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eve-ning, as they were re-ti-ring to rest, he asked, "Now, how have you liked your beau-ti-ful peach-es ?"

"Ver-y much, dear fath-er," said the eld-est; "so ac-id and so soft! I have kept the stone of mine, that I may have a tree of my own.".

"Well done," said the fath-er, "that was thought-ful; and you will make a good farm-er."

"I," said the young-est, "have eat-en mine, but I threw a-way the stone. My mother gave me be-sides half of hers. Oh! it ta-sted so sweet and melt-ing!"

"You have not done well," said the fath-er, "and yet it was nat-u-ral, for greed-i-ness is com-mon to children."

Then be-gan the sec-ond son, "I have cracked the stone which my lit-tle broth-er threw a-way, and there was a ker-nel in-side, which ta-sted like a nut. As for my peach, I sold it for as much as will buy twelve when I go to town."

But the fath-er shook his head. "Pray to God," said he, "to keep you from the sin of cov-et-ous-ness. And you, Ed-ward ?"

"I have giv-en mine to George, our neigh-bour's son, who has lain so long in a fe-ver."

"Now," asked the fath-er, "who has en-joyed his peach the most?"

The three oth-ers cried out, "Broth-er Ed-ward!" but he a-lone was si-lent, and his moth-er kissed him with tears in her eyes-Krummacher.

LESSON XCII.-EYES AND NO EYES; THE ART OF SEEING.

"Well, Rob-ert, where have you been walk-ing this af-ter-noon?" said a tu-tor to his pu-pil, at the close of a hol-i-day.

Robert. I have been to Broom-heath, and so round by the wind-mill up-on Camp Mount, and home through the mead-ows by the riv-er side.

Tutor. Well, that is a pleas-ant round.

Robert. I thought it ver-y dull, Sir; I scarce-ly met with a sin-gle per-son. I would much rath-er have gone a-long the turn-pike-road.

Tutor. Why, if see-ing men and hors-es was your ob-ject, you would in-deed have been bet-ter en-ter-tained on the high road. But did you see Wil-li-am?

Robert. We set out to-geth-er, but he lagged be-hind in the lane, so I walked on and left him.

Tutor. That was a pit-y. He would have been compan-y for you.

Robert. O, he is so te-di-ous, al-ways stop-ping to look at this thing and that! I would rath-er walk a-lone. I dare say he has not got home yet.

Tutor. Here he comes. Well, Wil-li-am, and where have you been?

William. O, the pleas-ant-est walk! I went all o-ver Broom-heath, and so up to the mill at the top of the hill, and then down a-mong the green mead-ows by the side

of the riv-er.

Tutor. Why, that is just the`round Rob-ert has been ta-king, and he com-plains of its dul-ness, and pre-fers the high road.

William. I won-der at that, I am sure; I hard-ly tock a step that did not de-light me, and I have brought me my hand-ker-chief full of cu-ri-os-i-ties.

Cutor. Sup-pose, then, you give us an ac-count of what used you so much. I fan-cy it will be as new to

obert as to me.

William. I will do it read-i-ly.

The lane lead-ing to

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the heath, you know, is close and sand-y, so I did not mind it much, but made the best of my way. How-ev-er, I spied a cu-ri-ous thing e-nough in the hedge. It was an old crab-tree, out of which grew a great bunch of some-thing green, quite dif-fer-ent from the tree it-self. Here is a branch of it.

Tutor. Ah, this is a mis-tle-toe, a plant of great fame for the use made of it by the Dru-ids of old in their re-lig-i-ous rites. It bears a very sli-my white ber-ry, of which bird-lime may be made, whence the Lat-in name Vis-cus. It is one of those plants which do not grow in the ground by a root of their own, but fix themselves up-on oth-er plants; whence they have been hu-mor-ous-ly styled par-a-sit-i-cal, as be-ing hang-ers on, or de-pend-ents. It was the mis-tle-toe of the oak that the Dru-ids par-tic-u-lar-ly hon-oured.

