£t)f jFantily EmU. NOCTIiRN. filter into thy closet* amUbuttby door. —Matt. vi. 6. I sit in my silent chamber, And my Bpirit mounts in thought; Dear hour of Divine communion, That oft a deep joy hath wrought! And lot as in holy vision, The heavens unfold above, And there fall bright beams of glory, There is.breathed the breath of love, I see, through the amber portal, The angels of God descend ; “ God’s Host” —they are swift of pinion, And ever his saints attend ; I hear the celestial chorus, Harps touched with divinest skill, Tones sweeter than breathing zephyrs, That on my hushed soul distil. The praise of the Holiest hymning, The skies with the song resound ; The stars seem to join their voices, As they float in the dark profound; * And the loving Father of spirits, Though ruling all worlds the while, To the ” Sons of God” doth hearken, And sheddeth on them his smile! Ay, Lord, thou bendest yet lower ; The voices of earth dost hear; Dost catch each sigh of contrition, Dost note each glistening tear; My praise is to thee as incense, . For prayer thou returnest grace ; Not now may these eyes behold thee. But £ feel thy blest embrace. Why—why should I envy seraphs, That they stand so near the throne, If here thou dost deign to meet me. If here doßt thyself make known? If now in these evening shadows, This stillness of dying day, My soul may drink of thy fullness Till won from her griefs away ? My God, thy secret is with me, A secret I ne’er can tell; J ’Tia life, ’tis peace, ’tis rapture, When with me thou com’st to dwell; While the twilight shades grow, deeper, As spreadeth her wings the night, On me there falleth Thy splendor, And all is serenely bright. My finite and feeble spirit With thine the Infinite blends, Till with heaven’s own bliss o’erflowing, Her weary, vain quest she ends; As if on thy bosom lying, She findeth her wished-for rest, By Eternal Arms enfolded : Have ye more than this, ye blest? Ah, yes, ye spirits immortal, Ye are not to sense confined ; No law in your faultless being, When ye long to soar, doth bind; And I-too, at length ascending, From sense forever set free, Shall God-ward cleave the bright azure, A»glad and as pure as ye ! M feet shall tread the fair city Adorned as a beautiful bride; Shall come to the living fountains, And walk by the crystal tide; To the loved again uuited, Once lost amidst tears and pain, I shall know the full affectioh For which I have yearned in vain. I shall then, with undimmed vision, See what had been hid before ; From wonder onward to wonder, Forever mount up and adore; If on earth thy works have charmed me, What raptures shall fill me there, When l gaze on spotless beauty, Than all I had dreamed more fair! Oh, on the throne whose brightness Ontshineth yon blazing sun. The Head of the whole creation, I shall see the Cvucified One ; Where night spreads no more her shadow, I, amidst the ineffable glow, Shall live on his smile forever, And ALL THAT He IS SHALI, KKOW ! Dr. Palmer, in Hours at Home. THE PURITAN OF 18G3. was in the early part .of October, , that the Rev. Mr. Allan started to walk to Farmer Owen’s over the hills. He had to cross two low spurs of the Green Mountains'. As he climbed to the top of the second, the rich valley of the Otter Creek lay spread out be fore him. At any other time he would have stopped to admire its gentle un dulations ; its great flower garden ot forest trees, rich in every color and hue; its silver threads winding their way to the waters of tie Champlain, and the glorious autumn light which lay like a golden mantle over them all. But this afternoon he seemed oppress l ed by the beauty which surrounded him. He looked upon it with eyes misty from tears. . There was a dull, heavy weight upon his heart —a weight which even the long, fervent prayers that he bad uttered so unceasingly since noon had failed to move. Be tween him and that : landscape, we might almost say between him and the mercy-seat, there moved a slight, tall boy, with a laughing blue eye, cluster ing brown hair, and lips always ready with a merry, pleasant word. To-day, there was Benny, nutting under the bare, brawny arms of the butternut tree; throwing his line into the little brooks, that came babbling down from the steep mountain side; driving his cows down the narrow foot-path; stand ing with Blossom under the bright maple, and shouting with pride and joy as she wreathed her pretty face in the gay leaves. , , r '<o, Bennie! Bennie!’ Mr. Allan hardily knew he was calling the name until it came hack to him with snch an empty, mocking sound, from the heartless echo ; “almost”—Mr. Allan thought, startling himself by the seem ing impiety of the words—" almost as if there were no great, kind Father over us all.” As he came near Farmer Owens house, he saw his oxen yoked to the plough. He knew they had been there since the telegram came. Mr. Owen had read it in the field, gone to the house and forgotten them, and no one had dared to put them up He was-a man fully capable of taking care of his own affairs under any circumstances, never having been known before to forget. . , Mr Allan beckoned to an Irishman who-was passing, and asked him to take care of Jhem. The man came with an awed look upon his face, as if even there he stood in the presence of a great sorrow, and without the least noise obeyed. Mr. Allan walked on slowly toward the house. He had known Mr. Owen for many years, and he knew him well. Indeed, there was a peculiar bond of symyathy between the two men. In all his large parish there was not one npon whom the minister relied as he did upon this strong and sturdy farmer. Many and many an hour he had walk ed by his side when he was upturning the brown earth, and had discoursed with him bn topics which would have sounded harsh arid repulsive to com mon ears, but which were fraught with deep and vital interest to them. Mr. Owen was a direct descendant of the Puritans, and every drop of blood in his veins was tinged with as strong and true a “ blue,” as if he himself had lauded in the " Mayflower.” He took naturally to the sterner doctrines of re ligion, while Mr. Allan, versed in all the modern lore, questioned and doubt ed. The keystone of Mr. Owen’s theology was the sovereignty of God; —“ Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?” This was the man upon .whom God had now laid his hand so heavily ; and Mr. Allan felt that if the trial brought no murmur, no rebellion against that mighty Sovereign, the stern old faith were indeed a rich one in which to live, and die. He knew that one element in this war was Puritan. Sons of the Roundheads filled up the ranks of the Northern army. They marched to battle to strains of the old tunes that had lingered in the nursery and the sanctuary from the day that Cromwell aud his soldiers chanted them on Marston Moor. All down the aisles of time came, tramping to the music, mailed men, bearing on their shields the two words, Liberty and Equality. They trembled on Mr. Owen’s lips with his parting blessing to his boy. Would he remember them and would they comfort and give Him strength now ? Where there is affliction in a house, the minister is at home. Mr. Allan entered without knocking, and made his way to the large, old-fashioned kitchen, in which he was sure of find ing the family. There, by a table, with his arms fold ed and laid heavily upon it, sat Mr. Owen. His wife was in a small rock ing-chair by the fire, and Blossom a young!girl, sat between them. Mr* Owen rose to welcome him; so did Blossom ; but the wife did not no tice him, —she sat still, rocking herself to and fro, looking at the blazing wood. Mr. Allan put a hand in the brawny one that was held out toward him, and laid the other on Mr. Owen’s heaving breast. “My friend,” he said, “ how is it with the decrees of God ?” "Just and true are all thy ways,’ thou King of saints,” faltered out the man. There was something strange in his voice.—a thin, womanly sound, so un like the deep, stentorian tones in which he had always spoken before. Mr. Allan, when he heard it, almost felt as if it had dealt him a blow. “ Thank God! He has not, then, forsaken yon, and from the depths of this deep trouble yon can still say, The Maker of all doeth well.” “Yes, yes,” —and for an instant there glimmered from his dull eye a spark of the old controversial fire—“yon don’t suppose I have held on to that anchor when the skies were cloudless and the little wave just rocked my bark, to let alone of it now—now, when the great waves and billows are going over me, do you ? I’ve planted it firm, and it don’t yield; no, it don’t yield, but the strain is terrible. Gbd send it may carry me into port; 0, Mr. Allan, say it will. It has seemed to me to-day so dark, so wonderful, so inscrutable, that he—my Bennie! Mr. Allan, there is a good wise purpose behind it all. Can you see it ?” “To bring you nearer the king dom," said the minister. “ 0, don’t tell me that; I can’t bear it. God is too wise; He knows a hundred snch souls as mine are not worth one of my Bennie’s. I can suffer if I am too great a sinner for God’s, grace to save, but Bennie! Ben nie ! I have sat here all day, since the news came, wondering, wondering ! he was so good a son,”—and Mr. Owen’s voice grew almost inarticulate in its emotion, —“ such a dear, precious, no ble boy! I thought, when I gave him to his country, that not a father in all this broad land made so precious a gift, —do not one. God forgive me if my grief is a sin. Mr. Allan, the dear t)oy only slept a minute, just one little minute, at his post. I know that was all, for Bennie never dozed over a duty. How prompt and reliable be was!” and Mr. Owen’s eye wandered out over the brown fields, with such a perplexed, wondering look. “I know he only fell off one little second; he was so young, and not strong, that-boy of mine! Why, he was as tall as I, and only eighteen l and