mōult all its feathers, she said, "little Bîrd," why do you mōult your feathers?" "Oh!" sang the little Bîrd, "Titty's dead and Tatty weeps, the Stool hops and the Bēṣom sweeps, the Door järs and the Window creaks, the ōld Form runs round the house, the Wâlnut-tree sheds its leaves, and so I mōult my feathers." "Well then," said the little Girl, "I'll spill the milk, and she let fâll the pitcher and spilt the milk.

Now close by was an old Man on the top of a ladder thatching a stack of corn; and when he saw the little Girl spill her milk, he call'd out, "little Girl why have you spilt the milk, that was for your brother's and sister's supper?" "Oh!" said the little Girl, "Titty's dead and Tatty weeps, the Stool hops and the Bēṣom sweeps, the Dōor järs and the Window creaks, the ōld Form runs round the House, the Wâlnut-tree sheds its leaves, the little Bîrd mõults âll its feathers, and so I spill the milk." "Oh! said the ōld Man, "then I'll fâll and break my neck," and sō tumbled down from the ladder and broke his neck.

And when the ōld Man fell, the great Wâlnut-tree fell down with a crash, and upset the old Form, and knockt down the House,

and the House fâlling thrust the Window out, and the Window knockt down the Door, the Door threw down the Besom, the Bēṣom, turn'd the Stool ōver, and poor little Tatty Mouse was buried (pr. berrid) beneath the ruins!

THE CANARY BIRD.

Duties unfülfill'd are fertile sources of regret and anguish.

A little girl had once a beautiful canary bîrd. It sang from morning to night and was the delight of the whole house. But all at once the bîrd began to look dull and heavy, and one morning when the little girl came to feed him, the poor bîrd lay dead at the bottom of the cage. The child mōurn'd grievously for the loss of her little favorite; but her mother brought her another bird, which sang as delightfully as the first, and even surpast it in beauty of color, and put it into the cage. The gîrl, however, wept still more bitterly when she saw the new bîrd. Her mother was surprised at this, and askt her why she grieved and wept thus. "Your tears," said she, cannot recâl the dead bird to life, and here I have brought you another, in every respect as good as that which was lost. "Ah! my dear mother," replied the

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girl, "I was not so kind to the poor bird as I ought to have been!"" "My dear child," answer'd her mother, "have you not always attended him carefully?" Alas, no!" said the child, "just before he died, you gave mē a lump of sugar for him, but I eat it myself." Thus spake the girl, and again she wept. But the mother did not smile at the grief of her daughter, for she recognised and reverenced the hōly voice of nāture in the heart of the child. "What," thought shẽ, "must be the feelings of an ungrateful child at the grave of its parents!"-Krummacher.

GOD EVERY WHERE.

A certain Dervise once met on the borders of a deşert, a young man who was running along in great haste. Where gōëst thou, mỹ son? said the dervise, I am flying from God, replied the young man, for I have offended him. Alas! said the dervise, and whither wilt thou fly? I will fly to the woods, or the caverns, or the great deşert, was the reply, Son! said the dervise, how knowest thou, when thou seest not thy fellow-men, that thou art surrounded by them? I know it by the habitations they have builded, and by the works of their

hands. And how knowest thou, continued the dervise, that the wild-beasts are about thee when thine eye dişċerneth them not? I knōw it by the noise of their roaring, and by the print of their footsteps on the sand. Fly where thou wilt, said the dervise, the same märks of the Hōly One will surround thee. The young man retraced his steps, and, convinced that God was everywhere, sought His forgiveness, whose justice he could not avoid.

THE BUCKWHEAT.

If, after a tempest, you chance to wâlk through a field where Buckwheat is growing, you may observe that it is burnt as black as though a flame of fire had past ōver it; and should you ask the reason, the peasant will tell you, "That the lightning has done it."

But how is it that the lightning has done it? I will tell you what the Sparrow tōld mē; and the Sparrow heard the story from an ōld Willow-tree, which grew, and still grōwṣ clōse to a field of Buckwheat.

This Willow-tree is tâll and highly respectable; but, at the same time ōld and wrinkled ; its trunk has been riven asunder from top to bottom; grass and brambles grow out of the

gap; the tree bends forward, and the branches hang down almost to the ground, looking like long green hair.

There were different kinds of corn growing in the fields around the willow; rye, wheat, and oats the beautiful oats, whose ears, when they are ripe, look like a number of little ÿellōw canary-birds sitting upon one branch. The corn ears were richly blest; and the füller they were, the lower they bow'd their heads in pious humility.

But there was âlsō a field of Buckwheat, lying just in front of the ōld Willow-tree; the Buckwheat bow'd not like the rest of the corn; he stood stiff and proud.

"I am quite aș rich as the wheat," said hē ; "and, besides I am so much more handsome; my flowers are as beautiful as the blossoms of the apple-tree; it is delightful to look at mē and my companions. Do you know anything mōre beautiful than wē are, ÿoü ōld Willōwtree ?"

And the Willow-tree bent his head, as much as to say, "Yes, indeed I do!" But the Buckwheat was puft up with pride, and said, "The stupid tree! he is sō ōld that grass is growing out of his body."

Now came on a dreadfül storm; all the