Alfred made no parade of his own agency in the plan. "Here, boys'," said he', presenting the two which he had in his hand', while the others did the same`, "should you like to have some whistles'?" This was all that he had to

do or say about it. The little boys were delighted with being able to make so much noise as the united sound of all the instruments produced'; and Alfred felt quite as happy as they.

So far from wishing to secure the best of every thing to himself, Alfred would generally save the prettiest flowers', or the finest fruit he met with, for his little sisters', or for one of his companions.

Who can doubt that Alfred enjoyed as much from his manner of disposing of the largest strawberries, and the most beautiful roses which he found', as George Sanders did in eating his sister's apple', for which he bargained so advantageously'?

LESSON XXIX.

THE LOST DOG.

THERE was once a dog whose name was Rover. He had a kind and indulgent master, who gave him plenty of food to eat, and milk to drink. He also allowed this favorite dog to lie on the hearth-rug before the fire, in the daytime', and provided him with a nice bed of hay at night.

The dog was therefore very fond of his master'; and when he saw him approaching, he would wag his tail', prick up his ears', and jump for joy. He always went out walking with him wherever he went', and had many a pleasant

ramble in the fields and woods.

But Rover loved to wander. He wanted liberty to go off to a distance from his master, who was obliged to keep him by his side', for fear he should get lost. This the dog thought very hard. "Why may I not sometimes go out alone'?" said he. "Other dogs go where they please', and come back when they please'; and I am determined that I will do the same."

So, on one fine afternoon, when his master had gone out', Rover set off to take a ramble in the woods. The air was very warm and pleasant', and he was delighted to roam about at his ease', and chase the birds and squirrels that came in

his way.

Time flew on so rapidly that the poor dog did not observe that the sun was just setting, and that he was far from home. He, however, being at length fatigued, turned about', and set off for home. But he was quite bewildered, and could not find the way back.

Poor Rover! He now wished that he had not left his kind master and good home', for he feared he should never see either of them again. He left the woods and went into the road', to see if he could get into some house where he might sleep for the night.

While he was going from place to place, in this disconsolate manner, a poor man, who was going home to his family after a hard day's work', had compassion upon him' and

took him with him.

But, in this poor man's house' he had nothing but a cold stone floor to lie upon; and he dared not go near the fire', because the cottager's wife, who could not bear to have a dog in the housé, kicked and beat him every time he ventured near her. He had no soft bed made for him at night', and as for food', there was hardly enough for the children', so that Rover was fed but sparingly.

How bitterly did the poor dog now lament that he had left his kind master', and good home! How often did he try to find his way back'! But it was all in vain. He did not live long after this change of circumstances. He pined away', and soon died of hunger and grief.

There are many little children like Rover', who do not know what is best for them', and who are discontented with what their parents and friends do for them. If they are denied any gratification which they desire, they are apt to seek it, in spite of all warning', and are sure to be sufferers for so doing.

LESSON XXX.

THE LOVE OF EASE.

In a dirty, ruinous looking house, that stood in one of the back streets of a smoky town, there lived an elderly man of the name of Smith. Very few people knew, and fewer cared', any thing about him; yet it was impossible to pass his abode without noticing the broken window panes mended with paper, or stuffed with rags, and the wretched courtyard overgrown with nettles', and bestrewed with fragments of earthenware'; the appearance of the whole bespeaking the sloth and misery of the owner. Smith himself was not often visible, but occasionally he might be seen on a sunshiny morning, leaning with his arms folded over the pales of his yard', basking in the heat like his old tabby cat. And sometimes on a dark evening, his long, lean, shabby figuré might be discerned hovering over a handful of fire in his rusty grate. It is true that there are, in every town', individuals equally wretched and comfortless'; and it is also true that in most, if not in every instance of the kind', there is more of fault than of misfortune. But, in the case of Smith, it is worthy of record', that he was a man remarkable for his relish for the good and agreeable things of life. Though he was wretched', he had certainly no taste for wretchedness'; though he was destitute of pleasuré, pleasure was the thing he most desired. From his early childhood his love of gratification was so great, that whenever an opportunity offered, he never failed to avail himself of it'; whether to do so were right or wrong', in season' or out of season', he would deny himself no enjoyment thên; by which means he is denied every enjoyment now. So improvident are the indulgent', even in scorning the very things that are most valued by

them!