now they shoot him because he was found asleep when do ing sentinel duty.” Mr Owen re peated these words very slowly, as it endeavoring to find out their true meaning; “ Twenty four hours the tele graph said,—only twenty-four hours. Where is Bennie now ?” “ We will hope, with his Heavenly Father;” said his Mr. Allan, soothingr ly. ‘‘yes, yea let us hope; God is very THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN, THURSDAY, MARCH 15, 1866. merciful, and Bennie was so good—l do not mean holy,” he said, correcting himself sharply ; -there is none holy no, not one, —but Jesus died for sin ners. Mr. Allan, tell me that. 0, Ben nie, Bennie!” The ip other raised herself, as she heard his name called, and, turning said, with a smile; “ Don’t call so loud, father. Bennie, is not far off; he will come soon.” “ God laid his hand on them both, you see,” said Mr. Owen, pointing to her, without making any direct reply. " She has not been justly herself since. It is a merciful thing she is sort of stunned, it seems to me; she makes no wail. Poor mother! if my heart was not broken it would almost kill me to see her so. Bennie was her idol. I told her often, God had said, ‘ Thou shalt have no gods before me.’ ” Mr. Allan looked in astonishment at the bowed man as he came now and stood before him. These few hours had done the work of years. The sinewy frame was tottering, the eves were dimmed, and the sudden sorrow had written itself in the deep wrinkles all over his manly face. He recog nized the power of the great, kind heart, simple and almost childlike in its innocent, clinging affection; how could this be reconciled with the stern, strong head—the head that to common observers outlined the character of the man ? “ God have mercy on you; He is trying you in the furnace seven times heated,” he exclaimed, almost involuntarily. "‘I should be ashamed, father!’ he said, ' when I am a man, to think I never used this great right arm’—and he held it out so proudly before me—‘for my country, when it needed it. Palsy it, rather than keep it at the plough.’ “ 1 Go, Bennie, then; go, my boy,’ I said, ‘and God keep yon.’ God has kept him, I Jfchink, Mr. Allan!” and the farmer repeated these last words slowly, as if, in spite of his head, his heart doubted them. "Like the apple of his eye, Mr. Owen, doubt it not!” Blossom had sat near them, listen ing with blanched cheek. She had not shed a tear„ to-day, and the terror in her face had been so very still, no one had noticed it. She had occupied herself mechanically in the household cares, which her mother’s condition devolved entirely upon her. Now she answered a gentle tap at the kitchen door, opening it to receive , from a neighbor’s hand a letter. “It is from him," was all she said. ’Twas a message from the dead. Mr. Owen could not break the seal for his trembling fingers, and held it toward Mr. Allan, with the helpless ness of a child. The minister opened it, and, obedi ent to a motion from the father, read as follows: “Dear Father: —When this reaches you I shall be in eternity. Ad first, it seemed awful to me; but I have thought about it so much now that it has no terror. They say they will not bind me, nor blind me, but that I may meet my death like a man. I thought, father, it might have been on the battle-field, for my country, and that, when I fell, it would be fighting gloriously; but to be shot down like a dog for nearly betraying it, to die for neglect of duty I—o, father, I won der the very .thought does not kill me. But I shall not disgrace you. lam going to write yon all about it, and, when’ I am gone, you may tell my comrades.* 1 can’t now. “Yon know, I promised Jemmy Carr’s mother I would- look after her boy, and when he fell sick I did all I could for him. He was not strong when' he was ordered back into the ranks, and the day before that night I carried all his luggage, beside my own, on our march. Toward night we went in on double quick, and though the luggage began to feel very heavy, else was tired too; and for Jemmy, if I had not lent him an arm, now and then, he would have dropped by the way. I was all tired out when we-came into camp, and then it was Jemmy’s turn to be sentry, and I would take bis place, but I was too tired, father. I could not have kept awake, if I had a gun at my head; but I did not know it until —well, until it was too late.” “God be thanked!” interrupted Mr. Owen, reverently. “I knew Bennie was not the boy to sleep carelessly at his post.” “ They tell me to-day that I have a short reprieve, given to me by circum stances —‘time to write to you,’ our good Colonel says. Forgive him, fa ther, fie only does his duty; he would gladly save me, if he could—and don t lay my death up against Jemmy. The poor boy is broken-hearted, and does nothing but beg and entreat them to let him die in my stead. “I can’t bear to think of mother and Blossom. Comfort -them, father! Tell them I die as a brave boy should, and