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echo down in the hollow form that confined the imprisoned, miserable soul. That soul was overwhelmed by the unexpected love from those realms afar. One of God's angels wept for her! Why was this vouchsafed to her? The tortured spirit gathered, as it were, into one thought, all the actions of its life,—all that it had done, and it shook with the violence of its remorse, -remorse such as Inger had never felt. Grief became her predominating feeling. She thought that for her the gates of mercy would never open, and as in deep contrition and self-abasement she thought thus, a ray of brightness penetrated into the dismal abyss,-a ray more vivid and glorious than the sunbeams which thaw the snowy figures that the children make in their gardens. And this ray, more quickly than the snow flake that falls upon a child's warm mouth can be melted into a drop of water, caused Inger's petrified figure to evaporate, and a little bird arose, following the zigzag course of the ray, up towards the world that mankind inhabit. But it seemed afraid and shy of everything around it; it felt ashamed of itself, and apparently wishing to avoid all living creatures, it sought, in haste, concealment in a dark recess in a crumbling wall. Here it sat, and it crept into the farthest corner, trembling all over. It could not sing, for it had no voice. For a long time it sat quietly there before it ventured to look out and behold all the beauty around. Yes, it was beauty! The air was so fresh, yet so soft; the moon shone so clearly; the trees and flowers scented so sweetly; and it was so comfortable where she sat,-her feather garb so clean and nice! How all creation told of love and glory! The grateful thoughts that awoke in the bird's breast she would willingly have poured forth in song, but the power was denied to her. Yes, gladly would she have sung as do the cuckoo and the nightingale in spring. Our gracious Lord, who hears the mute worm's hymn of praise, understood the thanksgiving that lifted itself up in the tones of thought, as the psalm floated in

David's mind before it resolved itself into words and melody.

As weeks passed on these unexpressed feelings of gratitude increased. They would surely find a voice some day, with the first stroke of the wing, to perform some good act. Might not this happen?

Now came the holy Christmas festival. The peasants raised a pole close by the old wall, and bound an unthrashed bundle of oats on it, that the birds of the air might also enjoy the Christmas, and have plenty to eat at that time which was held in commemoration of the redemption brought to mankind.

And the sun rose brightly that Christmas morning, and shone upon the oatsheaf, and upon all the chirping birds that flew around the pole; and from the wall issued a faint twittering. The swelling thoughts had at last found vent, and the low sound was a hymn of joy, as the bird flew forth from its hiding-place.

The winter was an unusually severe one. The waters were frozen thickly over; the birds and the wild animals in the woods had great difficulty in obtaining food. The little bird, that had so recently left its dark solitude, flew about the country roads, and when it found by chance a little corn dropped in the ruts, it would eat only a single grain itself, while it called all the starving sparrows to partake of it. It would also fly to the villages and towns, and look well about; and where kind hands had strewed crumbs of bread outside the windows for the birds, it would eat only one morsel itself, and give all the rest to the others.

At the end of the winter the bird had found and given away so many crumbs of bread, that the number put together would have weighed as much as the loaf upon which little Inger had trodden in order to save her fine shoes from being soiled; and when she had found and given away the very last crumb, the gray wings of the bird became white, and expanded wonderfully.

" It is flying over the sea !” exclaimed the children, who saw the white bird. Now it seemed to dip into the ocean, now it rose into the clear sunshine; it glittered in the air ; it disappeared high, high above; and the children said that it had flown up to the sun.

ENOCH ARDEN'S vow.

Fred. B. Gray.
Not to tell her, never to let her know
All the grief I've suffered, all the woe;
And how, when nearly broken-hearted,
The thought of her relief imparted, -

Do not tell her, never let her know.

How, when wreck'd upon that sea-girt isle,
Doom'd there to rest that weary, weary while;
One thought alone my drooping heart did cheer,
And that one thought was of my Annie dear. -

Do not tell her, never let her know.

How I, for years, no human voice did hear,
And all around me then was dark and drear ;
Still in my dreams I always back did roam,
To my own dear wife, my long'd for home.

Do not tell her, never let her know.

How, when I woke and found 'twas but a dream,
And loneliness more lonely then did seem,
I almost pray'd for everlasting sleep; .
Alas! my only pleasure was to weep !-

Do not tell her, never let her know.

How, when at length a ship, indeed, appeared,
And human voices once again I heard,
I gave great thanks, and knelt upon the shore,
Thinking that then my troubles all were o'er.-

Do not tell her, never let her know.

How when I trod upon the well-known beach, And by the old, old track, my home did reach, With drooping heart my downcast eyes I raised; All, all was dark, which ever way I gazed.

Do not tell her, never let her know.

How, when I thought her dead, I made no cry:
My end, I felt, was drawing very nigh,
And in that world where no one e'er knows pain,
I thought, my own one, we shall meet again.-

Do not tell her, never let her know.

How when at length the bitter truth I knew,
And her, his, happy home, by stealth did view,
I made a vow which ne'er shall broken be,
And what that was I'll now reveal to thee,-
'Twas not to tell her, never to let her know.

(Copyright-contributed.)

THE PLOUGHMAN AND THE POSER.

ANONYMOUS.
HODGE, a poor honest country lout,

Not over-stock'd with learning,
Chanced on a summer's eve to meet

The vicar, home returning.

" Ah ! Master Hodge,” the vicar said,

“What, still as wise as ever ? The people in the village say,

That you are wond'rous clever.”

" Why, Master Parson, as to that,

I beg you'll right conceive me, I donna brag, but still I know

A thing or two, believe me.”

“ I'll try your skill," the vicar said,

“For learning what digestion, Which soon you'll prove, if right or wrong,

By solving me a question. “ Noah of old three children had,

Or grown up children rather, Shem, Ham, and Japhet, they were callid,

Now, who was Japhet's father ?"

6 Ad zook !" cried Hodge, and scratched his

head,
6 That does my wits belabour;
But homeward howsome'er I'll run,

And ax old Giles my neighbour.”
To Giles he went, and put the case,

With circumspect intention. 6. Thou fool!” cried Giles, “ I'll make it clear

To thy dull comprehension. “ Three children has Tom Long, the smith,

Or cattle-doctor, rather,
Tom, Dick, and Harry, they are call'd,

Now, who is Harry's father ?"

“Ad rot it,” honest Hodge replies,

“Right well I know your lingo; Who's Harry's father ?-stop, here goes,

Why, Tom Long Smith, by jingo.”

Away he ran, to meet the Priest,

With all his might and main, Who with good humour instant put

The question once again.

“ Noah, of old, three babies had,

Or grown-up children, rather, Shem, Ham, and Japhet they were called,

Now, who was Japhet's father ?

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