and ran through the forest at full speed, to the great comfort of his master, who now hoped to die quietly. The dog made his way directly to three men belonging to the garrison, who were fishing at the distance of a mile from the scene of this tragedy. As soon as he came up to them he began to cry in the same affecting manner, and advancing near them, turned, and went slowly back towards the point where his master lay, keeping his eye continually on the men. All this he repeated several times. At length one of the men observed to his companions, that there was something very extraordinary in the actions of the dog, and that in his opinion they ought to find out the cause. His companions were of the same mind, and they immediately set out with an intention to follow the animal whither he should lead them. After they had pursued him some distance and found nothing, they became discouraged. The sun was set and the forest was dangerous; they, therefore, determined to return. The moment the dog saw them wheel about, he began to cry with increased violence, and, coming up to the men, took hold of the

skirts of their coats with his teeth, and attempted to pull them towards the point to which he had before directed their course. When they stopped again, he leaned his back against the back part of their legs, as if endeavouring to push them onward to his master. Astonished at this conduct of the dog, they agreed, after a little deliberation, to follow him until he should stop. The animal conducted them directly to his master. They found him still living, and after burying the corporal as well as they could, they carried Greg to the fort. Here his wounds were dressed with the utmost care, and such assistance was rendered to him as proved the means of restoring him to perfect health. This story I received from Captain Edward Bulkeley, a respectable officer of General Parsons' brigade. Greg himself, a few days before, communicated all the particulars to Captain Bulkeley. I will only add, what I never think of without pain, and what I am sure every one of my readers will regret, that not long after a brutal fellow wantonly shot this meritorious and faithful dog!Dwight's Travels.

66

THAT

E sent from above, He took me, He drew me out of many waters."

Black and blue eyes opened, with wide wonder in the bright faces of the children who had gathered lovingly around old Mr. Elden, as he slowly spoke those words.

"What does he mean, Elsie ?" whispered Jane Lee to her cousin. "We asked him for a story, and you know he always has one ready. I hope he isn't going to preach a sermon."

childhood. When I was a little boy, I had a pleasant company of playmates, and we used to enjoy our sports together, just as you children now do. At the lower part of the village where we lived was a river, and a bridge across it. We often went there to play, and many times I have stood a long while trying to see the fish as they swam below.

"One day we were playing on the bridge, and one of our number, who had mounted the railing, was watching something in the water, when he suddenly slipped, lost his hold, and fell. We heard his cry and the

splash as he struck the water. We ran to the side of the bridge and looked over. The water had already closed above him, he had sunk so quickly, and bubbles were rising where he went down. We were too young to know exactly what to do, and too much frightened even to shout for help. The little fellow rose once more to the surface, struggling for life, but could only give us a beseeching look, when, with his arms uplifted, as if imploring help, he sank again.

"We were still speechless with horror; but a kind man had noticed our movements from a short distance, and, suspecting what had happened, was hastening toward us. He reached the bridge. Nothing was in sight, but one little hand above the water, and that was fast disappearing. We had recovered our voices, and, pointing at it, we cried eagerly, There's his hand! Oh, there's his hand!'

"That outstretched hand! I seem to see it now-I shall never forget how it looked to me. But our friend waited not a moment. As that hand went out of sight, he plunged into the river, and soon brought the drowning boy to the shore. He looked earnestly into the pale face of our playmate

as he held him in his arms, and, in a tone of voice that sent a thrill of joy through all our hearts, he said, 'Saved!' Then turning to the rest of us, he added, ‘Boys, I know you will never forget that little sinking hand. Remember, when it comes into your minds, that we all are sinking in a colder and darker place than that river, unless we have asked One to save us, who alone can do it. This boy will soon recover now, and be able to say that I took him from the river. It is my prayer that he and every one of you may be able to say of another, better Friend, as you think of the dark waters of sin, in which all who do not love Christ are sinking, "He sent from above, He took me, He drew me out of many waters."

"Dear little friends," said Mr. Elden, closing his story, "I trust the prayer of that good man, for me, has been answered. Will you remember that little hand and the lesson it taught us? Jesus is ready to take hold of those little hands of yours as you lift them up imploringly from the depths of sin and evil in this world, and He will bring you at last, not to the shore of such a river, but to the 'Shining Shore.' Will you ask Him to do it ?"

RENRY CRABBE ROBINSON, of Cambridge,

who was a friend of the poets Southey, Wordsworth, and Coleridge, and himself celebrated as a letter-writer, one day called at a friend's house. He found the family very busy making up a parcel to send to one of the children, who was away at school. A little girl, about six years old, was playing about the room. Mr. Robinson called her to him, when the following conversation took place, which may give a

hint or two on the important subject of letter-writing.

