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

took the lit-tle tufts of grass from her hand as read-i-ly as if Ma-ry had been its friend from in-fan-cy.

And the lamb leaped a-way, and looked back to see if its new-found play-mate would fol-low. Ma-ry's heart went out after the lamb, as it gam-bolled be-fore her. Now the lit-tle thing would sport by her side, and then would rush for-ward as if about to for-sake her al-togeth-er; but soon it would re-turn, or wait un-til she came up with it. Ma-ry had no thought, no anx-i-e-ty what-ev-er as to whith-er the lamb was lead-ing her. She was lost; she had no friend to help her in her distress; the lamb had found her in her lone-li-ness, and she loved it, and loved to fol-low it, and she would go wher-ev-er it should go. So she went on, un-til she be-gan to be wea-ry of the way, but not of her com-pan-y.

The sun was just set-ting-a sum-mer sun, and her shad-ow stretched a-way be-fore her as if she were tall as a tree. She was think-ing of home, and won-der-ing if she should ev-er find the way back to her moth-er's house and her moth-er's heart, when the lamb all of a sud-den sprang a-way over a gen-tle knoll, and as she reached it her sport-ing play-mate had found the flock from which it had strayed, and they were all, the lamb and Ma-ry, with-in sight of home. The lamb had led Ma-ry home.

Who has not some-times felt as this child, away from his father's house, in search of plea-sure till he is lost? He knows not whith-er to look for some one to guide him home-ward. He prays. His eye of faith, blind-ed just now with tears of grief be-cause he has wan-dered, catch-es sight of the Lamb, who leads him to his Fath-er's house, where his tears are wiped away, and he is welcomed and fold-ed in the arms of e-ter-nal love.-Abbott.

LESSON XCV.-A LESSON OF FAITH.

"Let me hire you as a nurse for my poor chil-dren,” said a But-ter-fly to a qui-et Cat-er-pil-lar, who was strol-ling a-long a cab-bage-leaf in her odd lum-ber-ing way. "See these lit-tle eggs," con-tin-ued the But-terfly; "I don't know how long it will be be-fore they come to life, and I feel very sick and poor-ly; and if I should die, who will take care of my ba-by but-ter-flies when I am gone? Will you, kind, mild, green Cat-erpil-lar? But you must mind what you give them to eat, Cat-er-pil-lar; they can-not, of course, live on your rough food. You must give them ear-ly dew, and hon-ey from the flow-ers; and you must let them fly a-bout, on-ly a little way at first; for, of course, one can't expect them to use their wings prop-er-ly all at once. Dear me! it is a sad pit-y you can-not fly your-self. But I have no time to look for an-oth-er nurse now, so you will do your best, I hope. Dear! dear! I can-not think what made me come and lay my eggs on a cab-bage leaf! What a place for young but-ter-flies to be born up-on! Still, you will be kind, will you not, to the poor lit-tle ones? Here, take this gold-dust from my wings as a re-ward. Oh, how diz-zy I am! Cat-er-pil-lar! you will re-mem-ber a-bout the food." And with these words the But-ter-fly closed her eyes and died; and the green Cater-pil-lar, who had not had the op-por-tu-ni-ty of e-ven say-ing, Yes, or No, to the re-quest, was left stand-ing a-lone by the side of the But-ter-fly's eggs.

"A pret-ty nurse she has cho-sen, in-deed, poor la-dy!" ex-claimed she, " and a pret-ty bus-i-ness I have in hand! Why, her sen-ses must have left her, or she nev-er would have asked a poor crawl-ing crea-ture like me to bring

up her dain-ty lit-tle ones. Much they'll mind me, tru-ly, when they feel the gay wings on their backs, and can fly a-way out of my sight when-ev-er they choose. Ah! how sil-ly some peo-ple are, in spite of their paint-ed clothes and the gold-dust on their wings." How-ev-er, the poor But-ter-fly was dead, and there lay the eggs on the cab-bage leaf; and the green Cat-er-pil-lar had a kind heart, so she re-solved to do her best. But she got no sleep that night, she was so ver-y anx-ious. She made her back quite ache with walk-ing all night long round her young char-ges, for fear a-ny harm should hap-pen to them; and in the morn-ing says she to herself, "Two heads are bet-ter than one. I will con-sult some wise an-i-mal up-on the mat-ter, and get ad-vice. How should a poor crawl-ing crea-ture like me know what to do with-out ask-ing my bet-ters?"

But still there was a dif-fi-cul-ty-whom should the Cat-er-pil-lar con-sult? There was the shag-gy Dog, who some-times came in-to the gar-den. But he was so rough, he would most like-ly whisk all the eggs off the cab-bage-leaf with one brush of his tail, if she called him near to talk to her, and then she should nev-er forgive her-self. There was the Tom Cat, to be sure, who would some-times sit at the foot of the ap-ple tree, basking him-self and warm-ing his fur in the sun-shine; but he was so sel-fish and in-dif-fer-ent,-there was no hope of his giv-ing him-self the trou-ble to think a-bout butter-flies' eggs. "I won-der which is the wis-est of all the an-i-mals I know," sighed the Cat-er-pil-lar, in great dis-tress; and then she thought of the Lark, and she fan-cied that be-cause he went up so high, and nobod-y knew where he went to, he must be very clev-er, and know a great deal; for to go up ver-y high (which