child rushed screaming out of the room to fetch her mother, who, guessing what had happened, returned instantly and did all she could to restore Kate, whom she found apparently in a deadly swoon, but after a while she came round again. It was ammonia she had inhaled, and pretty freely too. She paid for her prying something like the little girl who opened grandmother's snuff box, and received some of its contents in her face, when

"Poor eyes and nose and mouth and chin a dismal sight presented,

And as the snuff got further in, sincerely she repented." But if Kate repented, her repentance was of short duration, as it was not long before her curiosity again brought her into trouble.

It so happened that Patty's kitten had met with an accident, resulting in a wound on the leg. Now the tongue of the cat, unlike that of the dog, has no healing properties, it is rough and graterlike, acting as a comb to smooth the soft fur of the animal; it only aggravates a wound therefore, to keep puss from licking the injured leg after being dressed, Madge, Mrs. Cunningham's maid-servant, proposed to put some bitter aloes upon it.

Madge had a way of abbreviating the names of things, and when Kate, who did not know the purpose for which it was to be used, heard her say, "I have bought the aloes, marm," she was curious to know what aloes could be; something to eat, to smell at, or what? Being shortly after left alone with the mysterious packet, she took it up to examine it, observing, however, a little more care of her nose than in the ammonia encounter; she smelt at it cautiously, then felt, then opened it, and eventually tasted its contents. The result, none but those who have tasted bitter aloes can imagine-how lips, tongue, and palate suffered from the acrid biting taste thus ruthlessly forced upon them by ten meddlesome fingers. Kate heaved at the heart, nor did she readily get quit of the intensely bitter taste and feeling of sickness, for which she received no pity. Madge even laughed at her, saying, "it served her right, she could not let anything alone."

A few days afterwards, Kate was standing one evening by the kitchen fire, when Madge observed, “I'm going upstairs, Miss Kate; whatever you do, don't touch either of those saucepans; the one rests upon the other for support; should their contents boil over, call me; mind, don't touch them." Madge would not say what their contents were; she delighted to rouse Kate's curiosity.

"Friends coming to-night to supper; mother might let me stay up; wonder what they are going to have; something good I know; if I had come down sooner I should have seen what Madge put into the saucepans; don't think they would fall if I were to lift the lids," was Kate's soliloquy when Madge's back was turned.

No sooner thought of than done, the lids were lifted; slight as was the movement, it was sufficient to displace the hold one saucepan had upon the other, and over they fell into the fire, some

of the scalding contents going over the feet of the unfortunate Kate, whose loud screams, and the disagreeable odour, brought Mrs. Cunningham and Madge at break-neck speed to the scene of the disaster.

Her mother could not be angry with the girl while she was enduring acute pain, but Madge, with nothing of pity, and annoyed at the additional work of having to put things to rights, grumbled a good deal, under her breath, about the fire being put nearly out, the wreck of her nice clean hearth, and the spoiling of the carefully prepared supper. "Serves her well right," she muttered, "I am not a bit sorry for her; if this does not cure her of prying, I don't know what will; it makes me wild to see how these beautiful chickens are spoiled; she'll be called Miss Curiosity more than ever now, little Paul Pry that she is."

Kate suffered severely from the accident, which left a telling scar on the right foot, to be ever after a reminder of the past. Still she was not cured of the mischievous propensity; despite her severe lessons, she was Miss Curiosity still.

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Patty, who is coming upstairs?" she inquired, as the child climbed on to the bed, upon which she was lying, the injury she had sustained having confined her to her room for some days.

"Miss Tameron and her mamma, and my mamma bring them up'tairs," replied little Patty, whose prattle, not of the plainest, meant that a Miss Cameron and her mother had arrived.

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Umph! I know they will be talking about me," thought Kate, "I'll just listen; then turning to Patty, eager to get her out of the room, added, "Run away, darling, into mother's room, and see them."

