April 7th.-I could not any longer bear to picture my poor George looking out in vain for his white cat; but lest graver readers may deem such fantastic adventures out of time and place just now, I have culled from the portfolio a little anecdote more suitable to the present pensive season. The writing is Aunt Nelly's own-no mistake; but although related by her in the first person, I half suspect that I myself must be the heroine of the subjoined tale, well remembering what a restless little plague of a mortal I was, ever inflicting on that meek loving spirit more trouble than all the rest put together. The anecdote brings back to my recollection my general deportment under those same extra-readings-how I sought to beguile the tedium of inaction by counting over the nails on the chairs, the spots on every body's gown, twisting my pocket-handkerchief into ropes, tracing Cherokee faces on the paper, turning down make-believe hems, pulling threads out of my pinafore; in short as the poet says of older-scarcely wiser triflers

My father was one of your old-fashioned practical as well as preaching pastors. It is not intended by the term old*"My bosom's lord sits lightly on his throne."-SHAKESPeare.

fashioned to intimate that there are not many such left in the land-GOD forbid! Only, the sort I have in my eye have, in many essential respects, grown out of fashion. Excellent sermons he gave us-though I won't pretend to say that I, as well as an old Scotch cook we had, did not pronounce them "a wee bit o'er lang"-but if we did so the fault was in us and not in the sermons. Be this as it might, his domestic preachments were rare and short; he rather loved to convey his reproofs through some little quiet, practical lesson, than by means of grave and set lectures, and I can't help fancying the result was more effectual,-it was certainly more abiding, for I remember to this day a rebuke of the kind in question. It was during Passion-week, when, instead of the pithy morsel of theology he was in the habit of reading to his family before prayers, he gave us the Gospels appointed for the day. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday,-each Gospel seemed to me longer than that of the day before, and I of course grew more and more fidgety, casting wishful eyes in the direction of the breakfast-table, and speculating how much of three tempting snow-white eggs would fall to my share-the overplus of these good things being generally regarded by us children as a sort of lapse-luxury; and I had observed, (for what reason I could not tell,) that my father had forborne to eat his for several days. From this last mentioned circumstance I was the more surprised to see him walk straight up to the chimney-piece on Thursday morning, take from it an egg-glass, and place it advisedly by the side of his Prayer Book. Some tedious moments were beguiled by wondering to myself what he could mean. At last I settled it in my own mind that he had mistaken it for his watch, being one of those quaint blunders which the over-studious often commit to the high diversion of their less reflective neighbours. I accordingly glanced at my sister the look of arch intelligence we were wont to exchange whenever papa-his kind head occupied by some scheme for the good of others—might happen to dip his pen into grandmamma's snuff-box, or mount her spectacles on his already saddled nose. But, as it appeared by the sequel, he knew very well what he was about.

The last sand of the little time-piece had hardly run out when my father, having closed the Prayer Book, restored it to its former station on the chimney-piece.

"Who is for an egg?" cried he, advancing to us children, and temptingly balancing one in each hand. You," pointedly

addressing poor me; "I am sure you will not refuse?"

"But papa-it is not boiled."

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That, indeed," replied he, shaking his head and resuming his

seat-"I had forgotten the great length of time it would take in boiling that puts it quite out of the question-you could not have patience to wait for it."

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Why, papa! you are joking-it wouldn't take a minute." "Five, my dear-you like it hard, and it would take full five minutes, so we had better not think of it."

"Five minutes, papa-why, that's no time at all."

"Ha, say you so? But you seemed to think differently just now when I read to you that chapter containing the most important record that was ever delivered to mankind."

I remembered the weariness of flesh and spirit which I had shown, and stood convicted.

"Yes," pursued my father, "you little thought that that portion of Scripture relating in sequence the Institution of the Holy Communion, our LORD's Agony, His betrayal, the personal contumely, so accurately, so affectingly foretold by the evangelical Prophet, with the beautiful episodes of the sleeping and denying Disciples, occupied no more than the five minutes you are so ready to bestow on the boiling of an egg! Alas, my poor child," continued the kind man, pitying my confusion, and gently drawing me between his knees, "Who among us shall cast the first stone at thee?"

THOUGHTS FOR MAY-DAY.

MOST of us have read, and those of us who are stricken in years may remember for themselves, with what joy and gladness Mayday was looked forward to, and welcomed. We all know, at least by hearsay, the simple sports and innocent festivities by which, in districts remote from the withering influences of the city, the children of the poor expressed their delight at the annual returns of this fair day. For it spake of spring, and genial skies, and bright sunshine, and beautiful flowers, which were then peeping forth to cheer the eye and gladden the heart.

