MOTHER AND CHILDREN.

UR picture this month presents to us objects with which we are all familiar, but which never become to us uninteresting. There are indeed churls in existence who treat little children with indifference, or it may be with scorn. We are, however, glad to believe that they do not form a numerous class. Most love little children, and from their presence derive purest delight. "A babe in the house is a well-spring of pleasure." It is so undoubtedly to a mother's heart. How she doats on her little ones! With what rapture she gazes into their eyes, or clasps them to her bosom! What a celestial paradise they make her home! True, there is another side to the picture. At times they try her patience, awaken her anxiety, and tax her powers of endurance. But she loves them for all that, and in her maternal affections finds the most satisfying earthly joy her heart can know. Happy are the children who have a true mother!

How many of our readers have had such a mother? How few of our readers have not had such a one? Every mother may not have been the best of mothers, but most mothers expend an amount of care and love on their children which make those children ever their debtors. Have we ever asked ourselves what we owe our mother? What esteem? what love? what dutifulness? if we are still living at home, grown-up boys and girls. And are we trying to pay our debts to her? We trust that all the youthful readers of the INSTRUCTOR are striving to do so. If not, we hope they will at once turn over a new leaf, and begin to be to their mother all that they ought to be.

You look at the children in the picture; you see how their mother lavishes her love upon them. How can you suppose those sweet babes ever to be rude, peevish, naughty children to that mother? Well, such transformations do take place, and, instead of her darling boy or girl being a well-spring of joy" to her, the mother finds "how sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child."

BEN BARLOW'S BUDGET.

By TOM BROWN, Author of " A Year at School," &c., &c.

Letter No. 59.

From BEN BARLOW to ERNIE INSTONE.

MY DEAR ERNIE,—

Waterside House, Worcester,

October 28th, 187-.

I am glad the couple of rabbits I promised you reached you safely. Who do you think brought them? Why, my father! He had to be in London at some operation (I suppose they were cutting somebody's leg or arm off), so he offered to bring the rabbits for you.

You need not have troubled to thank me so much. If you were nearer, you might have half-a-dozen rabbits, and I should hardly miss them. I hope you will be more successful in keeping your pets safe this time. Mind they have a nice warm bed now it is getting cold weather.

With kind regards to your pa and ma, I remain, yours affectionately, BEN BARLOW.

Letter No. 60.

From Toм BLUNT to BEN BARLOW.

MY DEAR BEN,

Old Mill, Woodbourne,

November 6th, 187-.

How did you keep up Gunpowder Plot yesterday? We had a grand day of it here only for an accident. I will tell you how it was. As usual the master gave us a half-holiday. Well, we bolted our dinners as quickly as we could, and then set out to beg coals for the fire. We didn't have to go far. Father gave us a basketful to start with. Your father gave us another, but told us not to come to him to have our heads stitched on again if they got blown off with the gunpowder. We had some more coals from the rectory, a lot of chips from Mr. Slim, the auctioneer, and half-a-dozen boxes of matches from Mr. Wayches, the grocer.

We had been saving our money for some weeks, and the night before, three of us went to Hammerthorpe to buy the ammunition. We got three-and-sixpence worth of rockets, wheels, serpents, and coloured fire, and about a pound and a half of loose gunpowder. John Williams had found an old-fashioned horse pistol in their lumber room. Edgar Foster brought an old_gun-barrel. I had found two or three pieces of iron piping, which I took to the shoeing

forge, and got the lad there to flatten the ends, and file a prime hole in each.

Well, before three o'clock we had got a good blazing fire on the waste land just outside your father's garden wall. As it was too light to show fireworks well, we set about charging and firing the pistols. Mr. Jones came to have a look at us. He examined all the pistols, and told us not to put big charges in them. He also warned us to point the pistols towards the blank wall every time, and never to fire one without a wet fuse, which he showed us how to make. If we had done as he told us, we should have been all right.

