with judicious care;
And "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air.

They chant their heartless notes in simple guise;

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim:
Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise,

Or plaintive Martyr's, worthy of the name:
Or noble Elgin beets the heavenward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays:
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame;

The tickled ears no heart-felt rapture raise;
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.


The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the friend of God on high;
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage

With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
Or, how the royal Bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of heaven's avenging ire;
Or, Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry:
Or, rapt Isaiah's wild seraphic fire;
Or other holy seers that tuned the sacred lyre.

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed
How He, who bore in heaven the second name,
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head:
How his first followers and servants sped,

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land;
How he, who lone in Patmos banished,

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand;

And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command.

Then kneeling down to heaven's Eternal King,

The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing,"

That thus they all shall meet in future days:
There, ever bask in uncreated rays;

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,
Together hymning their Creator's praise,
In such society, yet still more dear;
While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride,
In all the pomp of method and of art,
When men display to congregations wide,

Devotion's every grace, except the heart!
The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
But haply in some cottage far apart,

May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul,
And in his Book of Life the inmates poor enrol.

Then homeward all take off their several way;
The youngling cottagers retire to rest;
The parent pair their secret homage pay,

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request,
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flowery pride,
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best,
For them and for their little ones provide;
But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside.

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