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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.
F. Touch not thy mother, boy- Thou canst not

wake her.
C. Why, father? She still wakens at this hour.
F. Your mother's dead, my child.

C. And what is dead?
If she be dead, why then 'tis only sleeping,
For I am sure she sleeps. Come, mother,-rise-
Her hand is very cold!

F. Her heart is cold.
Her limbs are bloodless, would that mine were so !

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

her-
Nothing can warm again!

C. If I could wake her,
She would smile on me, as she always does,
And kiss me. Mother! you have slept too long-
Her face is pale and it would frighten me,
But that I know she loves me.

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 !
Full many a night shall pass, ere thou canst sleep
That last, long sleep.— Thy father soon shall sleep

it;
Then wilt thou be deserted upon earth;
None will regard thee; thou wilt soon forget
That thou hadst natural ties,-an orphan lone
Abandoned to the wiles of wicked men.

C. Father! Father!
Why do you look so terribly upon me,
You will not hurt me?

F. Hurt thee, darling ? no !
Has sorrow's violence so much of anger,
That it should fright my boy ? Come, dearest, come.

C. You are not angry then?
F. Too well I love you.

C. All you have said I cannot now remember,
Nor what is meant-you terrify me so.
But this I know, you told me, I must sleep
Before my mother wakens—so, to-morrow
Oh father! that to-morrow were but come!

THE ACORN AND THE PUMPKIN.

Two gardeners once beneath an oak
Lay down to rest, when Jack thus spoke-

“ You must confess, dear Will, that Nature
Is but a blund'ring kind of creature ;
And I-nay, why that look of terror?
Could teach her how to mend her error."
6 Your talk," quoth Will, “ is bold and odd,
What you call Nature, I call God.”
“Well, call him by what name you will,”
Quoth Jack, “ he manages but ill ;
Nay, from the very tree we're under,
I'll prove that Providence can blunder.”
Quoth Will, “ Through thick and thin you dash :
I shudder, Jack, at words so rash;
I trust to what the Scriptures tell,
He hath done always all things well.”—
Quoth Jack, “ I'm lately grown a wit,
And think all good a lucky hit.
To prove that Providence can err,
Not words, but facts, the truth aver.

To this vast oak lift up thine eyes,
Then view that acorn's paltry size;
How foolish on a tree so tall,
To place that tiny cup and ball.
Now look again, yon pumpkin see,
It weighs two pounds at least, nay, three ;
Yet this large fruit, where is it found ?
Why, meanly trailing on the ground.
Had Providence asked my advice,
I would have changed it in a trice;
I would have said at Nature's birth,
Let acorns creep upon the earth;
But let the pumpkin, vast and round,
On the oak's lofty boughs be found."

He said and as he rashly spoke,
Lo! from the branches of the oak,
A wind which suddenly arose,
Beat show'rs of acorns on his nose :
6 Oh! oh!” quoth Jack, “ I'm wrong I see,
And God is wiser far than me.

For did a shower of pumpkins large,
Thus on my naked face discharge,
I had been bruised and blinded, quite,
What heav'n appoints I find is right;
Whene'er I'm tempted to rebel,
I'll think how light the acorns fell;
Whereas on oaks had pumpkins hung,
My broken skull had stopped my tongue.”

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

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