The Habits of Lions.

THE habits of the lion are tolerably well known, and the more they are understood the more difficult it is to understand how the lion came to be called the 'king of beasts.' So far as appearance goes the title is appropriate, for his look is really majestic, and his carriage and strength justify the proud name. But, if the truth must be told, his disposition is the reverse of kingly. Dr. Livingstone had a poor opinion of both his courage and his beauty. The lion does not, as a rule, hunt during the day. Instinct, we may suppose, tells him that it is safer to prey by night, and indolence does the rest, for he actually spends the day in sleep. When he arouses himself he finds that he is hungry and thirsty. Fortunately for him, in quenching his thirst he sometimes manages to appease his hunger as well, for he occasionally pounces upon some hapless animal that has come to drink at the same pool or river as himself. Of course, it often happens that he cannot obtain a meal so readily, in which case it is necessary for him to go a hunting. If there be a village handy, or a traveller's team of oxen improperly secured, or a Hottentot habitation not sufficiently protected, the lion will certainly make an attack. Failing a supply of cattle or farm stock, he is compelled to catch wild prey. Lying in ambush, he will wait till an antelope or zebra pass by him, when he will spring upon the poor creature with a roar that strikes terror whereever it is heard, felling it with his paw, and fixing his teeth in its neck. Should he miss his prey, he does not pursue it, but returns crest-fallen to his lair. Singular to say, the lion has as strong an objection to the light of the moon as to the light of the sun; but though he prowls about on moonlight nights, making the desert hideous with his roaring, he seldom does harm on these occasions. A dark rainy night will, however, tell a different tale. Lions are then ready for any mischief. It is well that they are lazy during the day, for if they were equally lively by day and night travellers would have a weary time of it. In illustration of this the following incident may be mentioned. One day a missionary in Africa happened to be away from his home, searching for water for his cattle. After examining, without success, a water-course, in the hope of finding a pool, he started off to some Bushmen's huts to see whether he could obtain the precious liquid there. On reaching the dwelling

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he could find no one at home, so he stooped down to enter the low door of one of them. When half way into the hut he observed, instead of human beings, a lion and lioness sound asleep! Fancy his astonishment and terror. We may well believe that he withdrew as quietly and quickly as possible, and turned back at the top of his speed.

The Boy's Complaint.

'Oh, never mind! they're only boys;'
"Tis thus the people say,
And they hustle us and jostle us,
And drive us out the way.
They never give us half our rights;
I know that this is so;
Ain't I a boy? and can't I see

The way that these things go?
The little girls are petted all,

Called 'honey,' 'dear,' and 'sweet,
But boys are cuffed at home and school,
And knocked about the street.

My sister has her rags and dolls,

Strewn all about the floor,
While old dog Growler dares not put
His nose inside the door.
And if I go upon the porch

In hopes to have a play,
Some one calls out, 'Halloa, young chap,
Take that big dog away!'

My hoop is used to build a fire,
My ball is thrown aside!
And mother let the baby have
My top because it cried.
If company should come at night,
The boys can't sit up late;
And if they come to dinner, then
The boys, of course, must wait.
If anything is raw or burned,
It falls to us, no doubt;
And if the cake or pudding's short,
We have to go without.

If there are fireworks, we can't get
A place to see at all;

And when the soldiers come along,
We're crowded to the wall.
Whoever wants an errand done,
We always have to scud;
Whoever wants the sidewalk, we
Are crowded in the mud.
'Tis hurry-scurry, here and there,
Without a moment's rest,

And we scarcely get a 'Thank you, if
We do our very best.

But never mind, boys-we will be
The grown men by-and-bye;
Then we'll act nobler far, I'm sure,
Than snub the smaller boy.

The Lost Basket Found.

THEY expected it on New Year's Day, but, to their sad disappointment, it did not come. Aunt Lydia always made them a nice present, with the return of the season, and they had received hints of one more than commonly good this season. Their disappointment was, therefore, the worse to bear. But Aunt Lydia wasn't to blame. She got the basket nicely packed and sent off by rail in time to reach her young friends on New Year's Day morning, and the address was written in good, bold letters, with the word Immediate added. Howover, by some mischance, the basket was shoved into a corner in the railway-office, where it got buried under a number of old sacks, and wasn't found for a whole week. Happily, its contents were not a bit the worse. Had they consisted of fruit, or sweet-cakes, or things of that sort, they would likely have been spoiled; but as they were what are called 'dry goods,' they were as fresh and nice as when first packed. You may be sure the arrival of the basket produced quite a commotion. among the young folks. It was almost as if some one had risen from the dead. And when mother and Miss Charles, the governess, cut the strings, and brought out the hidden treasures, the girls went into ecstacies. First of all there was a splendid doll, in full dress, for each of them, and then there were strings of beads, and mittens, and stockings, and two sweet little picture-books. Last of all out came a beautiful fur-lined cape, fit for a little princess. But what's that bit of paper pinned on the neck of it? Oh, there's something written on it. Let's read it. For poor dear Mary, the orphan girl down the lane.' Blessings on Aunt Lydia's kind heart! On thinking of her well-to-do nieces, and sending them their New Year's Day presents, she did not forget the fatherless infant she had seen when over a few months before. And let it be said, the little girls were overjoyed to find that the best article in the basket was for the orphan child.

The Merchant's Clerk.

CHAPTER II.

'Now, boy!' said the housekeeper, who evidently regarded James aз some peculiar specimen of the human race, the like of which had never crossed her path before, 'you can come to the table and have

some food; you don't look as though you had had any lately!'

'Not since yesterday morning,' was the quiet reply, as he walked up to the table to do her bidding.