Doubtless, in remote and distant places, even now, where old customs have not been ruthlessly swept away, May-day is still marked by the guileless mirth of light and happy hearts. But this, although pure and innocent, has yet a taint of earth. It needs to be elevated and purified, by being mixed with something higher and more noble. Nor has the Church suffered it to escape her watchful glance. Like a wise and prudent mother, she does not repress her children's joy; she does no violence to the instincts of their nature. She regulates them; she comes to them, and she says, "Rejoice, and again, I say, rejoice, but in the LORD." She too culls her choicest flowers, but they are the flowers of martyrdom; she too weaves chaplets and garlands, but they are of the

palm-branch, and are watered with the life-blood of the holy Apostles S. Philip and S. James.

These two servants of the Most High speak to us in accents very suited to this season; but before we pursue the thoughts thus suggested, let us see what we can gather from Holy Scripture respecting them.

S. Philip was a native of Bethsaida, and among the first constant followers of our Blessed LORD. When he was convinced himself, he was eager to spread the truth to others. Accordingly he communicated his discovery of MESSIAH to Nathanael, who is the same person as S. Bartholomew, "the Israelite without guile." S. Philip is mentioned once or twice in the Gospels, as when our LORD, before the miraculous multiplying of the loaves, tried his faith, by asking him what he should do to feed so great a multitude. He is introduced also as receiving a gentle reproof at the last Paschal Supper, for not having sufficiently profited by our LORD's instructions," Hast thou been so long time with Me, and yet hast thou not known Me, Philip?" Nothing more is related of him beyond his concurrence in the election of S. Matthias. Ancient writers tell us, that he was martyred at Hierapolis, a city in a part of Asia called Phrygia.

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As for S. James, we must not confound him with S. James the Great, the son of Zebedee. The saint of to-day was related to our LORD, and is called by S. Paul James the LORD's brother. term among the Jews signified any degree of relationship. We should say that S. James was our LORD's cousin, according to the flesh; for we are told in another place that his mother was sister to the Blessed Virgin. After the LORD'S Ascension, when the other Apostles went forth to preach the Gospel in distant lands, S. James remained behind, and presided over the Church of Jerusalem. Hence he is generally called the first Bishop of Jerusalem. He appears in Acts xv. as summing up, and declaring the opinions of the assembled apostles and elders respecting the Mosaic law. The epistle which bears his name was written by him. He was a man of great piety, and of singular humility; very constant in prayer, and powerful in intercession. At the age of ninety-six, he was cruelly murdered by the Jews.

Such are the two Apostles whom the Church holds in honour to-day. "They were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided." "Their bodies are buried in peace, but their name liveth for evermore." "The people tell of their wisdom, and the congregation show forth their praise." They are at rest. They reign with CHRIST in glory. "How are they numbered with the children of GoD, and their lot is among the saints." Now if we pursue the line of thought which is suggested by this beautiful spring season, we shall find how it harmonises with the teaching of Holy Church.

Let us then try to weave a crown not only of the flowers of nature, but also of those more choice and costly ones, which can only be cultivated and reared in the Paradise of GOD.

Very beautiful and pleasing to the eye of man are the gentle flowers,

"Sweet nurslings of the vernal skies,
Bathed in soft airs, and fed with dew."

In these "relics of Eden's bowers," we may see our own history shadowed forth. The bud of spring, the full bloom of summer, the decay of autumn, the total vanishing away during winter,-in these we see the history of man's life from the cradle to the tomb. Thus the seed hidden in the cold bosom of the earth, perishes to all appearance, and seems to be without power ever to shoot forth again; yet when the time has come, and " the winter is past, and the rain is over and gone, then do the flowers appear again upon the earth; the fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell." How fully does this set forth the great mystery of the Resurrection when the corruptible body shall rise in incorruption, and the mortal be clothed with immortality!

Then again what a relief to our eyes are these beautiful offsprings of nature! With what pleasure do we gaze upon them! They seem to speak of another and a brighter world. Our thoughts invariably connect them with the green bowers, and cool resting places of the land of promise. Similar are the associations conjured up by the spiritual man, when as to-day the Church presents us with her choice garlands woven of flowers not of the fields of this earth, but from the garden of Eden, which He has watered with His Blood. When we read (as to-day) of men like ourselves with the same nature, passions, appetites, desires as we have, yet endued with such strength of the HOLY GHOST that they laid down their lives in cruel torments for CHRIST and His Gospel, surely our hearts must burn within us! Surely we may take courage for ourselves. Surely we may believe that all our present trials and perplexities will end in as great a triumph, through the aid of the same HOLY SPIRIT, as their's did. Only like them, we must do our duty manfully, and battle for God's truth.

Again, Christian reader, turn your eyes on those sweet flowers which at this beautiful spring time nature pours forth with such a lavish hand. How have they attained such perfection? Did they at once burst into these elegant forms? Did they at once assume these delicate tints? Did they at once contract such fragrance? No. It has been a work of time. The process has been slow and gradual.