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catch-es in the man-ner you saw. It builds in holes in the bank; and is a shy, re-tired bird, nev-er to be seen far from the stream which it in-hab-its.

William. I must try to get an-oth-er sight of him, for I never saw a bird that pleased me so much. Well, I fol-lowed this lit-tle brook till it en-tered the riv-er, and then took the path that runs a-long the bank. On the op-pos-ite side I ob-served sev-er-al lit-tle birds running a-long the shore, and ma-king a pi-ping noise. They were brown and white, and a-bout as big as a snipe.

Tutor. I suppose they were sand-pi-pers, one of the nu-mer-ous fam-i-ly of birds that get their liv-ing by wa-ding a-mong the shal-lows, and pick-ing up worms and in-sects.

William. There were a great man-y swallows, too, sport-ing up-on the sur-face of the wa-ter, that en-tertained me with their mo-tions. Some-times they dashed in-to the stream; some-times they pur-sued one an-oth-er so quick-ly that the eye could scarce-ly fol-low them. In one place, where a high steep sand-bank rose di-rect-ly a-bove the riv-er, I ob-served man-y of them go in and out of holes with which the bank was bored full.

Tutor. Those were sand-mar-tins, the small-est of our four spec-ies of swal-lows. They are of a mouse col-our a-bove and white be-neath. They make their nests and bring up their young in these holes, which run a great depth, and by their sit-u-a-tion are se-cure from all plun-der-ers. William. After I had left the mead-ows, I crossed the corn-fields in the way to our house, and passed close by a deep marl-pit. Look-ing in-to it, I saw in one of the sides, a clus-ter of what I took to be shells; and

up-on go-ing down, I picked up a clod of marl which was quite full of them; but how sea-shells could get there I can-not i-mag-ine.

Tutor. I do not won-der at your sur-prise, since man-y phil-os-o-phers have been much per-plexed to ac-count for the same ap-pear-ance. It is not un-common to find great quan-ti-ties of shells and rel-ics of ma-rine an-i-mals e-ven in the bow-els of high mountains ver-y re-mote from the sea.

William. I got to the high field next our house just as the sun was set-ting; and I stood look-ing at it till it was quite lost. What a glɔ-ri-ous sight! The clouds were tinged with pur-ple, and crim-son, and yellow of all shades and hues, and the clear sky va-ried from blue to a fine green at the ho-ri-zon. But how large the sun ap-pears just as it sets! I think it seems twice as big as when it is o-ver head.

Tutor. It does so; and you may prob-a-bly have ob-served the same ap-pa-rent en-large-ment of the moon at ri-sing.

William. I have; but pray what is the rea-son for this? Tutor. It is an op-ti-cal de-cep-tion, de-pend-ing up-on prin-ci-ples which I can-not well ex-plain to you, till you know more of that branch of sci-ence; but what a num-ber of new i-deas this after-noon's walk has af-ford-ed you! I do not won-der that you found it a-mu-sing; it has been very in-struct-ive too. Did you see noth-ing of these sights, Rob-ert?

Robert. I saw some of them; but I did not take partic-u-lar no-tice of them.

Tutor. Why not?

Robert. I do not know. I did not care a-bout them; and I made the best of my way home.

Tutor. That would have been right, if you had been sent on a mes-sage; but as you on-ly walked for a-musement, it would have been wi-ser to have sought out as man-y sour-ces of it as pos-si-ble. But so it is; one man walks through the world with his eyes o-pen, and an-oth-er with them shut; and up-on this dif-fer-ence de-pends all the su-pe-ri-or-i-ty of know-ledge the one ac-quires a-bove the oth-er. I have known sail-ors who had been in all quar-ters of the world, and could tell you noth-ing but the signs of the tip-pling-hou-ses they fre-quent-ed in the dif-fer-ent ports, and the price and qual-i-ty of the li-quor. On the oth-er hand, a Frank-lin could not cross the Chan-nel with-out ma-king some ob-ser-va-tions use-ful to man-kind. While man-y a va-cant, thought-less youth is whirled through Eu-rope with-out gain-ing a sin-gle i-dea worth cross-ing a street for; the ob-serv-ing eye and in-qui-ring mind find mat-ter of im-prove-ment and de-light in ev-er-y ram-ble in town or co un-try. Do you, then, Wil-li-am, con-tin-ue to make use of your eyes; and you, Rob-ert, learn that eyes were giv-en you to use.-Dr. Aikin.