'Some folks only tell truth by mistake,' chimed in the pert damsel, as she resumed her seat by the fire.

The boy just glanced at her, and opened his lips as if to reply. Then, thinking better of it, he kept silence, and set about helping himself to the food before him. Before taking it, however, he closed his eyes a second and said a short grace. Bridget gave a little satirical cough, and glanced furtively at the housekeeper as if to say, 'What do you think of things now?' Mrs. Johnson was too busy watching the boy to observe her. She was greatly puzzled, both by his appearance and behaviour, for instead of devouring up the victuals as she expected him to do, he ate very slowly, and not as though he had been nearly famished, which was in fact the

case.

'I am much obliged to you, ma'am,' he said, looking at her gratefully as he rose from his seat at the table when he had finished, after uttering a few words of thanksgiving to God, making his way towards the door.

'You needn't thank me!' she rejoined; 'its my master, Mr. Harvey, you're indebted to. But why hav'n't you eaten more? You'll not get another meal in a hurry, may be.'

'Yes, ma'am, I hope I shall,' he returned, "cos I've got a job now, and so shall be able to buy victuals every day.'

'That's a good thing!' said Mrs. Johnson. 'Pray, what might your job be?'

'I'm going to be errand boy to Linkins and Harvey,' he answered proudly, looking full into the housekeeper's face.

Before that worthy could speak, from utter astonishment, Bridget had jumped up from her seat, exclaiming, 'Oh, you bad, wicked, ungrateful creature, to dare to tell a lie in such a barefaced way, as if Linkins and Harvey would employ a halfstarved-'

'Bridget' interrupted her mistress, regarding her sternly, 'keep that tongue of yours quiet, will you.' Then turning to the lad, she said, in a tone of reproof, 'There was no occasion to answer my question with a story. Don't you know that it is wicked to tell lies?'

'I'm no liar!' replied the lad proudly; 'I'd scorn

to do it. My mother always said as it was sinning against God to lie, and was it likely I should dare to do it now that she's up above with Him? I'm sorry you don't believe me, ma'am,' he added in a different tone, because you've been so kind to me; but you'll find out that what I've said is true.' With that he opened the door and went out-out of the bright, warm kitchen into the cold dark night, for it was past four o'clock, and the heavy fog which hung over the great city, wrapping it in its heavy folds, had rendered it dark for some time. He shuddered as the cold blast swept through his ragged clothing, piercing his very bones. Then, suddenly remembering what the money which he had in his pockets had been given him for, he set about looking for a shop which would answer this purpose.

My readers must bear in mind that London of today is very different to London of the time of which I write. Now, the gas, to say nothing of the electric light, which the genius of man has brought to such wonderful perfection, makes the night almost as pleasant to be out in as the day; but then it was widely different. It was only the best thoroughfares that were lighted at all, and those only by wretched oil lamps, with a cotton wick, some of which may still be seen, having been preserved as curiosites. Until the year 1807 that was the best and only light provided for the streets of our great city.

Our hero wandered about for some time before he could come upon a shop to his mind, as it was only a very mean one that he dare think of entering; but at length he espied one which he thought would answer his purpose, and went boldly in. When he came out again his appearance was certainly a trifle improved. He had on a pair of boots, very much too large for him, it must be confessed. Still they were boots, which was something. And he had a coat of then even ancient make, which almost enveloped him in its hanging folds. However, it served to keep off the cold better than his other ragged garment had done.

The next thing was to find a sleeping place for the night, which he was not long in doing, not being at all particular on that point; so he dropped down on a doorstep in Gracechurch-street, and was soon lost in as profound a slumber as many on beds of down might have envied.

CHAPTER III.

THE tale James Howard told in the counting-house of Linkins and Harvey was quite true. His parents

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had originally been well-to-do for their station in life, his father farming between sixty and seventy acres of land of his own; but drink had been his downfall, which in time made an end of his life. His mother struggled on in great distress for a few years, her husband having made a complete wreck of their substance by his riotous living. She came of a very respectable family in a far off district, who never knew what trials she had to endure, for she could not bear that her husband's misdoings should come to their knowledge, and news did not travel so fast a hundred years ago as it does now, consequently her poverty failed to reach their ears. But in the spring of the year in which this story opens she had died, worn out by trouble and want of proper food and nourishment. She had been very fairly educated, and imparted the rudiments of instruction to her only child; but better than everything else, she early instilled into his youthful mind the first principles of religion, and followed them up by example as well as by precept.

'James' she said to her son the night she died, as he sat by her bed reading to her a verse or two out of the Bible which lay on his knee, 'you must promise me that when I am gone you will alwaysevery day at least, read some part of that blessed book, if it's only one verse. That Bible is the only legacy I can leave you, but its price is above rubies. I don't know what you can do to get a living after I am gone, but God will point out a way, for He says, 'Leave thy fatherless children to me;' so I am comforted concerning you. Now, my boy, I have turned sleepy; is it the sleep of death? If so, come, Lord Jesus, come quickly. O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? A few gentle sighs, a few fluttering breaths, then James Howard was alone in the world.

The hay harvest followed soon after his mother's death, and he earned a little, just enough to keep him from actual want, by lending a helping hand in it; then the corn harvest came, which kept him employed for a few weeks; but he was not old enough to do much in the corn-field as strong men were mostly required there. However, he did what he could, and after it was gathered and the song of Harvest Home had faded away in the air, he determined to set out for London, which in that remote districtremote in those days when there were no railways to transport you thither in a few hours-was looked upon as a place where money might almost de picked up in the streets. James soon found it