Smith was apprenticed to an honest trade', and he wanted not ability to become more than ordinarily expert in it. But whenever his master's back was turned, he thought it more agreeable to gossip over the fire with his fellow-apprentices', to crack a pocket full of nuts', to play a game of whist', to read a dirty novel', or even to sit resting his head on his hands, over the bench', than to go on with his work. Thus, at the end of seven years, he left his master with an imper

fect knowledge of his business', an indifferent character', and, worse than all', with desultory and idle habits.

Now, if he had but so far denied himself while he was an apprentice, as to have applied diligently to his business', he might have earned money enough as a journeyman to procure him all those comforts and enjoyments of which he was so fond. But instead of this, he was obliged to get work at low wages', when and where he could'; so that he was poor', though he hated poverty`, and he that was so fond of dainty fare' had many a scanty meal.

Having, as before hinted, read a great many worthless novels during his apprenticeship', his indolent mind was often occupied in the injurious habit of castle building. There was no handsome and gallant chevalier in old romance', no elegant and accomplished hero of modern tale', with whom this meager', threadbare, and dirty journeyman', would not at times identify himself. "Who knows'," he would often think', "but I may one day happen to have good luck: some do', and why should not I?" Those persons have always the highest expectations from luck who are least disposed to make use of their cunning. The many hours, in every week, that poor Smith sat dreaming over his hopes and his wishes for prosperity, would have done a great deal, well employed', to help him out of adversity. But it was much easier, he thought', to sit still' and wish for wealth and honor', than to work hard for competence and credit. At any rate, he would not', or, as he thought', he could not', deny himself this unprofitable amusement. Besides', he knew very well, that the utmost diligence in his business would do no more than enable him to live with credit and comfort in his present rank of life'; and that' did not at all meet the ideas of one who was so familiar with great names', and high life', as are all readers of fiction'; so he preferred to wait for the incalculably small chances of fortune, rather than to accept the certain rewards of industry. He thought the outside of a palace' better than the inside of a cottage.

Every one who loves pleasure, knows how indispensable health is to the enjoyment of it'; yet those who most value their easé, are generally the least careful in preserving it. Little acts of indulgence commonly introduce strong habits of intemperance. Thus Smith quickly lost one of the great advantages of honest poverty-health. Surely, it must

have been a great denial to one who was so fond of pleasure', to be always in pain! He had better have denied himself.

there

But how many people live in comfort and credit, who are yet little practiced in the art of self-denial. If indulgence always reduced one to wretchedness and contempt', would be nothing to be said for it. Nor is there any thing to be said for it', although the degrees of outward misery to which it subjects individuals are various. It is truly remarked by Dr. Johnson' that, "in proportion as we consult our ease, we part from happiness';" yes', in exact proportion. It is not necessary to be dirty', ragged, hungry', solitary', and despised', in order to be uncomfortable. A man, reclining on the softest couch, in the most splendid apartments in the world', surrounded with obsequious attendants, and pampered with every delicacy', may be pretty nearly as devoid of comfort as poor Smith in his miserable house. Few per

sons are more uneasy than they who are quite at ease.

If, then, the indulgent, and pleasure-loving, had but a little more forethought and consideration', they would become self-denying out of mere selfishness'; from a conviction that round about is the nearest way to happiness.

How happy are they who, from better motives than their own immediate gratification, have learned to take up, daily, the light cross'; to bring every thought', word', and action', into captivity', and holy obedience'; and who thus reap the large benefit of present comfort, and satisfaction', with the good hope of an eternal reward!

LESSON XXXI.

THE MOTH.

A MILD September evening'-twilight already stealing over the landscape'-shades yonder sloping cornfield, whence the merry reapers have this day borne away the last sheaf. A party of gleaners have since gathered up the precious fragments. Now, all are gone'; the harvest moon is up'; a low mist rising from the river floats in the valley. There is

a gentle stirring amongst the leaves of the tall elm that shades our roof-all besides is still. The gray and quiet scene invites reflection.