scholar, and a child of an uncommonly beautiful character. The little fellow was muffled up in an old great-coat, and seemed bent on braving the storm. Surprised at the child's appearance, the teacher exclaimed

"What, David! is that you? Where are you going to, on such a morning as this ?"

"To school, teacher," replied David, very emphatically.

"To school, my boy? Nay, come in and sit down by the fire, and I will talk to you about Jesus Christ," rejoined the teacher.

But the nice fire and the promised talk were no temptation to David, who saw still greater charms in his Sunday-school duties. So he

said

"I would rather go to school, if you please, teacher."

“Well, but, my boy," replied the teacher, feeling somewhat confounded, "I am poorly. I cannot go this morning. I should take fresh cold."

"I am sorry for that, teacher; but perhaps there will be another teacher there, and I will tell him it is too cold for you. Good-bye, teacher!"

With these decisive words the little dumpling of a boy turned away, and plodded through the untrodden snow. The teacher resumed his place by the fire, but his charm was broken. The boy's fidelity and zeal had pierced his conscience.

After a few uncomfortable moments he jumped up, put on his great-coat, buttoned it well up under his chin, and started in pursuit of David. He soon overtook the little toddler. Taking him up in his arms, he carried him to school, where he found nearly all his scholars waiting for him.

Little David taught his teacher

a lesson of zeal that morning which he never forgot. It has spurred him to school many a rude morning since. Should it become a spur in the consciences of other teachers who are in the habit of accepting a little rough weather as a justification for neglecting their classes, the child, now in heaven, will still live in his influence on earth.

THE BALTIMORE ORIOLE.

OR perhaps my little country readers call it the "Hanging-bird." It gets its name because it hangs its long, purse-shaped nest at the end of some slender twig, which the wind sways hither and thither, rocking to sleep the little peepers within. I well remember one that hung in the top of a slender elm in front of my childhood's home. How many times I have watched it swinging in the wind, and wished I was inside of it; or sung to it as the first white poet sang to the Indian pappoose, whose cradle-board had been hung in the tree

Rockaby, baby, in the tree top,

When the wind blows the cradle will rock;

When the boughs breaks the cradle will fall,

Then down will come cradle, and baby, and all."

But my bird-cradle never came down. All the summer it hung there, and the bright birds glanced through the green foliage like beams of sunlight.

Did you ever see an oriole ? It is a very gay bird. There are many kinds, the most of which live in the tropics; but one kind, the Baltimore Oriole, strays away as far north as New England. Its colours are orange, vermillion, and black, and some of its notes are clear, mellow whistles.

It is quite a blessing to have a pair of these birds building on your

premises. They will clean off the noxious worms and caterpillars from the fruit trees in a very short time. They will cheer you with their gay appearance, their graceful movements, and mirthful notes. If you wish to give them silk, or thread, or fringe to help them make their nests, it will be very acceptable to them; but look out closely that you leave nothing of the kind too valuable to lose where they can find it. If you do you may look for it in the net-work of their beautiful nests.-S. S. Advocate.

IT WILL KILL ME.

A GENTLEMAN gave his son some whiskey to taste; but the moment it touched his lips he drew back, clapped his hands upon his mouth, and cried out in an agony of pain, "Oh, papa, papa! it will kill me!" Had the little fellow been inspired by Heaven, he could not have spoken more truly. Kill thee, my little friend! Yes, as it has killed millions already, and will kill millions more.

THE LOVE OF LABOUR. I LOVE the banging hammer, The whirring of the plane, The crushing of the busy saw, The creaking of the crane;

The ringing of the anvil,

The grating of the drill,

The clattering of the turning lathe,
The whirling of the mill;

The buzzing of the spindle,

The rattling of the loom,

The puffing of the engine,

And the fan's continuous boom;
The clipping of the tailor's shears,
The driving of the awl,
The sounds of busy labour-
I love, I love them all.

I love the ploughman's whistle,
The reaper's cheerful song,
The drover's oft repeated shout,
As he spurs his stock along;

The busy song of threshers,

As they clean the ripened grain,

And the huckster's smile, and mirth and glee,

'Neath the moonlight on the plain.

Oh! there is good in labour,

If we labour but aright, That gives vigour to the day time, And a sweeter sleep at night; A good that bringeth pleasure, Even to the toiling hours, For duty cheers the spirit,

As the dew revives the flowers.

LITTLE KINDNESSES.
LITTLE drops of dew
Give life to fainting flowers;
Little moments, beating true,
Make up this life of ours.
From the tiny acorn springs
Proudest of majestic trees;
And from little golden seeds
Glorious barvests may impart.
So will little kindly deeds

Make a heaven in the heart.
Dost thou sometimes doubt thy strength.
Dost thou weak and trembling feel?
See! the little trickling stream
Turns, at last, the giant wheel;
See the beauteous coral isle,

Mark those grottoes 'neath the wave, They should make thee wear a smile, And thy heart grow bold and brave! For, like daisies from the sod

To the winter-weary heart, So the weakest child of God May some thrill of joy impart.

CRADLE SONG. HITHER Sleep! a mother wants thee! Come with velvet arms;

Hold the baby that she grants thee
To thy own soft charms.

Bear him into Dreamland lightly!
Give him sight of flowers:
Do not bring him back till brightly
Break the morning hours.
Close his eyes with gentle fingers.
Cross his hands of snow!
Tell the angels where he lingers
They must whisper low.