It

other occasions, where more active and boisterous amusements would be out of place. Besides being agreeable, it is a very profitable exercise. strengthens the memory, and improves the taste. It assists, very much, in the cultivation of a good style of writing and of conversation, by furnishing a variety of choice expressions for the thoughts you wish to convey. We would earnestly recommend to all our young friends, as an important part of their education, to cultivate a love of poetry-to commit to memory, and often repeat, the choicest and best pieces; always taking pains to recite them well, with proper tone and emphasis, so as to give every word its just force and expression.

The same remarks will apply to good selections of prose. There are many passages of rare force and beauty, which, like texts of Scripture, will never wear out, and never lose their value as gems of thought set in jewels of expression; which it will be found very useful to have always at the tongue's end. If any such are found in this little book, which shall commend themselves to our young friends as worthy to be remembered, and as well as read, we shall be satisfied that we have done well in bringing them together in this form. If they only amuse, or entertain, they will not be wholly useless.

Merry's Gems of Prose and Poetry.

THE OLD HOMESTEAD.

ALL me not romantic, though I speak of the many pleasant recollections which cluster around the Old Homestead, and come thronging up from the days of childhood often as we re-visit it in the after years. The dear Old Homestead-where we first saw the light and first learned to know the looks and tones of love - where kind parents watched over us with yearning affection, and where a whole troup of fond brothers and sisters used to mingle together in the sweet fellowship of domestic bliss; where we remembered and kept our birthdays. How the heart turns back to this hallowed spot, from all its various wanderings! How it lingers about the old associations, after years of absence, as if the cherished objects of the past would come back to its embrace and live again! It

is only after absence, separation, and loss that we fully know how precious to the soul were its first loves, and how important the influences and surroundings of its early days.

But how changed is everything about the dear old place now! I love it still, but am pained, as well as glad to re-visit it. The garden we thought so much of is grown over with weeds. The paths re so often trod are overgrown with grass. The house itself is changed. The dear old kitchen, the heart of the mansion, has been made smaller, to give room for a cosy little sitting-room at one end. It

may be cosy and convenient to the new-comers, but it is not the spacious old kitchen, where all the work of the house could be done and all the family sit round the ample fire of hickory logs, and where there was always room enough for "blindman's buff," "hide and seek," "puss in the corner," and other kindred philosophies of those blessed days at home, to say nothing of huskings, molasses candy scrapes, etc., etc.

The old south room is not much changed. How many scenes come back upon memory as I open the door-the prayer-meetings, the social gatherings of family friends, the thanksgiving parties, the birthday festivals, and the eager gathering of the whole group to listen to the last letter from the loved and absent in China, to hear of the strange people there, their idolatries, their customs, and their curious works. Here, in the engraving, you see them listening to an explanation of a Chinese ancestral tablet, which had just arrived, among other curiosities, from that distant land.

Yet some things remain as of old. The spacious barn is there, and the long shed, protecting the north side of the yard. The old hill in the distance, with its straggling fringe of half-blasted trees, and its solemn look toward heaven. But more than all, the bright sparkling brook, that babbled along the edge of the garden, and sauntered down into the valley, as if it were in no hurry to get through; though, after leaving it, it would rush on

to the river, as if ambitious to find its way to the ocean. And yet, after all, the brook was changed too. It sang the same old tune, but it seemed to be set to different words. The air was familiar, but my heart could not chime in as of old. What was the matter?

This brook had something more than sparkles and babblings to commend it. It was perfectly alive