that .when the war is over, they will not be ashamed of me,, as they must be now. God help me, it is very hard to bear. Good-bye, father; God seems near and dear to me, not at all as if He' wishes me to perish forever, but as if He felt sorry for His poor, sinful, broken-hearted child, and would take him to be with Him and my b> a * viour, in a better —better life.” , A great sob burst from Mr. Owens heart. “ Amen I”. he said solemnly “Araeni”, * ... ~ T “To-night in the early twilight a shall see the cows all coming home from pasture—Daisy and Brindle, and Bet; old Billy, too, will neigh from his stall, and precious little Blossom stand on the back stoop, waiting for me; but I shall never come —never come. God bless you all! Forgive your poor Bennie.” Late that night the door of the "back stoop” opened, and a little figure glided out, down the footpath that led to the road by the mill. She seemed rather flying than walking, turning her head neither to the right nor the left, starting not, as the full moon stretched queer, fantastic shapes all around her, looking only now and then to heaven, and/folding Her hands as if in prayer. Two hours later, the same young girl stood at the Mill Depot, watching the coming of the night train; and the conductor, as he reached down to lift her in, wondered at the sweet, tear stained face that was upturned toward the dim lantern that he held in his hand. A few questions and ready answers told him all, and no father could have cared more tenderly for his only child than he for our little Blossom. She was on her waj to Washington, to ask President Lincoln for her bro ther’s life. She had stolen away, leav ing only a note to tell her father where and why she had gone. She had brought Bennie’s letter with her; no good, kind heart like the Presi dent’s, could refuse to be melted by it. The next morning they reached New York, and the conductor found suitable company for Blossom, and hurried her on to Washington. Every minute now might be a year in her brother’s life. And so, in an incredibly short time, Blossom reached the Capital, and was hurried at once to the White House. The President had but just seated himself to his morning task, of over looking and signing important papers, when, without one word of announce ment, the door softly opened, and Blossom, with eyes downcast and fold ed- hands, stood before him. "Well, my child,” he said, in his pleasant, cheery tones, “ what do you want so bright and early in the mor ning ?” - “ Bennie’s life, please, sir,” faltered out Blossom. " Bennie ? Who is Bennie “My brother, sir. They are going to shoot him for sleeping at his post.” "0, yes,” and Mr. Lincoln ran his eye over the papers before him, “I remember. It was a fatal sleep. You see, child, it was at a time of special danger. Thousands of lives might have been lost for his culpable negli gence.” “So my father said,” said Blossom, gravely; “but poor Bennie was so tired, sir, and Jemmy so weak. He did the work of two, sir, and it was Jemmy’a night, not his, hot Jemmy was too tired, and Bennie never thought about himself, that he was too tired.” “What is this you say, child ? Come here, I don’t understand,” and the kind man caught eagerly, as ever, at what seemed to be a justification of an offence. Blossom went to him; he put his hand tenderly on her shoulder, and turned up the pale, anxious face towards his. How tall he seemed, and he was President *of the United States, .too! A dim thought of this kind passed for a moment through Blos som’s mind, but she told her story now simply and straightforward, and handed Mr. Lincoln Bennie’s letter to read. He read it then taking up his pen wrote a few hasty lines, and rang his bell. Blossom . heapd this order given: “Send this despatch at once. 1 ’ The President then turned to the girl and said: “ Go home, my child, and tell that father of yours, who could approve his country’s sentence, even when it took the life of a child like that, that Abraham Lincoln thinks the life far too precious to be lost. Go back, or—wait until to-morrow; Ben nie will need change atter he has so bravely faced death; he shall go with yon.” J'God bless you, sir,” said Blossom; anti who shall doubt that God heard ana registered the request ? (Two days after this'interview the y|ung soldier- came to the White Hbuse with his little sister. He was called into the President’s private robm, and a strap fastened " upon the shoulder,” Mr. Lincoln said, "that cduld carry a sick comrade’s baggage and die for the good act so uncomplain ingly.” Then Bennie and Blossom took their way to their Green Moun tain home, and a crowd gathered at the' Mill Depfct to welcome them back, and Farmer Owen’s tall head towered afove them - , all, and as his hand grasp ed that of his boy, Mr. Allan heard hfoi say fervently, as the holiest bless ing he could pronounce upon his child: "Just and true are all thy ways, thou King of Saints!’ That night Daisy and Brindle and B ;t came lowing home for they heard a well-known voice calling them at the gate ; and Bennie, as he pats his oik pets and looks lovingly in their gipat brown eyes, catches through the l |l evening air his Puritan father’s voice, as he repeats to his happy mo ther these jubilant words: Fear not, foil am wi& thee; I will bring thy sell from the East, and gather thee from the West; I will say to the North, give up, and to the South, keep not back; bring my sons from far, and my daughters from the ends of the earth, every one that is called by my name, for I have created him for my glory; I have formed him, yea, I have made him.”— Mrs. R. D. 0. Robbins. A SONG OF HOME. 0 city, golden-bright! Transparent as the day! How softly shines thy distant light, For pilgrims faraway! Thy joy, serene and pnre, E'en now pervades my breast; On God’s foundations bnilt secure, Thy jasper bulwarks rest. There dwell the ransomed host, So safe, so satisfied! And thither shall the Holy Ghost' Lead home the chosen bride. No more a care or fear! No more earth’s wailing.cry! For God shall wipe each bitter tear, And hush each heaving sigh. Sweet home of peace and love I By faith thy light I see, Diffusing from the realms above Celestial radiancy. 0 sun, that rules the day, Stand still, and hear the tale ! To add one single glory-ray Thy brightest beams would fail! Fair moon, —dispelling night, The city needs notlhee; God and the Lamb shall there the light, The light and temple be. The blood-bought sons of God Shall walk those streets of gold, Rejoicing ever with their Lord, In ecstacies untold. I too, when toil is o’er, Those blissful courts shall gain, Where praise resoundeth evermore, And love supreme shall reign. O city, golden-bright! Transparent as the. day! How softly shines thy distant light, For pilgrims far away! —British Herald. POWER OF THE HOLY SCRIPTURES. THE JEWISH SURGEON. In one of tbe large London hospi tals a poor woman was dying. One of tbe young surgeons, who was a Jew, went up to her bed and said, “My poor woman, you seem very ill; lam afraid you will never recover. Can I do anything for you ?” “Thank you, sir,” said the poor woman; “there is a New Testament behind my pillow, and I should be much obliged to you if you would read a chapter to me.” The young man seemed surprised, but he took the Testament and did as he was desired. He continued to come and read to her for several days, and was greatly struck by the comfort and peace which the Word of life seemed to give to the poor invalid. With almost her dying breath the poor woman gave the Testament to the Jewish surgeon, and urged him to read it. He took the book home with him, and determined to keep his promise. He read it diligently, and soon found Him of whom Moses and the prophets wrote—Jesus, the Messiah, and was en abled to believe in him as the “ Lamb of God, which taketh away the sins of the world.” AUTHORITY OF TELE BIBIA. The Bev. Adolphe Monod. gives the following illustration of the benefits arising from the reading of the Bible: The mother of a family was married to an infidel, who made a jest of reli gion in thepresenceof hisown children; yet she succeeded in bringing them all up in the fear of the Lord. I one day asked her how she preserved them from the influence of a father whose senib ments were so openly opposed to her own. This was her answer: ' Because to the authority of a father' I did not op pose the authority of a mother, but that of God. From their earliest years my children have always seen the Bible upon my table. This holy book has constituted the whole of their religious instruction. I was silent that I might allow it to speak. Did they propose a question, did they commit any fault, did they perform any good action, I opened the Bible, and. the Bible an swered, reproved, or encouraged them. The constant reading of the Scriptures has alone wrought the prodigy which surprises you.’ ” VAI.UE OF OWE LEAF. There was once a caravan crossing, I think, the north of India, and num bering in its company a godly and devout missionary. As it passed along, a poor old man was overcome by the heat and labors of the journey, and sinking down, was left to perish on the road. The missionary saw him, and kneeling down at his side, when the rest had passed along, whispered into his ears "Brother, what is your hope ?” The dying man raised him self a little to reply, and with great effort succeeded in answering, “The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin ;’’ and immediately expired with the effort. The missionary was greatly astonished at the answer; and m the calm and peaceful appearance of the man, he felt assured he had died in Christ. How or where, he thought, could this man, seemingly a heathen, have got this hope ? And as he thought of it, he observed a piece of paper grasped tightly in the hand of the corpse, which he succeeded in getting out. What do you suppose was