ing his arms around him, and melting into tears. "What has happened, my dear Lionel?" exclaimed Edward, eagerly-for his friend, in the excess of his emotion, was at first unable to proceed" your worthy father, is he well?” “Oh, then you have forgiven us!" cried Lionel, sobbing. "Forgiven! Lionel; alas! I had nothing to forgive! That you were offended with me I perceived with sorrow; but could you have. known my motives-and you shall know them." "They are known and appreciated," interrupted Lionel "those beautiful drawings are now my father's; but he would fain ask something more valuable than even those-your friendship through life for one, who hopes never again to wrong by unworthy suspicion him whose friendship is beyond all price." "Your affection rates it far too highly," returned Edward, much affected; "but whatever be its worth, it is yours." "Permit me to ratify that treaty," said Mr. Rivers, advancing, "by taking your future fortunes on myself: your good mother's difficulties shall be cared for. You know not, perhaps, that I am the relative, who, deceived by false representations, have hitherto so inadequately discharged the duties which past obligation no less than the ties of

blood imposed upon me. For the future this

shall be amended."

Mr. Rivers amply and honourably kept his word. Edward became the college companion of Lionel, and at the request of his patron entered in due time into holy orders. Mr. Rivers has been dead some years: his son is now the proprietor of Rivers Park, and Edward the incumbent of the adjacent rectory; nor does the clerical profession boast a more worthy member than he, who, without neglecting his higher duties, still steals an occasional hour for the indulgence of that favourite art to which his mother ever fondly attributes his prosperous fortunes. We are assured also, that every succeeding year only tends to cement more strongly the friendship of the Lord of the Manor and the WIDOW's SON.

INFANCY.

SWEET days of harmless infancy !--
Who would not be a child,
To lie upon a mother's lap,
And have each pain beguiled!

To smile at her maternal voice-
To know her fond caress--
To be, by her, first taught to love,
In nestling to her breast!

The tender, little, darling child,
A mother's care to claim;

And, by her lips, learn how to speak
A mother's dear, dear name!

To sit upon a father's knee,

His kiss and smile to share;
By him, in gentle words, be taught
To lisp meek childhood's prayer!

These, these, indeed, are days of bliss-
The happiest we can see:
Who would not be again restored

To guileless infancy!

THE BIRDS AND THE CHERRIES.

BY JAMES MONTGOMERY.

"And is it true?"—A Child's Question.

COME, young lady, and I will tell you a story about an old man and his daughter-a good old man, and a dutiful daughter. If you have a father, I wish he may live as long and as well as that father did, and that you may always be as kind and attentive to him as she was to her infirm parent. Well then, these two lived in a very comfortable cottage, surrounded by a garden and orchard, at a village not a hundred miles from Derby.

Year after year, however, they were robbed of the cherries, which grew on a very fine tree, by those unconscionable-that is a hard word, but I have not an easier at hand-year after year, I say, they were robbed of their cherries by those unconscionable thieves, the bullfinches, sparrows, chaffinches, blackbirds, and others that flock together, as you know birds of a feather will do, for the sake of living deliciously, during

that merry season. Now, though they were very welcome, for the sweet music which they made morning and evening-ay, and all day long-to a good share of the fruit, it was really too bad to take all; or rather, after eating the best to leave hardly any thing-but what they had spoiled by picking away the nicest partsfor the owners, who, being neither winged nor light-footed, might as well have expected that the rogues would have come into their hands for whistling, as thought of catching them in any other way for the purpose of gentle correction. And yet, if the saucy things had been made prisoners when they lighted on the ground, by stopping to pick their wings till the good people threw salt upon their tails, I believe their smartest punishment would have been no more than the loss of a feather from that part where the plucking it out would least hurt them.

Finding all other means of persuasion or terror, to bring the little marauders to reason, quite in vain, the father and daughter set themselves to work, and what do you think they did?— Why, they made an old woman of straw, and having duly apparelled her in gown, apron, bonnet, and broad shawl-or red cloak, I forget which-John, the stocking-weaver, seated her