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cold water which she drank would injure her,-recognised her mother, and very anxiously called for Clara. She had just stepped out, and was immediately told of this. O how joyful was the summons ! She hastened to her sister, who, as she approached, looked up and smiled. The feverish flush from her cheek was gone,—she was almost deadly pale. By her own request her head had been raised upon two or three pillows, and her little emaciated hands were folded over the white coverlet.
22. Clara was entirely overcome, she could only weep ; and, as she stooped to kiss her sister's white lips, the child threw her arms around her neck, and drew her still nearer. It was a long embrace ;-then her arms moyed convulsively, and fell motionless by her side ;-there were a few struggles,—she gasped once or twice,mand little Helen' never breathed again.
23. Days and weeks, and months rolled on. Time had somewhat healed the wound, which grief for the loss of an only sister had made ; but it had not power to remove from Clara's heart the remembrance of her former unkindness. It poisoned many an hour. She never took her little basket of dinner, now so light, or in her solitary walk to school passed the half-way stone,' without a deep sigh, and often a tear of bitter regret.
Children who are what Clara was, go now and be what Clara is,-mild,-amiable, -obliging and pleasant to all.
THE DEAD MOTHER.
C. And what is dead?
F. Her heart is cold.
C. If she would waken, she should soon be warm. Why is she wrapt in this thin sheet? If I, This winter morning, were not covered better, I should be cold like her.
F. No-not like her : The fire might warm you, or thick clothes - but
C. If I could wake her,
F. Come, my child.
C. Once, when I sat upon her lap, I felt A beating at her side, and then she said It was her heart that beat, and bade me feel For my own heart, and they both beat alike, Only mine was the quickest—And I feel My own heart yet—but her's—I cannot feel F. Child! child !---you drive me mad-Como
hence, I say.
C. Nay, father, be not angry! let me stay here Till my mother wakens.
F. I have told you, Your mother cannot wake-not in this worldBut in another she will wake for us. When we have slept like her, then we shall see her.
C. Would it were night then!
F. No, unhappy child !
C. Father! Father!
F. Hurt thee, darling ? no !
C. You are not angry then?
C. All you have said I cannot now remember,
THE ACORN AND THE PUMPKIN.
Two gardeners once beneath an oak
“ You must confess, dear Will, that Nature
To this vast oak lift up thine eyes,
He said and as he rashly spoke,
For did a shower of pumpkins large,
THE PRISONER. I APPROACHED his dungeon-I then looked through the twilight of his grated door. I beheld his body half wasted away with long expectation and confinement, and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it was which arises from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer, I saw him pale and feverish: in thirty years the western breeze had not once fanned his blood he had seen no sun, no moon, in all that time-nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through his lattice.
He was sitting upon the ground upon a little straw, in the furthest corner of his dungeon, which was alternately his chair and bed; a little calendar of small sticks was laid at the head, notched all over with the dismal days and nights he had passed there—he had