his surprise and delight when he found it was a single leaf of the Bible, containing the first chapter of the first epistle of John, in which these words occur? On that page the man had found the Gospel. THE BIVIXE BOOK. BT A YOUNG WORKING MAN. Volume of Truth! thy sacred page Alike instructs the child and sage; A map to erring mortals given, To guide them to the joys of heaven. Bright Torch of Time ! thy hallowed light Illumes affliction’s wintry night: Thy gentle spirit-cheering blaze Shines through this life’s perplexing ma*e. Clear Star of Hope ! thy beacon ray Doth guide the pilgrim on his way; His distant home he there can see, And hopes one day he there shall be. Sweet Mercy’s Voice! in mildest tone Calling on man his God to own. Proclaims rich grace and boundless love, Sent down from glorious realms above. FIRST LOVE. “ Nevertheless, I have somewhat against thee, because thou hast left thy first love.” Christian, while Jesus may find some things in you to commend, may He not, and justly, too, have somewhat against you, because you have left your “ first love ?" Let us inquire a little and ascertain, if possible, whether you' have or have not “ left your first love.” How delightful it was, once, when your hour of prayer came, to enter your closet, and hold sweet converse with the “ Lover of your soul.” Never-to be-forgotten seasons, when you did not get tired of praying. You w<juld ra ther lose a visit from your dearest earthly friend, than fail to meet Jesus at the accustomed time and kneeling place. What precious seasons in the family, too, when all ... gathered around the family Bible. Your prayers convinc ed all that you were speaking really to God, and that God was in that place. • But, dear brother, is it so now ? Or does your heart shrink hack from closet visits ? Are your visits short, less fre quent, formal and lifeless? Does family worship drag? Has the Bible lost its power to interest? Then the sad tale is told. You have “ left your first love.” Jesus has something against you. He cannot smile on you until you return,, and re pent, and do your first works, and you cannot do anything for Him while you remain in this state. You can’t pray for or talk with sinners. You are in the way of their salvation. Dear-bro ther, will you not get out of the way? Will you not return to your “first love ?” Jesus is ready to receive you. Hear him call you: Behold, I stand at the door and knock; If any -man will hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and sup with him, and he with me. A LESSON FOR FAST YOUNG MEN. A few weeks ago a man named Dr. John W. Hughes was hanged at Cleveland, Ohio, whose fate teaches a salutary lesson. He was a man of good family, well educated, had an honorable profession, and, at one time, a good social position. But he seems to have ruined himself by liquor and bad company. Under these influences, he became thoroughly demoralized, and scoffed at morals and religion. He was held by no conscience what ever. Having a good young wife and a child, he married another woman almost in the presence of his family, she, however, being ignorant of his first marriage. For this crime he was tried, convicted, and sent to our West tern Penitentiary, at Pittsburgh. His injured wife procured a pardon for this; but instead of being grateful to her, he abused her in the most false and heartless manner, and went off to seek the woman he had injured. Hav ing found her, he deliberately shot her shrough the heart because she refused to live with him. For this he was tried and hung. On the scaffold he alluded to his advantages in life, his education, the wealth and position of his family; but all these, he said, he had allowed to be overcome by indul gence in drink and bad company. It was not he that did the crime, so he said, but the man who had been turned into a devil by intoxication. What a lesson !—Public Ledger. IF ONE LESSON WON’T DO. ANOTHER WILL. " Mother, said Henry, " I can’t make Mary put her figures as I tell her.” You must be patient, my dear child.” " But she won’t let me tell her how to put the figures, and she does not know how to do it herself,” said Henry, very pettishly. " Well, my dear, if Mary won’t learn a lesson in figures, suppose you try to teach yourself one in patience. This is harder to teach and harder to learn than a lesson in figures; and, perhaps when you have learned this, the other will be easier to both of you.” Henry hung his head, for he felt it was a shame to any little boy to be fretted by such a little thing, or indeed by anything; and he began to t.hinV that perhaps he deserved to be blamed as much as Mary. Children very often complain of their playmates, or brothers and sisters,' when they are very much in fault them selves. A fretful, impatient child makes himself and all about him very unhappy. Will you all try to learn a lesson of patience ? Young Reaper,
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