"No," said the little girl, "I was just going to tell you, that I did carry the nosegay a long way, till Dash put his nose into my basket and pulled it out, and shook it about on the road, till it was all covered with dust."

Polly made no reply. The next morning she gathered no more primroses, but got up at an early hour, learned her lessons, made herself very neat, and set off to school sooner than usual. She walked across the fields with a beating heart, but with a very resolute expression of countenance. When she got to the house where Miss Annie lived, she did not hesitate a moment, but rang at the bell and asked to speak to her, and the moment her little friend appeared, she said in a great hurry, "O, if you please, Miss, I'm very sorry I was so ungrateful about the sum, and I'm sure, I beg your pardon; I hope you'll forgive me."

Her little friend looked almost as uncomfortable as herself, and said hastily, "Never mind, Polly, we'll make it up; I am sorry too, for I was cross; do'nt cry.'

66 But you

think I'm ungrateful, I know.”

"O, no, I think nothing of the kind; and besides that, I used to teach you for my own pleasure as well as your good; so you see we had much better forget it and be friends again."

"O yes, Miss, pray do," exclaimed Polly, drying her tears; and so in three minutes the whole of this formidable business was over, and Polly was on her road to school again.

What a pity it is I did not do it a week ago, she thought; what miserable days I have had to be sure.

When Polly came home from school, she thought she had never been so happy and never been out on such a fine sunshiny day; she set off on her weekly errand to the hall, in such high spirits, that she sang almost all the way there; and coming home again, she not only sang, but danced and drummed on the bottom of her flat basket, as if it had been a tambourine.

At last she saw a lady before her, whom she knew to be her Sunday school teacher. "Well, Polly," said Miss G-—, “I knew you generally had an errand here on Saturday, and I thought I would meet you to-day; I want to know why your lessons were so badly said last Sunday. I hope you know your hymn this week; I think you would hardly look so happy if you did not."

"O yes, ma'am, I know it," said Polly, "and I'm very happy."

Indeed, is there any particular reason ?"

"Particular, ma'am; Ah! I think you would say so if you knew."

'Suppose you let me know."

Polly hesitated, but after a little more questioning, she told

all about her little quarrel; how unhappy she had been all the week; and how at last she had acknowledged her fault, and been instantly forgiven.

Her teacher seemed to take a great interest in the tale; but when it was finished, instead of saying anything, she stopped, and shading her eyes with her hand, looked attentively towards a distant clump of high trees.

"What are you looking at, ma'am ?" asked Polly; "Oh, I know; at the rookery. What anumber of rooks are flying to their nests; I can hear the clamour of the little ones even here."

They look very beautiful against the deep blue of the sky," remarked her teacher.

"Ma'am," said Polly, "do you remember, last Saturday, my asking you what that meant, 'As the crow flies'?"

"Indeed I do; but I don't think you have remembered much about it, Polly."

"O yes I have, ma'am; almost every night I have looked at them flying home, like little black specks, when the sky was so red. One night it was so windy they could hardly fly straight. What makes you smile, ma'am ?"

"O Polly, Polly! you have not remembered to much purpose, if I may judge from this little story that you have been telling

me.

Polly looked up, and blushed. "I suppose, ma'am," she said, "it's the end of what you told me that I forgot."

"Yes;

the application."

"Well to be sure, ma'am! I never thought it had any thing to do with me; but it's difficult to remember about application.' "The most difficult part of every lesson, Polly, is its application. Only think, now, of your having spent a whole week in going by round-about ways; in stopping, and hesitating; changing your mind, and being hindered by every little obstacle that stood in the way, when five minutes would have brought you to your journey's end, if you had only set out on it, 'as the crow flies.'"

ORRIS.

WHAT BRAINERD SAID.

"I CARE not how, or where I live; or what hardships I go through, so that I may but win souls to Christ."-Youthful Christian, can you say the same?

CHRIST REVEALED.

THERE are three great questions which you, youthful reader, ought to carefully consider. They are questions relative to the highest interest of your being, and your answers involve facts which invest your conduct with the most solemn responsibility. What then are these

questions ?

