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Good and Bad Tempers.

I AM sorry to say our Lizzie's temper is not one of the sweetest. She is a pretty-looking girl, and is clever with her lessons, and has many good things about her, but, sad to say, her temper spoils them all. The least thing crossing her sets her into such a fractious, peevish mood as to make every one near her unhappy. She often quarrels with her brother Charlie, and for no reason worth naming. Charlie is a fine lad, generous to a fault, and always ready to put himself about for his sister. I have seen him many a time give way to her, though there was no reason for it, just to keep her in humour; and it is a thing of every day occurrence for him to sacrifice his own enjoyment for hers. And yet, as I have said, she often quarrels with him. Sometimes she provokes him to such a degree, that, in spite of his good nature, she makes him almost as bad as herself, and then you may be sure there is a 'flare up.' A scene of this sort took place the other day, and the occasion of it was very simple. Charlie wonted her to play with him at 'hide and seek; 'No,' she said, 'I won't! Play with me at ball.' 'I will play with you at ball after; but let us first play at hide and seek,' said Charlie. 'No, I won't,' said Lizzie, and then she added some hard words in a bitter spirit, until she provoked Charlie almost beyond endurance. Things had just reached their worst, when in rushed Flossie, our youngest child, the sweetest-tempered creature in the world; and with a face bright as sunbeams and a voice rippling with joy, she shouted, 'Oh, Lizzie, oh, Charlie, play with me at 'jump." Instantly she perched herself on the lowest step of the stairs, and prepared to leap, challenging her brother and sister to leap with her. This happy interruption made them forget their foolish quarrel, and in a short time they were all playing together as happy as crickets.

Fish that are Caught without
Bait.

On a bank by the side of a stream sat an old fisherman with a hideous countenance, but with a peculiarly knowing and cunning look in his eye. He knew the habits of the great variety of fishes in those waters, and constantly altered his bait to suit this, that, or the other variety. With rare precision he caught, with evident amusement, one species

without bait, with merely the empty hook. Stupid fish!

This old fisherman is the Evil One; the fishes are the children of men; the stream, this world in which we live. We all know that the bait with which he caught Eve was the promise that the fruit, besides being pleasant to the eye and taste, was also one 'to make wise' the eaters of it.

We also know the baits he vainly offered to Him who wandered forty days in the wilderness; and how many of earth's children he has, with better success, caught by his promises of riches, power and ease.

But what promise does he make the swearer? Does he make him believe it will add one cubit to his stature, one day to his length of life? Does he urge that swearing will add one penny to his possessions? That it will make people think more highly of him, give him influence in society? Certainly not. He flings out the naked hook, and grins with merriment as the stupid fish eagerly catches at it.

If ever you think of uttering a profane word, remember that the swearer bites a naked hook.

Ruth.

SAY not fareful, dear mother,
It must not, must not be;
Is there on earth another
I love as I love thee?

Entreat me then no longer,

I will not from thee partNo ties of blood are stronger

Than that of heart to heart.

Where'er the Lord shall guide thee,
That way shall e'er be mine,
My rest shall be beside thee,
My daily toils with thine.

Where kindred cords thou feelest,
My love shall feel the same;
The altar where thou kneelest
My sacrifice shall claim.

The bed on which thou diest

Shall spread its folds for me; The clods in which thou liest My sepulchre shall be.

Thy God-my God-behold us, And judge twixt me and thee, With arms of love enfold us And the awarder be.

Quarrel between Master Pin and Lady Needle.

A PIN and a Needle, being neighbours in a workbasket, and both being idle folks, began to quarrel, as idle folks are apt to do. 'I should like to know,' said the Pin, 'what you are good for, and how you expect to get through the world without a head?' 'What is the use of your head,' replied the Needle, rather sharply, if you have no eye?' 'What is the use of an eye,' said the Pin, 'if there is always something in it?' 'I am more active, and can go through more work than you can,' said the Needle. 'Yes; but you will not live long, because you have always a stitch in your side,' said the Pin. 'You are a poor, crooked creature!' said the Needle. 'And you are so proud that you can't bend without breaking your back.' 'I'll pull your head off if you insult me again!' 'I'll pull your eye out if you touch me; remember, your life hangs on a single thread!' said the Pin. While they were thus conversing a little girl entered, and undertaking to sew, she very soon broke off the Needle at the eye. She then tied the thread around the neck of the Pin, and attempting to sew with it, she pulled its head off, and threw it into the dirt by the side of the broken Needle. 'Well, here we are,' said the Needle. 'We have nothing to fight about now,' said the Pin. 'It seems misfortune has brought us to our senses.' 'A pity we had not come to them sooner,' said the Needle. How much we resemble human beings who quarrel about their blessings till they lose them, and never find out they are brothers till they lie down in the dust together, as we do!'

Inside the Bones.

A YOUNG New Englander, whose knowledge was more showy than deep, went, many years ago, to teach a school in Virginia.

Among his pupils was a small, rather dull, and insignificant-looking boy, who annoyed him by his questions. No matter what the subject under discussion, this lad apparently never could get near enough to the bottom of it to be content.

One very warm August morning, the teacher, with no little vanity in a knowledge universal in those days, began to lecture to the boys on the habits and characteristics of a fish which one of

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them had caught during recess. He finished, and was about to dismiss the school, when his inquisitive pupil asked some questions about the gills and their use.