Having thus disposed of the child, Kate fastened the door and mounted upon a chair, the effort almost causing her to call out with the pain in her foot, by which she nearly betrayed herself, to a small sliding window that Mrs. Cunningham had had let into the wall separating her own and children's rooms, that she might, without disturbing them, see into theirs. Since Kate had grown older, however, she seldom used it, and it was now covered by a curtain on each side. Noiselessly the eavesdropper slid the window back about an inch, and listened. Mrs. Cameron was saying:

"How is Kate ? '

"Getting on favourably, thank you," replied Mrs. Cunningham.

"You have certainly more forbearance with her than I should have," returned the visitor, whose household rule had more of severity and less of love than that of the amiable Mrs. Cunningham. "I do not hold with too severe measures," was the gentle answer of the latter. 'I have spoken seriously to Kate, and hope that, seeing how greatly her fault distresses me, she will, like a good girl, check it. I think in what she has suffered her own rod has chastised her."

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"I would chastise her with a real rod when she gets better," replied Mrs. Cameron.

“O, mother!” interrupted Miss Cameron.

room.

Kate Cunningham's reflections were not very pleasant ones; listeners seldom hear good of themselves; eavesdropping is a despicable practice, another meanness into which Kate's inordinate curiosity had led her. To do her justice, however, she made resolves for self-amendment, but relying only on her own feeble will to keep them, instead of seeking strength from a higher power, they were not lasting.

Several months passed, nothing particular occurring in that time, till one afternoon, as Kate was seated with her mother, who was writing a letter, the latter was called away by the arrival of visitors, when she hastily thrust an unfinished letter aside and quitted the room, leaving Kate by herself, whose thoughts ran thus:

Mother is writing to Uncle and Aunt Mercer, about my visit to them. Now as it relates to myself there might not be very much harm in my reading the letter. I should so like to know what she says about me." "Don't pry; remember your good resolves," remonstrated the more noble part of Kate's nature; yet she obeyed not the small still voice that would have saved her from an act so ignoble, but took up the letter, when her eye fell upon the words

"Above all, my dear brother, do not allow Kate in your surgery, lest she should be tempted, if left alone, to meddle with things in it that might do her harm or cause mischief in some way; you know her fault, one which I am afraid she has not yet overcome, although I believe endeavouring to do so."

Kate dropped the letter, a conscious blush was on her cheek; ashamed, she covered her face with her hands, and burst into repentant tears.

The following week found her at the house of her uncle, Mr. Mercer, a surgeon in good practice, in a town some fifty miles distant from her home. Both uncle and aunt received her with the warmth and affection of kind relatives, and there was a little bright fair-haired boy cousin of scarce four years old, an only child, who much delighted her; indeed, she was very happy, only one thing troubled her; it was to think she could not be trusted to enter her uncle's surgery, where even little Oswald was sometimes allowed to go with his father. She knew what the room was like, for she had often looked through the window, and longed to examine many things inside; those phrenological heads, those funny bottles and gallipots with labels on them, and such dear little cupboards and drawers that she longed to open.

While she allowed her mind to indulge in

thoughts like these, it is not surprising they should have put to flight all her good resolutions to shake off a habit that, to say the least, was a dangerous one.

Day by day she watched an opportunity to gratify her curiosity, and at last one came. Painters and paperhangers were in the house, which was in a state of general confusion; even the surgery had its share, a new paper now adorning its walls. It was evening, Mr. and Mrs. Mercer were both out, little Oswald had gone to bed, and Herbert Flexmore, Mr. Mercer's assistant, had gone upstairs to partake of an unusually late tea, incautiously leaving the door of the surgery open. Kate, passing by a few minutes after, noticed this, peeped cautiously into the room, and then entered, crushing back the inward remonstrances in her breast that said, "Resist temptation to do wrong, and it will forsake you."

With a noiseless step and cautious hand Miss Curiosity opened one cupboard and then another, and drew out drawer after drawer, without finding anything to interest her, and was about to leave the room, when she espied, what, upon opening, she found to be her uncle's box of surgical instruments. Not content with looking at the bright and glittering contents, her meddlesome fingers must touch them; finally she drew one across her finger, unaware of its sharpness; a cut was the result. Quickly putting back the dangerous plaything, she took up a piece of the wall paper that lay on the floor to wrap round her now bleeding finger, over which she tied her handkerchief. Afraid lest her bandaged hand would be noticed, she made some excuse to Mr. Flexmore and the servant, and went at once to bed.