The first is, DO I NEED A SAVIOUR? To answer this requires the ascertaining of two facts; one fact, that of Peril, and the other, that of Impossibility of self-salvation.

Are you then in Peril?-The Word of God says that you are. It says that all have sinned and come short of the glory of God. If all have sinned, you must be among the number. Despite your self-complacency the Bible proclaims you a guilty transgressor of a holy law. Despite your endeavours to evade the charge by assertions of comparative innocence, the Oracle replies, that although you are not as other men are, yet that having offended in one point you are reckoned guilty.

Conscience, your own conscience, confirms the accusation, and echoes it within the chambers of your soul. Recollections of sinful thoughts, words and actions flit gloomily across your mind. Fearful contemplations of the Divine Being indicate your want of moral repose. And the "aching void" which your heart is ever conscious of, even amidst the most exciting scenes of worldly pleasure, proves that you are afar off from God.

Can you deny the charge? Can you deny that you have already trembled at it, and wished, but dared not believe it untrue? Have not the " Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin," flashed in their awful brightness before your eyes?

If you are a sinner, you are in peril. For God has attached a penalty to every infraction of his law. Every lawgiver does so, or his laws would have no influence. The Divine Lawgiver therefore has given to his laws the most solemn sanctions which they can receive. He has declared that the soul that sinneth IT SHALL DIE. And what a death! A death that is always dying, and yet never dead! A death that does not refer so much to the body as to the soul, and inasmuch as the soul has capacities for feeling, far above those of the body, indicating tortures which no metaphors can fully represent, and no language properly describe. Fire may consume the quivering flesh, the worm may gnaw the yet conscious frame; but what is that quenchless Fire which the Mind shall feel, what is that undying Worm under which the Soul shall writhe!

Can you escape this peril? Not by any extenuating plea. To imagine that you have any is but to delude yourself by a transparent fiction. You cannot plead Ignorance, for the law is written upon your heart. You cannot plead Inability, for you know you have committed sins which you could have avoided. You cannot plead an amount of Merit compensating the charge of demerits, for your righteousnesses are but as filthy rags.

Can you escape this peril? Not by promises of future amendment. The Future is not the Past. If till your dying day you could keep from all sin, aye, from even a sinful thought, this would not obliterate the record of your guilt. God demands the holiness of a whole life, and by this supposition, you would only give him the holiness of a part of your life. This will not do!

Can you escape this peril? Not by mere repentance. Sorrow for a debt will not pay it. The thief's regret for having stolen will not save him from prison. The murderer has mourned in bitterness of feeling

over his monstrous crime, but does justice on this account lay aside its avenging sword? And can you hope by tears to pay God what you owe Him? Can you expect that regrets for the past will deliver you from going down to the pit"? Can you believe that being "pricked to the heart" will make the question less necessary, "What must I do to be saved ?"

Two things have now been proved,—that you are in peril, and, that you cannot save yourself. It is therefore evident that you need a Saviour.

Accordingly there is a second question which ought to occupy your mind, "HAS THE SAVIOUR I NEED

BEEN PROVIDED ?"

The design of this article is to bring clearly before your mind that there is " a Name under heaven given among men, whereby you must be saved." This name is the name of Jesus.

JESUS-the Son of God, co-equal with Him in existence, glory and power-the great Object of angelic worship-the Maker of all words-the Centre of all attraction, for "of Him, and through Him, and to Him, are all things."

JESUS-who beheld the misery of a lost and ruined world, and was moved with compassion by the sight of its woe, and the knowledge of its punishment: who determined to undertake the mighty task of reconciling it to God, and of rescuing from the grasp of the apostate spirit the fair creation wherein man once had walked upright and holy.

JESUS who laying aside his glory, leaving his exalted throne, and assuming the likeness of man, came down to our world, and tabernacled among us;—who was known as the Man of Sorrows, despised as the Carpenter's Son, forsaken as "stricken and smitten of God," and was crucified as a malefactor by the sinners He came to save!

JESUS-who having thus finished the work given Him to do, ascended up on high, leading captivity cap