fur, and wool, and hair, and feathers. Your coat is made of warm wool, shorn from the sheep; your hat is the fur of the rabbit and the beaver; and your shoes are made of skin.

Look at this green tall plant: do you think it could be formed into a garment? When it is made into cloth, it is called linen; and a part of your dress is made of linen.

So, then, a part of your dress, that you now wear, was once growing in the field. In some countries, they make clothes from the bark of trees.

Men can make things: the sheep and ducks can not spin and weave and this is the reason why the little boy has only his soft skin: the little boy, then, must not be idle; for although he is but a small child now, yet he will one day be a man, and must learn to furnish himself with clothing.

The Hen and Chickens.

THIS good girl is up every morning by sun-rise, in order that she may feed her little flock of poultry before they ramble abroad in quest of food.

The old hen has got but a small brood of chickens, but she takes as much care of them as a fond mother does of her children, and knows how to provide for their wants, and shelter them from danger.

If a hawk were to come in sight, she would espy him at a distance, and warn her little ones to hide under the bushes or the leaves; and if the hawk were to come

near, she would fly at him with the fury of a lion.

But a few days ago, these little chickens were in the egg-shells: the old hen sat upon the nest of eggs three weeks, and would scarcely come off to eat, lest they should perish for want of being kept warm.

As soon as they were strong enough, they broke the shell and came out, and she kindly kept them under her wings for a time; but now she goes chucking about, and is teaching them to peck and scratch for their food, that, by and by, they may know how to provide for themselves.

It is said that chickens can be hatched in an oven; and I have read that in Egypt it is a common practice. As soon as they come out of the shell, they are put under the care of a fowl, which has been trained to nurse them, and she leads them about in the same way their true mother would have done.

But I do not approve of this mode: it seems like robbing the parent hen, to take the eggs and the chickens from her, and place them under the care of some other fowl, to provide for and protect them.

It is like taking a child from its mother, and putting it to nurse, without her consent, and in a place unknown to her. Are you

not very glad, that it is not the custom to hatch chickens in the oven in our country?

LESSON XLVIII.

The Diligent Scholar.

WHO is he that leaves his bed early in the morning, eager to prepare his lessons for the day? He comes forth clothed in the dress of neatness.

His step is light and active. The glow of health is on his rosy cheeks. His wellcombed hair hangs in ringlets round his neck. On his lips are the words of truth and candor; for goodness dwells in his heart.

He is the diligent and worthy scholar. Behold him, as he comes across the green, with his satchel of books in his hand. How briskly he walks! He does not stop to take the right hand nor the left.

He knows which is the nearest way to his school, and he scorns to turn away from it. He does not regard yon crowd of idle boys: his ear does not listen to their noisy games.

He quickens his step, lest he should be a minute after school-time. He does not fear his teacher will punish him; for he neglects not any of his duty.

He loves learning, and he loves those who teach him. He looks upon them as his best friends, from whose good counsel he hopes to derive the means of being useful and happy.

Happy are the parents of such a son. Joy and gladness are theirs. His name shall be crowned with honors, by the virtuous and the good, when the pious counsels of his father and mother are heard no more, and their heads are laid in the silent grave.

LESSON XLIX.

Night.

THE sun hath gone to rest,
With clouds around his head,
And in the glowing west
His parting beams are shed.

The dew is in the dale,

The mist is on the flood,

And twilight draws its veil

O'er the distant hill and wood.

The little birds are still,

And resting on the spray;

And e'en the gentle rill

Seems to slumber on its way.