landed in our harbour a vessel load of emigrants, among the most respectable of which were the parents and brothers of Patty McKenna. No sooner did Patty hear of their arrival, than she hastened to welcome them to what was now to be their future home. With eyes glistening with grateful joy, she led her parents, bowed under the infirmities of age, to the friend who had been so kind to her ever since she arrived in America.

"Oh, Patty!" said the happy mother, as she folded her only daughter to her bosom, "ye've had a real good home since ye lift dear swaate Ireland." But when Patty told them she had burned her rosary, her wooden cross, and the image of the Virgin Mary, that she prayed to Jesus Christ, read the Protestant Bible, and next Sabbath was going to be baptized and join the Protestant church, they smote their breasts with their hands exclaiming, "Ye'll be lost! Patty! ye'll be lost! the deevil will take ye an saaze your sowl."

The father and mother wept, uttering boisterous lamentations over their daughter, beseeching her to renounce her heresy. The brothers, threatening declared, "We'll lit the praast know of ye, we will, shure, an he'll excommuniket ye, he will, an sind ye sowl afther Jack Cooney."

But entreaties or persecutions availed not with Patty; she had learned to love the Saviour, and for him she was willing to renounce father, mother, brothers, all. So gentle, forgiving and respectful did Patty behave towards her parents, that at last she gained their consent to be present at her baptism.

"Its sad indeed, Patty, to work all one's life to baate the thrue religion into ye, to have the hiritics talk it all out of ye, in a year or two. If ye was'nt so swaate a lass, I would naar step a foot, shure."

The Lord bless ye, my own dear mother, an give ye heaven as a reward.'

When the minister led Patty up from the baptismal font, she turned her large, full dark eye towards the gallery, where stood her father and mother gazing with the most intense earnestness upon the scene below.

The mother's tender heart was melted, and I have since heard that herself, her husband, and one son have embraced the Protestant religion.

Now it happened that Asa Loomis, a thriving farmer, not very far from the city, had been seeking a partner to share with him the rustic cares of a cottage life. As he watched from time to time, when he called to sell vegetables, the neat, orderly and industrious habits of Patty McKenna, he thought that she was the one above all others for him. Asa soon gave utterance to the throbbings of his heart, but Patty said, "I never could think of leaving my parents to work their way through the world alone."

"Never mind," said Asa, "I guess we can pick up vegetables enough for all together. Any how, we'll try it a bit."

So the bargain was concluded, and Patty McKenna became a farmer's wife. Thelismar Cottage.

THE PILOT'S BOY.

The storm raged loud and fierce. The wind swept widely over the waste of waters, catching the spray in its embrace and hurling it furiously onward, so that the ocean seemed a vast sheet of foam. The clouds hung low and dark, scowling on the terrible vortex below. It was one of the most awful tempests that had for years devastated the atlantic coast.

On a low, sandy beach, against which the waves thundered until the ground shook beneath them, stood a mother and her daughter, gazing anxiously seaward, regardless of the storm. So powerful was the wind that they could with difficulty stand; yet they fearlessly kept their watch, shading their eyes with their hands to keep off the spray, apparently looking for some object on the ocean. Suddenly the child cried:

"Mother! there they are!"

She pointed with a trembling finger as she spoke, and following its direction, the mother beheld a white speck, like a flake of snow, amid the dark waters, on the horizon. It rose and fell, but kept increasing in size as if approaching.

"O Lord! I thank thee !" said the mother, clasping her hands and looking

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It would have melted the sternest heart to have heard the deep emotion, with which she breathed that prayer. Then with hands clasped before her, she stood silent watching the little bark which contained her husband and her only boy. And bravely did that gallant craft struggle through the tempest. Now it would be lost to sight in whirlwind of foam as it plunged through a head sea, and then it would re-appear, its white sail glancing like the wing of a gull. At times the wind would press with such force on the close reefed canvass, as to lay her mast nearly level with the billows, so that the mother's heart nearly sunk within her, for it seemed then as if the brave bark would never recover herself; and again the frail spar would struggle upwards, and the boat skim along for a space, like a spirit walking the deep.

For nearly half an hour the little bark was thus visible; and during that period the suspense of the mother was worse than the most intolerable agony. One while she saw herself bereft of those she loved, and again hope would resume its sway in her bosom, only, however, to be again overthrown by the next surge that broke over the devoted craft. It seemed a miracle that the boat had lived so long; and even the sanguine hopes of a mother could not long persuade her she should see her darling boy again.

At length one mountainous billow was seen advancing, its huge breast lifting itself slowly up, the masses of water piling one over another until they seemed to mingle with the black clouds above; then a speck of foam suddenly appeared on the extreme top of the wave, which, spreading rapidly to right and left, until the crest was every where crowned with it, the huge bulk of piled up waters tumbling headloug, and the boat, which had been seen a second before labouring in the trough of the sea beneath, was lost to sight for ever in the white and chafing whirlpool.