The question answered, others followed, concerning the scales, skin, flesh. The poor teacher struggled to reply with all the information at his command; but that was small, and the day grew warmer, and the Saturday afternoon holiday was rapidly slipping away. The school will now be dismissed,' he said, at last.

'But the bones! You have told us nothing about the bones!' said the anxious boy.

Mr. Dash smothered his annoyance, and gave all the information he could command on the shape, structure, and use of the bones.

'And now the school-' he began.

'What is inside of the bones?' stolidly came from the corner where the quiet boy was sitting.

Mr. Dash never remembered what answer he gave, but the question and his despair fixed themselves in his memory.

Thirty-five years afterward he visited Washington, and entered the room where the Justices of the Supreme Court were sitting.

The Chief-Justice, the most learned and venerated jurist of the day, was a man like St. Paul, whose bodily presence was contemptible.

The stranger regarded him at first with awe, then with amazement.

'It is the boy who went inside of the fish's bones!' he exclaimed.

If he had not tried to go inside of every 'fish's bones' he would never have reached the lofty position which he held.

It is the boy who penetrates to the heart of the matter who is the successful scholar, and afterward lawyer, physician, philosopher, or statesman.

It is the man whose axe is laid to the root, not the outer branches, whose religion is a solid foundation for his life, here and beyond.

The Unlucky Throw.

WHEN I was a boy, like most other boys I often did idle and foolish things. One day, for instance, as I was walking up the street, I saw a broken china tea-cup in the road. Picking it up, instead of letting it alone, as I ought to have done, I began to toss it into the air. This I did several times

trying to throw it higher and higher with each new effort.

At last, thinking to toss it as high as the cornices of the house, I threw it with great energy. Alas, for me! My arm struck my side, and the unlucky piece of china went crashing through the window of a dwelling-house.

Without thinking of my duty, I took counsel of my fears only, and ran home as fast as my feet could carry me. Nor did I either pause or look back until I turned a corner.

Shortly after this misfortune, the son of the man whose window I had broken came home from play. Seeing the window broken, he stood outside with his hands in his pockets, looking at it. A man passing, said: 'Your father will think you broke that window, my little fellow, and he'll tickle your back with a raw-hide.'

·

'No, he wont,' said the boy, calmly, for I shall tell him I didn't do it.'

'You may tell him so, but will he believe you?' rejoined the man.

'To be sure he will. He always believes what I say.'

That was nobly said, and it was just so. That boy wore a diamond called truth on his heart, and his father knew that he could safely trust him.

Where was I! Well, I sneaked home, feeling that I had done a mean act in not going straight to the owner of the house and confessing my misfortune. For several days I carried my secret with me. It was like wearing a belt of burrs round my waist. It pained me badly. I was in torments, too, lest somebody had seen me, and should, after all, tell my father. At last my secret was dragged out. A person who knew me had seen me break the window, and had told the owner of the house about me. That gentleman knew my father, and the first time he saw him told him what I had done. My father paid for setting a new square of glass, and on his return home called me to his side. His face wore a stern expression. I trembled and blushed like a culprit, for I guessed he had found me out. Looking right into my eye, he said:

'Peter, did you break Mr. Comerford's window a few days ago?'

'Yes, sir,' I replied, holding down my head. 'What did you do that for?' asked my father, with less sternness in his manner.

The worst of my load was now gone. That secret millstone which had been crushing me was now rolled off, and I told my father all about the affair.

'Peter, my boy,' said my father, after hearing my story, 'I am glad you did not deny your guilt. I regret you did not play the man when your misfortune happened, by going to Mr. Comerford at once. But I honour you for frankly and truthfully answering my question. I have paid for the window. Go. Be more careful about tossing old china in the street, and, above all, if you should ever be unlucky or foolish enough to meet with a similar accident, don't run away like a sneak. Act the part of a thoroughly honest boy, and own your fault at once.'

I promised I would, and I tried to keep my promise. The advice my father gave me I commend to you, hoping that you will all remember that it is honest, noble, and manly to confess a fault, while to conceal it is to act the part of a coward.

'The Flowery Dell.'

THE dell which bears this pretty name is about a mile, or a mile and a quarter, from our village, and is a favourite resort of our young people in summertime. The name it has got is well fitting. I don't think I ever knew a spot so rich in wild flowers. To see it at its best, you must, of course, visit it in summer. In winter it is desolate and dreary enough, more likely to repel than to attract. Usually it puts on its gayest appearance about the end of May or beginning of June, when the hawthorn is in bloom. Later in the season, in July and August, there is a greater profusion and variety of wild flowers; and elderly people prefer to visit it then both on account of its quieter beauty and because the weather is warmer. But I always prefer it just between spring and summer, when it may be said to put on its bridal dress of pure white blossom. The dell abounds with clumps of old gnarled hawthorn, some of them covering quite a large space; and when these clumps are in full bloom the scene is beautiful beyond expression. The time of hawthorn blossom is also the time when birds are in full song, and the beauty of the scene is rendered all the more attractive by the sweet strains of music showered from among the branches. Every summer I make it a point to visit the dell two or three times in company with my scholars, one at least of the visits being paid when the hawthorn is in bloom; and many a pleasant and profitable talk I have with them as we saunter together in that charming spot, plucking the wild flowers and listening to the birds.