William. A lit-tle far-ther on, I saw a green wood-peck-er fly to a tree, and run up the trunk like

a cat.

Tutor. That was to seek for in-sects in the bark, on which they live. They bore holes with their strong bills for that pur-pose, and do much dam-age to the trees by it.

William. What beau-ti-ful birds they are!

Tutor. Yes; they have been called, from their col-our and size, the Eng-lish par-rot.

William. When I got up-on the heath, how charming it was! The air seemed so fresh, and the pros-pect on ev-er-y side so free and un-bound-ed! Then it was all cov-ered with gay flowers, man-y of which I had nev-er ob-served be-fore. There were at least three kinds of heath (I have got them in my hand-ker-chief here), and gorse, and broom, and bell-flowers, and man-y

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oth-ers of all col-ours, of which I will beg you pres-ent-ly to tell me the names.

Tutor. That I will, read-i-ly.

William. There was a flock of lap-wings up-on a marsh-y part of the heath, that a-mused me much.

As

I came near them, some of them kept fly-ing round and round just over my head, and cry-ing pe-wit so distinct-ly, one might al-most fan-cy they spoke. I thought I should have caught one of them, for he flew as if one of his wings was bro-ken, and oft-en tum-bled close to the ground; but as I came near he al-ways con-trived to get a-way.

Tutor. Ha, ha! you were fine-ly ta-ken in then. This was all an ar-ti-fice of the bird's to en-tice you a-way from its nest; for they build up-on the bare ground, and their nests would eas-i-ly be ob-served, did they not draw off the at-ten-tion of in-tru-ders, by their loud cries, and coun-ter-feit lame-ness.

William. I wish I had known that, for he led me a long chase, oft-en o-ver shoes in wa-ter. How-ev-er, it was the cause of my fal-ling in with an old man and a boy who were cut-ting and pi-ling up turf for fu-el; and I had a good deal of talk with them, a-bout the man-ner of pre-par-ing the turf, and the price it sells at. They gave me, too, a crea-ture I nev-er saw be-fore-a young vi-per, which they had just killed, to-geth-er with its dam. I have seen sev-er-al com-mon snakes, but this is thick-er in pro-por-tion, and of a dark-er col-our than they are.

Tutor. True; vi-pers fre-quent those turf-y, bog-gy grounds pret-ty much, and I have known sev-er-al turfcut-ters bit-ten by them.

William. They are ver-y ven-o-mous, are they not?

Tutor. E-nough so to make their wounds pain-ful and dan-ger-ous, though they sel-dom prove fa-tal.

William. Well. I then took my course up to the wind-mill on the mount. I climbed up the steps of the mill, in order to get a bet-ter view of the coun-try round. What an ex-ten-sive pros-pect! I'll tell you what I mean to do, if you will give me leave.

Tutor. What is that?

William. I will go a-gain, and take with me a coun-ty map, by which I shall prob-a-bly be a-ble to make out most of the pla-ces.

Tutor. You shall have it; and I will go with you, and take my pock-et spy-ing glass.

William. From the hill I went straight down to the mead-ows be-low, and walked on the side of a brook that runs in-to the riv-er. It was all bor-dered with reeds and flags, and tall flower-ing plants, quite differ-ent from those I had seen on the heath. As I was get-ting down the bank to reach one of them, I heard some-thing plunge in-to the wa-ter near me. It was a large wa-ter rat, and I saw it swim o-ver to the oth-er side, and go in-to its hole. There were a great man-y drag-on flies all a-bout the stream. I caught one of the fi-nest, and have got him here in a leaf. But how I longed to catch a bird that I saw ho-ver-ing o-ver the wa-ter, and ev-er-y now and then dart-ing down in-to it! It was all o-ver a mix-ture of the most beau-ti-ful green and blue, with some o-range col-our. It was somewhat less than a thrush, and had a large head and bill, and a short tail.

Tutor. I can tell you what that bird was-a kingfish-er; the cel-e-bra-ted hal-cy-on of the an-cients, a-bout which so man-y tales are told. It lives on fish, which it

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