LESSON XCIII.-THE FROST.

The frost looked out one still clear night,
And whis-pered, "Now I shall be out of sight;
So through the val-ley, and over the height,
In si-lence I'll take my way.

I will not go on like that blus-ter-ing train,
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
Who make so much bus-tle and noise in vain,
But I'll be as busy as they."

Then he flew to the moun-tain and pow-dered its crest;
He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed
In dia-mond beads; and over the breast

Of the quiv-er-ing lake he spread

A coat of mail, that it need not fear
The down-ward point of many a spear
That he hung on its mar-gin, far and near,
Where a rock would rear its head.

He went to the win-dows of those who slept,
And over each pane like a fai-ry crept;
Wher-ev-er he breathed, wher-ev-er he stept,
By the light of the moon were seen

Most beau-ti-ful things: there were flowers and trees,
There were bev-ies of birds, and swarms of bees;
There were cit-ies, with tem-ples and tow-ers, and these
All pic-tured in sil-ver sheen.

But he did one thing that was hard-ly fair;
He peeped in the cup-board, and find-ing there
That all had for-got-ten for him to pre-pare,-
"Now just to set them a think-ing,

I'll bite this bas-ket of fruit," said he ;
"This cost-ly pit-cher I'll burst in three,
And the glass of wa-ter they've left for me

Shall tchick! to show them I'm drink-ing."

Miss Gould.

LESSON XCIV.--THE LOST CHILD AND THE LAMB.

A lit-tle child wan-dered from its moth-er's cot-tage to the green mead-ows in search of flowers. Pleased with the pur-suit, and find-ing new pleas-ures the more she sought, it was nearly night before she thought of re-turn

ing. But in vain she turned her steps. She had lost her way. The thick clumps of trees that she had passed were no guide, and she could not tell wheth-er home was be-tween her and the set-ting sun or not.

She sat down and wept. She looked in all di-rec-tions in hope of see-ing some one to lead her home-ward, but no one ap-peared. She strained her eyes, now dim with tears, to catch a sight of the smoke curl-ing from the cot she had left. It was like look-ing out on the o-cean, with no sail in view. She was a-lone in, as it were, a wil-der-ness. Hours had passed since she had left her moth-er's arms. A few hours more, and the dark night would be a-round her, the stars would look down up-on her, and her hair would be wet with the dew.

She knelt on the ground and prayed. Her moth-er in the cot-tage was be-yond the reach of her voice, but her heav-en-ly Fath-er she knew was al-ways near, and could hear her fee-blest cry. Ma-ry had been taught to say "Our Fath-er," and in this time of sor-row, when friends were far away, and there was none to help, she called upon Him who has said to lit-tle chil-dren, "Come unto me."

Ma-ry had closed her eyes in prayer, and when she o-pened them, com-fort-ed in spir-it, and al-most resigned to her fate, wil-ling to trust God for the fu-ture, and to sleep, if need-ful, in the grass, with His arm a-round her and His love a-bove her, she es-pied a lamb. It was seek-ing the ten-der-est herbs a-mong the tall grass, and had strayed a-way from its moth-er and the flock, so that Ma-ry saw at a glance she had a compan-ion in her sol-i-tude, and her heart was glad-dened as if she heard the voice and saw the face of a friend.

The lamb was hap-py also. It played at her side, and

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