We fired away nearly all through the afternoon, first one pistol and then another. It was as if the French were bombarding the village. About six o'clock it got dark, and we ceased firing the pistols, and let off the fireworks. The first few rockets were seen from the village, and we soon had a crowd of folks to see the others. We fixed the wheels on one of the posts of a fence. To finish up, we sent half-a-dozen "crackers" bursting and spitting along the ground among the folks. You may guess there was a pretty screaming as they tried to get out of the way.

We had finished all the fireworks, but there was a bit of gunpowder still left. I wanted them to make it into a wet fuse and fire it on the top of a post; but Edgar Foster wanted to charge his gunbarrel once more. The powder belonged to him as much as to me, so he set about charging it. The lad from the forge had come to see the fun, and he advised Edgar to put a good charge in for the last. Edgar handed the weapon over to him, and notwithstanding what the schoolmaster had said, he rammed the gun-barrel full of stone and cinders right up to the end.

We had kept a few grains of gunpowder for the prime, but not enough for a fuse, so after clearing the people out of the way, Edgar touched it with a red-hot poker. The prime flashed but the gun did not fire, so, after leaving it for a few minutes, we took it up and examined it. The prime was all gone, and we had no more gunpowder to prime it with, so how to fire it we did not know.

At last the forge boy advised us to put the end in the bonfire, saying it would go off as soon as the end of the barrel got red hot. Well, we did; but we waited and waited, and it seemed as if the pistol never would fire. Some said the powder must have dropped out of the barrel before it was rammed down, and others said it had already fired, but had not got strength enough to force out such a tremendous charge.

We were just considering whether we should fetch the barrel out of the fire, and Edgar Foster and the blacksmith's lad were creeping up to it to try to see if the iron was getting red hot, when all of a sudden there was a fearful explosion.

Foster and the other lad fell like as if they were dead, and nearly all of us were burnt more or less by the hot embers, for the whole bonfire seemed to go up into the air and come down in showers of fire.

Edgar Foster was found to have fainted with the fright, and his hands and face were burnt sadly. The blacksmith's boy was burnt quite as much, and besides that, he had the first finger of his left hand blown off. It was a frightful finish to the day's enjoyment.

I have just come from seeing Edgar. He is not burnt quite so badly as we thought. Your father says he may escape without any scars on his face. I had two or three blisters from the hot coals, and so did nearly all of us, but that of course is nothing to what it might have been. You see, the gun-barrel burst from end to end, and, as Mr. Jones says, there might have been half-a-dozen of us killed. I hope you had your fun without any mishap. Remember me to your friend Instone, yours truly, TOM BLUNt.

Letter No. 61.

From Dr. BARLOW to BEN BARLOW.

The Laurels, Woodbourne,
November 7th, 187-.

MY DEAR SON,

How many bones did you get fractured the day before yesterday? Your mother wants to know. I tell her you did not get killed, or I should have been invited to the inquest before this. We had a grand day here! After it was over, I had more than an hour's work bandaging heads, dressing blisters, and plaistering burns, besides amputating half a finger.

I was foolish enough to countenance the folly by giving some coals towards the bonfire; but it is the last time. I'll present them with a roll of sticking-plaister next year. It will prove a lesson to everybody here, I should think.

There is one good thing about it, the folks who were most hurt were those who were most to blame. The very idea of plugging a gun-barrel to the very muzzle! From what I can learn, the charge would have been enough for a small howitzer !

I hope you escaped without any accident, but it will be some satisfaction to your mother to know that you have still the regulation number of limbs and joints. So on your next half-holiday try and find time to write to her. With love from us all, your affectionate father, OLIVER BARLOW.

Letter No. 62.

From Mr. INSTONE to BEN BARLOW.

3, Brighton Villas, Regent's Park, London, November 9th, 187-.

DEAR MASTER BARLOW,

I write to thank you for your very handsome present to my little son Ernie. The rabbits are a source of continual and increasing