"Well, Lizzie," said Mr. R., "everyone seems to be sending something to Tommy; why don't you put in a letter ?”

“Oh,” said Lizzie, "I should like to very much, but you know I can't write.”

"Shall I write for you?" asked Mr. Robinson.

"Oh, yes, please do!"

"Very well, bring me pen, ink, and

paper; but remember it is your letter, and you must tell me what to say."

"I don't know anything."

Well, let me see," began Mr. R. "Dear Tommy, you will be surprised to hear that last night our house was burned to the ground.' Will that do ?"

"Oh, no! don't say that, because it isn't true."

"I see you have learned something about letter-writing; always remember through life never to put anything in a letter that is not quite true. Well, shall I say this: • The kitten has been playing with her tail for the last quarter of an hour ?'"

"I see you know well how to write a letter."

Remember three things whenever you write letters. Be quite true. Tell nothing but what is worth telling, and likely to interest the person to whom you are writing. Say nothing unkind.

DOZEN boys stood on the green, by the school-house, careless and jolly, just from a game of ball. A boy came round the corner of the school-house, with an old cloth cap on his head, and wearing a looselyfitting garment of some very coarse cloth. In his hands were an iron stove shovel and a hod of ashes.

"Oh, here comes old Dust and Ashes," shouted one of the group, springing forward and giving the coat a twitch.

"Hullo! what's the price of sackcloth ?" The boy's cheek flushed in an instant. The shovel rang on the gravel walk, and his fingers clutched; but as quickly his cheek paled again, and clenching his teeth, as with a great effort to keep back something, he turned a little and muttered the word "mother!"

"The

"Ho! Ho!" shouted the other. baby's sick and wants to see his mother." The boy in the coarse frock turned away and rapidly disappeared behind the old barn; then breaking into a run he fled swiftly down the path to the maple woods; his faithful Hunter bounding and racing through the grass by his side.

Most graciously stood the maples, all russet, and crimson, and yellow, bathed in the yellow haze of the still October afternoon. In among their shadows he sprang, and flinging himself in a little hollow, he buried his face in his hands. Poor Hunter stood by, wondering why his young master, any more than himself, could possibly think of anything but birds and squirrels at such a time. Then the boy, seizing his only playmate in his arms, cried—

"Oh, nobody loves me-nobody loves me in the world, but you, Hunter. Oh, mother, mother, why did you die?"

And the sobs came fast and thick, and the tears flowed like rain. Long did the motherless boy wail and cry, till from very weariness he could weep no longer. Tears brought relief, and the holy quiet of the grand old woods filled him with solemn and heavenly thoughts-thoughts of his angel mother.

Only one year ago she had died, and he remembered his agony and loneliness, and the year of toil, as the ward of a cruel uncle. He remembered his eagerness to go to school, his trying to pay his way, by working about the school-room, and the unfeeling jibes and jeers his humble station and coarse clothing had earned him. Again the angry rebellious thoughts came up as his eye fell on his coarse frock, and the quivering sobs returned; but with them came the words of that mother, and how her poor fingers had toiled to make that frock,

Though

the best she could give him. coarse its texture, every thread was hallowed by a mother's love. He took from his vest pocket the well-worn Bible, her Bible, and read the precious promise to the widow and orphan again and again. New and strange thoughts came to him, and there, in the grand old forest, with the autumn sunset shimmering the golden maple leaves, was a new purpose born in his soul. He had begun to conquer himself. Henceforth there was no hesitation for him. Body and soul he devoted himself to God. Companions might jeer, but Jesus reigned. in his heart, and his mother waited for him in heaven.

The years rolled on, and the boy became a man, but the purpose formed in the old maple grove burned in his bosom yet; and now his feet tread the decks of an Indian steamer, bearing him swiftly to the chosen scenes of his future toil; for these words are in his heart, "I must be about my Master's business."

Gray of Frank Dunbar, living four
Grayville, Indiana, a little five-year-

miles south of Grayville, was one day sitting before the fire, eating nuts, no one else being present except one or two other little children. By some means the child's clothes caught fire, and in a moment she was enveloped in flames, the other children

W

Sw

rushing off and screaming for assistance. The house dog, a common cur, sprang on the child, threw her down, and actually stripped off the burning clothing. By the time the parents arrived the faithful animal had saved the child's life, he being the worst burnt of the two. This is vouched for by Dr. Miliron, the attendant physician.

HAT does Satan pay you for swearing?" asked a man of

swearing boy.

Nothing," was the answer.