eagle said. But, when the worm ap-peared, the sparrow snapped him up and ate him. Then he went on with his ar-gu-ment a-gainst the cats.-Henry Morley. LESSON LXVII.-A BABY ELEPHANT. Of the two young el-e-phants which were ta-ken in the Cor-ral, the small-est (ten months old) was sent down to my house at Co-lom-bo, where he be-came a gen-e-ral fa-vour-ite with the serv-ants. He at-tached him-self es-pe-cial-ly to the coach-man, who had a lit-tle shed e-rect-ed for him near his own quar-ters in the sta-bles. But his fa-vour-ite re-sort was the kit-chen, where he re-ceived a dai-ly al-low-ance of milk and plan-tains, and picked up sev-e-ral o-ther del-i-ca-cies be-sides. He was in-no-cent and play-ful in the ex-treme, and when walking in the grounds he would trot up to me, twine his lit-tle trunk round my arm, and coax me to take him to the fruit-trees. In the eve-ning the grass-cut-ters now and then in-dulged him by per-mit-ting him to car-ry home a load of fod-der for the hors-es, on which oc-casions he as-sumed an air of grav-i-ty that was high-ly a-mus-ing, show-ing that he was deep-ly im-pressed with the im-port-ance and re-spon-si-bi-li-ty of the ser-vice en-trust-ed to him. Be-ing some-times per-mit-ted to en-ter the di-ning-room, and helped to fruit at des-sert, he at last learned his way to the side-board; and on more than one oc-ca-sion hav-ing sto-ien in, du-ring the ab-sence of the ser-vants, he made a clear sweep of the wine-glas-ses and chi-na in his en-deav-ours to reach a bas-ket of o-ran-ges. For these, and sim-i-lar pranks, we were at last forced to put him a-way. He was sent to the gov-ern-ment stud, where he was af-fec-tion-ate-ly re-ceived and a-dopt-ed by Si-ri-bed-di, a tame fe-male el-e-phant, and he now takes his turn of pub-lic du-ty in the de-part-ment of the Com-mis-sion-er of Roads.—Tennent's "Ceylon." LESSON LXVIII.-THE RAVEN. Ra-ven on the blast-ed tree, Ra-ven, thou art si-lent now, In that far-gone aw-ful time, In the go-pher ark were driv-en— I was there. RAVEN. POET. I know it, bird. And when rain no more was heard, RAVEN. Nar-row was the ark, but wide POET. Ra-ven, lo! I thought the same; RAVEN. Yes, by Che-rith brook there grew And a ra-ven tree was there, Thus a voice un-to us said, 'By you must this man be fed ; Bring him flesh, and bring him bread!" And by us he was sup-plied, Un-til Che-rith brook was dried! POET. Won-drous mir-a-cle of love! RAVEN. Doth it thus thy spirit move? 66 They plough not," said He, "nor reap, Store-house none, nor barn have they, POET. Ra-ven, thou art spir-it-cheer-ing; Nev-er more be it a-verred That thou art a dole-ful bird!-Mary Howitt. LESSON LXIX.-ICEBERGS. One morn-ing, ear-li-er than the u-su-al time of ri-sing, the stew-ard a-wa-kened us with the news that ice-bergs were close at hand. This was charm-ing in-tell-i-gence, for so late in the sea-son they are but rare-ly met with. We were all soon on deck, and for a wor-thy ob-ject. One was a grand fel-low, with two great domes, each as large as that of St. Paul's; the low-er part was like frost-ed sil-ver. Where the heat of the sun had melt-ed the sur-face, and it had fro-zen a-gain, in its grad-u-al de-cay it had as-sumed all sorts of an-gu-lar and fantas-tic shapes, re-flect-ing from its green trans-pa-rent mass, thou-sands of pris-mat-ic col-ours; while be-low the gen-tle swell dal-lied with its cliff-like sides. The ac-tion of the waves had worn a-way a great por-tion of the base o-ver the wa-ter, in-to deep nooks and caves, de-stroy-ing the bal-ance of the mass; while we were pas sing, the cri-sis of this te-di-ous pro-cess chanced to ar-rive; the huge white rock tot-tered for a mo-ment, then fell in-to the calm sea, with a sound like the roar of a thou-sand can-non; the spray rose to a great height in-to the air, and large waves rolled round, spread-ing their wide cir-cles o-ver the o-cean, each ring di-min-ishing till at length they sank to rest. When the spray had fal-len a-gain, the glit-ter-ing domes had van-ished, and a long low is-land of rough snow and ice lay on the surface of the wa-ter. There is some-thing im-press-ive and dis-mal in the fate of these cold and lone-ly wan-der-ers of the deep. They break loose by some great ef-fort of na-ture from the shores and riv-ers of the un-known re-gions of the north, where, for cen-tu-ries per-haps, they have been ac-cu-mu-la-ting, and com-mence their drear-y voy-age, which has no end but in an-ni-hil-a-tion. For years they may wan-der in the Po-lar sea, till some strong gale or cur-rent bears them past its i-ron lim-its; then by the pre-dom-i-nance of winds and wa-ters to the south; they float past the des-o-late coasts of New-found-land. Al-read-y the sum-mer sun makes sad hav-oc in their strength, melt-ing their lof-ty heights; but each night's frost binds up what is left, and still on, on, glides the |