until I was more composed, when I told her what had happened, and added, passionately, “I wish father wouldn't be a drunkard, so we could be respected as other folks." At first mother seemed

almost overwhelmed, but quickly rallying, said,

"My son, I feel very sorry for you, and regret that your feelings have been so injured. G. has twitted you about things you cannot help. But never mind, my son. Be always honest; never taste a drop of intoxicating liquor; study and improve your mind. Depend on your own energies, trusting in God, and you will, if your life is spared, make a useful and respected man. I wish your father, when sober, could have witnessed this scene, and realized the sorrow his course brings on us all. But keep a brave heart, my son. Remember you

are responsible only for your own faults. Pray God to keep you, and do not grieve for the thoughtless and unkind reproaches that may be cast on you on your father's account."

This lesson of my blessed mother, I trust, was not lost upon me. Nearly forty years have passed since that day, and I have passed many trying scenes; but none ever made so strong an impression on my feelings as that heartless remark of G's. It was so unjust and so uncalled for! Now, boys, remember

always to treat your mates with kindness. Never indulge in taunting remarks towards any one, and remember that the son of a poor man, and even of a drunkard, may have sensibilities as keen as your own.

But there is another part to this story. The other day, a gentleman called at my place of business, and asked if I did not recognize him. I told him I did not. "Do you remember," said he, "of being at a spelling school at a certain time, and a rude, thoughtless boy twitting you of poverty, and being a drunkard's son?" "I do most distinctly," said I. "Well," continued the gentleman, "I am that boy. There has not, probably, a month of my life passed since then but I have thought of that remark with regret and shame; and as I am about leaving for California, perhaps to end my days there, I could not go without first calling on you, and asking your forgiveness for that act." Boys, I gave him my hand as a pledge of forgiveness. Did I do right? You all say, yes. Well, then, let me close as I began. Boys, never twit another for what he cannot help.

CREATION'S WORK IS DONE.

WHEN half Creation's works were done, Just formed the stars, the glowing sun, And softly blushing skies;

And wide across earth's dewy lawn Gleamed the first glances of the morn, And flowers began to rise; —

Clad in her robe of tender green,
Nature delighted viewed the scene,
Pleased with each novel form;
And from each sweetly-blooming flower,
From hill, and vale, and shady bower,
She culled some lovely charm.

She took the balmy violets blue,
The sweet carnation's mellow hue,
Rich with the tears of night,
Though the young beam of rising day
Had melted half that tear away,

In the first stream of light;

And now in majesty arrayed,
Her last, her fairest work she made,

Almost a seraph's frame;

To animate this form was given
A gentle spirit, sent from heaven,

And WOMAN was her name!

Hark! hark! she speaks, and silver strains,
Melodious, floating o'er the plains,

A thrilling joy impart;

A nightingale has caught the tone,
And made that melting voice his own,

That vibrates on the heart.

Fair Nature cast her glance around
The glowing sky, the flowery ground,
The day-diffusing sun;

On woman last, her beauteous child,

She gazed, and said, with accents mild,
"Creation's work is done."

GOOD TEMPER.

SINCE trifles make the sum of human things,
And half our misery from our foibles springs;
Since life's best joys consist in peace and ease,
And though but few can serve, yet all may please;
O, let the ungentle spirit learn from hence

A small unkindness is a great offence.

LESSONS OF CONTENTMENT.

Ir happened once on a hot summer's day, says a German parable, I was standing over a well, when a little bird flew down, seeking water. There was, indeed, a large trough near the well, but it was empty, and I grieved for a moment to think that the little creature must go away thirsty; but it settled upon the edge of the trough, bent its little head forward, then raised it again, spread its wings, and soared away, singing its thirst was appeased. I walked up to the trough, and there in the stone work I saw a little hole about the size of a wren's egg. The water left there had been a source of revival and refreshment; it had found enough for the present, and desired no more. This is content

ment.

Again, I stood by a lovely, sweet-smelling flower; and there came a bee, humming and sucking, and chose the flower for its field of sweets. But the flower had no honey. This I knew, for it had no nectary. What then, thought I, will the bee do?