The mother held her breath as the waters fell, and remained, like one struck by a basilisk, gazing on the

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fierce vortex, as if hoping against hope, that the boat would re-appear; but moment after moment passed, until it seemed to her as if hours had elapsed, and yet no sign of the bark was visible. At length the waters partially subsided; another billow swept over the place where the first had broken, and then the mast of the little craft rolled upwards; but the hull was no where visible.

"They are lost! O! my dear father and Harry!-mother, can't you save them?" said the child, in accents of the most heart-rending grief.

But the mother answered not. She looked wildly at her daughter, and then ran, like one distracted to the edge of the surf, venturing so far down with the undertow that it appeared incredible that she could escape the angry breakers. Here she strained her eyes again to see if she could catch a glimpse of the crew of the ill-fated boat. But nothing was visible except the black surges, capped with foam; and no sound was heard but the roar of the hurricane. "O! Father in heaven!" she cried, in accents of that stony grief, which, once heard, lives for ever in the memory, "Save my child-save him even yet!"

At that instant a dark mass appeared on the crest of a breaker, and with a cry of joy the mother saw the form of her darling boy close at hand. The next moment the boy was hurled towards her, and, rushing recklessly into the surf, she caught the child by its clothes, and hurried inward to gain the dry land before a second surge should overtake her. Twice she was struck down before reaching the beach; twice the weeping daughter lost sight of her mother; but the energy of the parent finally triumphed, and she bore her prize to land, and laid the senseless form on the beach. The moment after, the hardy frame of the pilot was seen struggling with the surf; and he, too, at length reached the shore in safety. The first object that met his gaze was the body of his darling extended on the beach.

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"My boy my boy," he cried, casting himself beside it. "O God! he is dead!" with a heartbroken exclamation, and wringing his hands, he looked up to heaven, his whole face convulsed with the fearful agony of a

bereaved father. It was a touching spectacle. In the foreground lay the figure of the boy, cold and wet, his beautiful hair washed back from his face, and his little arm extended by his side, as if he had been sleeping. Over him knelt the afflicted mother, her form half prostrate on his, and her face buried in her hands. Her garments, and those of the father were flying wildly in the wind. The background of the picture was filled up by the white foam of the surf, and the whirling masses of clouds overhead. In the distance, scarcely visible through the darkness of approaching night, was a little fishing village. "But may he not yet live?" suddenly said the mother, as if a new hope had struck her. "O! if we had him at home we might do something for him."

The father started up from his momentary stupor, and every feature of his face was now instinct with energy. Catching the senseless body in his arms, without a word he strode onwards to the village almost on а run, the rest of his family following eagerly behind, the mother in a breathless silence, her heart agitated with hope and fear alternately, and the daughter clinging to her dress and sobbing as if her heart would break. The neighbours met them before they reached their home, all eager to lend their aid; for they knew that the pilot had been abroad that day, and the rumour of his wreck soon reached every hearth. The senseless body was laid on the bed; those who could be of service remained in the room, and the rest anxiously awaited the result in the apartment without. After some time hopelessly spent in the attempt to revive him, and when the neighbours were beginning to despair, the mother thought she saw some faint signs of life. Their exertions were now redoubled, and at length he faintly breathed.

"My boy lives," said the mother, fervently, and though she breathed no prayer in words, her heart was poured out in thankfulness to her Father in heaven as she looked on.

Before the night was very far spent the child thus rescued from the jaws of death was able to sit up; and many and heartfelt were the thanks for his

recovery breathed to heaven that night, by the mothers of the little fishing village, for each felt that it might yet be to her own darling, as it had been that day to the PILOT'S BOY.

PORTRAIT OF A GERMAN CONVERTED ROMANIST COLPORTEUR, AND HIS LABOURS.

LEGER RITTY is forty-five years of age; of more than middling size and height among Germans; with a high forehead, somewhat bald; an expressive but solemn countenance, and a beaming eye. His voice is full and sonorous. He speaks fluently in the German tongue, but makes himself understood with some difficulty in the English language, especially when attempting to quote the Scriptures, with which he is familiar only in the German. His manner is earnest, affectionate and solemn; and when engag ed in prayer, even an American who cannot understand a word he utters, is impressed with the fervour and unction of his approaches to God. He is reluctant to communicate any thing respecting his labours, preferring that all should be left to be revealed at the last day. When he is induced to speak, though his sentences are broken and filled with Germanisms, you are impressed with the sound sense and spiritual power of his thoughts. His mind is vigorous and discriminating. I can well conceive when aroused by opposition or excited by the concourse that often gathers around him, he would pour out truth like a torrent. Some accounts I have received of the effect of his exhortations upon assemblies of Romanists and others, show that his power as a speaker is of no ordinary kind.

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Mr. R.'s history is full of incident. An outline must suffice. He was reared and for thirty-three years remained in the Roman Catholic church, and was instructed from a child in the doctrines and usage of that communion. In 1819 he entered the army and remained there eight years, contracting the loose and intemperate habits of that school of vice. In 1828 he came to America and remained a year in Philadelphia, following a career of intemperance and folly.

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