ed parents', too well informed' to follow the advice of his friends', and by far too polite to practice the vulgar duties of his situation. He is now spending his days in idleness', as low in the estimation of others' as he is high in his own. If you wish to be a good man', a great man', a wise man', or a clever man', you must begin while you are a boy`, or you will never begin at all.

Be attentive to your manners. Those are the best manners which raise you in the opinion of others', without sinking you in your own. A poor widow once fell down and sprained her anklé, so that she could not walk', and a crowd soon gathered around her. One polite person pitied her'; another promised to make her case known'; when a plain, modest-looking man stepped forward', paid for a coach to carry her to her habitation', slipped a piece of money into her hand', and disappeared. One kind act done with simplicity is worth a thousand fine speeches.

If you wish for riches', the carvings and gildings of the rich man's monument are disfigured with cobwebs', and moldering away. If renown be the object of your ambition', the most distinguished men lie in stone', unnoticed', and their achievements are covered with the dust of death.

If, then, youth, manhood, and age' must die'-if riches, and honors, and worldly possessions must perish forever', how can you reflect on death without pain', and apprehension', and terror'?

The young and the old', the rich and the poor, the wise man and the fool', the brave man and the coward', all shrink from death', because it takes away all which they possess. He alone who has hopes beyond the gravé can reflect on death with composurè, with peacé, and with joy. The Ptolemies, who had temples erected to their memory'-the Cæsars and Alexanders, whose fame has been spread in the earth', would, in the hour of death', have given all their conquests, their riches, and their renown', for the hope of the poor man', whose soul magnifies the Lord', and whose spirit rejoices in God his Savior.

LESSON XXXVII.

CHILDREN AT PLAY.

Up in the morning,

66 as soon as the lark',"

Late in the evening when falleth the dark',
Come the sweet voices of children to me.

I am an old man, and my hair is grey',

But I sit in the sunshine to watch you at play';
And a kindlier current doth run through each vein',
And I bless you, bright creatures', again and again`.
I rejoice in your sports in the warm summer weather',
While hand lock'd in hand', ye are striving together.
For you, blessed creatures', you think not of sorrow`;
Your joy is to-day', and ye have no to-morrow.

Ay, sport ye and wrestle-be glad as the sun', And lie down to rest when your pastime is done'; For your dreams are of sunshine', of blossom and dew', And the "God of the blessed" doth watch over you', While the angels of heaven are missioned to keep', Unbroken', the calm of your innocent sleep'; And an old man's blessing doth over you dwell', The whole day long`;—and so, fare ye well.

LESSON XXXVIII.

THE WORM AND THE SNAIL.

A FABLE.

A LITTLE Worm too close that played
In contact with a gard'ner's spadé,
Writhing about in sudden pain,
Perceived that he was cut in twain';
His nether half', left short and freé,
Much doubting its identity.

However, when the shock was past',
New circling rings were formed so fast',
By nature's hand which fails her never',
That soon he was as long as ever.
But yet the insult and the pain',
This little reptile did retain',

In what, in man', is called the brain.
One fine spring evening, bright and wet,
Ere yet the April sun had set',
When slimy reptiles crawl and coil
Forth from the soft and humid soil',
He left his subterranean clay
To move along the gravelly way`;
Where suddenly his course was stopt
By something on the path that dropt';
When, with precaution and surprise,
He strait shrunk up to half his size.
That 'twas a stōne was first his notion',
But soon discovering locomotion',
He recognized the coat of mail,

And wary antlers of a snail',

Which some young rogué, (we beg his pardon,)
Had flung into his neighbor's garden.

The snail, all shattered and infirm',
Deplored his fate, and told the worm.
"Alas!" said hè, "I know it well',
All this is owing to my shell':
They could not send me up so high,
Describing circles in the sky',
But that, on this account', 'tis known
I bear resemblance to a stonè:
Would I could rid me of my case',
And find a tenant for the placè!
I'll make it known to all my kin`;—
'This house to let-inquire within.""

"Good!" says the worm, "the bargain's struck';

I take it, and admire my luck':

That shell, from which you'd fain be free,

Is just the very thing for me.

Oft have I wished, when danger calls,
For such impervious castle walls',
Both for defence and shelter made'
From greedy crow, and murderous spadè;

Yes', neighbor snail', I'll hire the room,
And pay my rent when strawberries come."
"Dō," says the snail', "and I declare,
You'll find the place in good repair';
With winding ways that will not fail'
To accommodate your length of tail.”
(This fact the wily rogue concealing-
The fall had broken in his ceiling'.)
"Oh," said the sanguine worm', "I knew
That I might safely deal with yoū.”
Thus was the tenement transferred,
And that without another word.

Off went the snail in houseless plight';
Alas! it proved a frosty night',
And ere a peep of morning light',
One wish supreme he found prevail';-
(In all the world this foolish snail
Saw nothing he would like so well')—
Which was that he had got a shell.
But soon for this he ceased to sigh':
A little duck came waddling by,
Which, having but a youthful bill,
Had ventured not so large a pill'
(E'en at imperious hunger's call')
As this poor reptilè, house and all.
But finding such a dainty bite
All ready to his appetite',

Down went the snail', whose last lament

Mourned his deserted tenement.

Mean time, the worm had spent his strength In vain attempts to curl his length

His small apartment's space about';
For head or tail must needs stick out.
Now, if this last was left', 'twas more
Exposed to danger than beforè,

And 'twould be vastly strange', he said`,
To sit in doors without one's head.
Alas! he now completely bears

The unknown weight of household cares';
And wishes much some kind beholder
Would take the burden off his shoulder.

Now broke the dawn'; and soon with fear, Feeling the shock of footsteps near',

He tried to reach that wished for goal',
The shelter of a neighboring holè;

Which proved, when danger threatened sore',
A certain refuge heretofore.

But failed him now this last resort':

His new appendage stopt him short`:
For all his efforts would not do
To force it in', or drag it through.

Oh then', poor worm'! what words can say
How much he wished his shell away!
But wishes all were vain', for oh!
The garden roller', dreaded foe'!
Came growling by`, and did not fail'
To crush our hero, head and tail',
-Just when the duck devoured the snail.

Thus says the fable': learn from hence, It argues want of common sense', To think our trials, and our labors, Harder and heavier than our neighbors': Or that 'twould lighten toils and cares', To give them ours' in change for theirs'; For whether man's appointed lot Be really equalized or not', (A point we need not now discuss',) Habit' makes ours the best to us.

LESSON XXXIX.

THE SILK-WORM.

THERE is no form, upon our earth',
That bears the mighty Maker's seal',
But has some charm-to draw this forth',
We need but hearts to feel.

I saw a fair young girl-her face

Was sweet as dream of cherish'd friend'Just at the age when childhood's grace' And maiden softness blend.