In the night she felt a good deal of pain from the cut, which being so slight surprised her, and in the morning upon removing the wrappings she saw her finger was greatly inflamed; however, as the bleeding had ceased, she continued the whole of the day to keep the accident from observation, although the pain increased so much that several times she could scarcely refrain from crying out, and it was a relief when bedtime came at last.

From the chamber where Kate slept opened a small dressing-room, in which was little Oswald's bed. In the night the child was disturbed by his cousin moaning in her sleep, and having heard people talk about nightmare, he jumped up and ran into the room where his parents slept, exclaiming, while he pulled lustily at the bedclothes to wake them, "Papa, mamma, Kate got the mare."

His father, half asleep and half awake, answered, "The mare's in the stable; I put her there myself."

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No, no, papa, Oswald does not mean that. Kate's got the mare."

Again his father half in dreamland answered, “The mayor has gone to bed long ago, I dined with him and several of the town councillors last night."

The child now appealed more to his mother. "Do, mamma, come to poor Katie," he said. Mr. and Mrs. Mercer thoroughly aroused, went into Kate's bedroom, when they discovered the cause of her disturbed slumbers, without the humiliating confession she was afterwards forced to make.

But not to dwell upon so painful a subject, it is but needful to add that Kate's last act of prying curiosity cost her the loss of a finger. It is easily explained. To staunch the bleeding from the cut, it will be remembered, she folded round it a piece of wall paper, keeping it on all night; in that time the colouring matter on the paper, principally green and very poisonous, had time to prove its dire effects, the poison having thoroughly worked itself into the wound; and to prevent it from spreading further, amputation of the finger was the only means to save her life. Experience teaches us wisdom. Kate paid dearly for hers,. but it was as well, even though bought at such a high price; for with the loss of her finger, she also lost the name of Miss Curiosity, and the character belonging to it.

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E. B.

IT WAS MY HOME IN CHILDHOOD.

J

T was my home in childhood,

And shall be evermore

The spot to which my heart shall cling, Now childhood's hours are o'er;

For here I gaily sported

When I was young and free,

When first I heard my mother's song,
And climbed my father's knee.

It was my home ere manhood
Had stamped upon my brow
Those records of maturer years
That gather o'er it now;
But still I would not leave it,

Now hope's bright hours decline,
The home that was my father's,-
That home shall still be mine,
In manhood as in childhood,

Nor chance nor change could be
To make me slight the old home,
That home so dear to me.
Each tribute of affection,
Each record of the mind

That memory loves to cherish,
In this dwelling is enshrined!

J. E. C.

OUSIN WILLIE is coming to see us to-day, father," said a happy little boy, ten years of age. I promised you would show him your first prize. You will, won't you, father?" "Yes, Charlie,” replied Mr. Tompkins. "I am prouder of that than all the treasures in my

household, except, of course, your mother, yourself, and Louie and baby."

"And you will tell him the story, won't you, father?

"Of course, I will, if you wish it."

In due time, Cousin Willie arrived, and after tea mother was asked to bring down a little cabinet library of English poets; inside the case these words were inscribed: "Presented to Charles Tompkins, as a reward of merit, by the patrons of St. John's School, Windmouth. June 24th, 1850."

"Yes!" said Mr. Tompkins, reading the inscription for perhaps the thousandth time, with as much gratification as when it first met his delighted gaze; "that prize made a man of me. It is now nearly nine and twenty years since it was presented, and yet it is ever present to my mind, as well as the circumstances attending it. From the moment I gained it, my nature changed; I found what patience and perseverance could do, and whenever obstacles have appeared in my path, a gentle voice seems to whisper me, Courage!' But I must tell you the whole story, Willie, the way I have told it to my own little boy so often, and you see he's not tired of hearing it.

"I was considered a dull boy when I first went to school. I had two brothers, one older and the other younger than myself, and they had both received prizes at examinations, but no one thought me capable of obtaining one. It was March, and in the following June there was to be a special distribution of prizes; one of the chief features of the examination day was to be recitations, and various books were quoted from which to select our orations. My brothers Willie and Harry spoke with much glee about their prospects of prizes, and pointing to me said, 'Poor Charlie! will he manage to carry off a wooden spoon.'

"I was twelve years old then, and was far behind my younger brother in education, although he was only ten. Their words troubled me, and troubled my poor mother too, I could plainly see. Yet, by way of encouragement, she patted me on the back, saying, 'Never mind; Charlie will make as good a man as any of you.'

"There was one present, however, who took special notice of these remarks, though I did not know it at the time, and that was a little cousin named Louisa. She was paying us a long visit, as her father and mother had gone abroad for a time. Though only a little girl of ten years, she had twice as much sense as any of us boys, could read and write well, could recite poetry like a full-grown lady, and could stitch and embroider to perfection.

She made no comment that evening, but the next morning she rapped at my bedroom door very early, saying, Charlie, I am going to the farm to fetch the milk, and I want you to go with me.'

"I wished her far enough at the time, for, like all stupid boys, 'a little more sleep, a little more slumber,' was considered by me a luxury. How

ever, my cousin was so pressing that I was obliged to get up.

We had to go down a country lane to a farmhouse for the milk; it was quite half a mile distant from our cottage, and during the walk there and back, Louisa, in her pretty little delicate way, impressed upon my mind that it was quite possible for me to get a prize; nay, that the thing was a certainty if I would only try my best. Now,' she said, 'from this day, you know, I am to be your governess, and you'll have to obey me; but you must not tell anybody. It must be a secret. But won't we surprise them all!'

"This improvement, though unnoticed at home, the schoolmaster had carefully taken a note of. But even he was not in our great secret; he did not know my little governess's plans, and what a dear persevering creature she was.

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We had no books at home, but Louisa's memory was so good, that she had written down for me two subjects for recitation. One was 'The Psalm of Life," by Longfellow, commencing

'Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream,
That the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real, life is earnest,

And the grave is not the goal,
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"

Was not spoken of the soul.'

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'Some pretty nursery rhymes that Louisa has been teaching him, I suppose!' answered my younger brother.

'Poor

"Never mind what they are,' observed my little governess. 'He's going to do his best.' "And I did do my best, too. Father was there, mother was there, and Louisa was there. Charlie,' said my father, as my name was called out. Don't go. Charlie,' said my mother, if you feel frightened.' But little Louisa took me by the hand, saying, Walk boldly up, Charlie; you'll do it beautifully; none of the boys have recited as well as you can.'

6

"With those dear, encouraging words, I went on the platform; my voice trembled a little at first, but when I got through the first verse I saw a pair of little hands clapping as hard as they could, and others followed suit; then my courage rose, and I went well through the whole poem.

"As I returned to my seat, my mother seized me in her arms, kissed me and cried, and cried and kissed again; my little governess only took me by the hand, but tears of joy were in her eyes, though her lips could give no utterance.

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My second recitation was equally successful, and I was the wonder of the whole school. • Not a wooden spoon this time,' said Louisa to my brothers as we returned home.

6

"No! thanks to you, little woman,' they answered; but,' said my elder brother, we all thank you for what you have done, don't we mother?'

"Yes, indeed, my dear Louisa, we do thank you. I always said that my Charlie would make as good a man as any of them.'

"The next day this prize was handed to me; with what pride I carried it home you can imagine; as I said before, it made a man of me. When difficulties meet me in life, I remember how I surmounted them in my youth and take courage."

"But, father, you have not told Willie who Louisa was. Let me tell him. It was mother."

"Yes, my dear, though children then, we never lost sight of cach other after I won my first prize."

"And mother is going to teach me how to win a prize, are not you? "said little Charlie.

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"Yes, my dear," she replied, "if you'll only promise to be as patient and persevering as your father was."

R. M. H.