the roof; in summer, every thing is covered with dust; in winter, the pump is choked with frost, or the water pipes burst. All these things should be borne with patience and gentleness; for all the scolding and fretting in the world will not make the trouble any less, or help to set any thing right.

How delightful it is to enter that house over which the spirit of love, and patience, and good temper presides! There no loud voices are heard, no angry chidings, no stormy reproaches, no impatient expressions. The government of the parents is firm, but kind; and their reproofs are gentle: they rule by love, and not by fear. The children bear with one another, and the elder are patient with the younger. Each one is ready to give up his or her wishes to the rest, and render cheerful obedience to their parent's will. There is no rough struggling for books or playthings, no sharp-tongued contest for this place or that privilege, no loud disputes about balls, or kites, or dolls. Such a home is like a piece of heaven fallen upon the earth. Happy are the children who are reared therein; and happy are the parents who make their household a household of love!

LXXXI.

A HASTY TEMPER CORRECTED.

MISS SEDGWICK.

[This and the next succeeding lesson are taken from an excellent work by Miss Sedgwick, entitled Home. In the family of Mr. Barclay it presents to us a delightful picture of a happy home; not exempted from the trials and sorrows which belong to our mortal life, but in which all discipline is turned to moral growth by the spirit of faith, and hope, and love. This is a fictitious narrative; that is, there never was actually such a man as Mr. Barclay, or such a boy as his passionate son; but the account of Wallace's struggles to overcome his hasty temper is a true representation of what every man and every boy must do who resolves to rule his spirit and subdue his passions.]

OUR friends were now in a convenient house, adapted to their improved fortune and increasing family. The family were assembled in a back parlor. Mrs. Barclay was at some domestic employment, in aid of which Martha had just

brought in a tub of scalding water. Charles, the eldest boy, with a patience most unboyish, was holding a skein of yarn for grandmamma to wind; Alice, the eldest girl, was arranging the dinner table in the adjoining room; Mary, the second, was amusing the baby at the window; Willie was saying his letters to aunt Betsey all were busy; but the busiest was little Haddy, a sweet child of four years, who was sitting in the middle of the room on a low chair, and who, unobserved by the rest, and herself unconscious of wrong, was doing deadly mischief.

She had taken a new, unfinished, and very precious kite belonging to her brother Wallace, cut a hole in the centre, thrust into it the head of her pet Maltese kitten, and was holding it by the fore paws, and making it dance on her lap; the little animal looking as demure and formal as one of Queen Elizabeth's maids of honor in her ruff. At this critical juncture, Wallace entered in search of his kite. One word of excuse for Wallace beforehand. The kite was the finest he had ever possessed: it had been given him by a friend, and that friend was waiting at the door to string and fly it for him.

At once, the ruin of the kite, and the indignity to which it was subjected, flashed over him; and perhaps little Haddy's very satisfied air exasperated him. In a breath he seized the kitten, and dashed it into the tub of scalding water. His father had come in to dinner, and paused at the open door of the next room. Haddy shrieked; the children all screamed; Charles dropped grandmamma's yarn, and, at the risk of his own hand, rescued the kitten; but seeing its agony, he gently dropped it in again, and thus put the speediest end to its sufferings.

The children were all sobbing. Wallace stood pale and trembling. His eye turned to his father, then to his mother, then was riveted on the floor. The children saw the frown on their father's face, more dreaded by them than ever was flogging or dark closet.

"I guess you did not mean to, did you, Wally?" said little Haddy, whose tender heart was so touched by the utter misery depicted on her brother's face, that her pity for him overcame her sense of her own and pussy's wrongs. Wallace sighed deeply, but spoke no word of apology or excuse. The children looked at Wallace, at their father and their mother, and still the sad silence was unbroken. The dinner bell rang. "Go to your own room, Wallace," said his father. "You have forfeited your right to a place among us. Creatures who are the slaves of their passions are, like beasts of prey, fit only for solitude."

"How long must Wallace stay up stairs?" asked Haddy, affectionately holding back her brother, who was hastening away.

"Till he feels assured," replied Mr. Barclay, fixing his eye sternly on Wallace, “that he can control his hasty temper; at least so far as not to be guilty of violence towards such a dear, good little girl as you are, and murderous cruelty to an innocent animal; till you, sir, can give me some proof that you dread the sin and danger of yielding to your passions so much that you can govern them."

The family sat down to table. The parents were silent, serious, unhappy. The children caught the infection, and scarcely a word was said above a whisper. There was a favorite dish on the table, followed by a nice pudding. They were eaten not enjoyed. The children felt that it was not the good things they had to eat, but the kind looks, the innocent laugh, the cheerful voice, that made the pleasure of the social meal.

"My dear children," said their father, as he took his hat to leave them, "we have lost all our comfort to-day — have we not?"

"Yes, sir, yes, sir," they answered in a breath.

"Then learn one lesson from your poor brother. Learn to dread doing wrong. If you commit sin, you must suffer, and all that you love must suffer with you; for every sin is a

violation of the laws of your heavenly Father, and he will not suffer it to go unpunished."

The days passed on. Wallace went to school as usual, and returned to his solitude, without speaking or being spoken to. The children began to venture to say to their father, whose justice they dared not question, "How long Wally has staid up stairs!" and Charles, each day, eagerly told how well Wallace behaved at school. His grandmother could not resist her desire to comfort him. She would look into his room to see "if he were well," "if he were warm enough,” or “if he did not want something." The little fellow's moistening eye and tremulous voice evinced his sense of her kindness; but he resolutely abstained from asking any mitigation of his punishment.

LXXXII. THE SAME SUBJECT, CONCLUDED.

Two weeks had passed when Mr. Barclay heard Wallace's door open, and heard him say, "Can I speak with you one minute before dinner, sir?”

"Certainly, my son." His father entered and closed the

door.

"Father," said Wallace, with a tremulous voice, but an open, cheerful face, "I feel as if I had a right now to ask you to forgive me, and take me back into the family."

Mr. Barclay felt so too; and, kissing him, he said, “I have only been waiting for you, Wallace; and, from the time you have taken to consider your besetting sin, I trust you have gained strength to resist it."

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"It is not consideration only, sir, that I depend upon, for you told me I must wait till I could give you proof; so I had to wait till something happened to try me. I could not possibly tell else; for I always do resolve, when I get over my passion, that I never will be angry again. Luckily for me

for I began to be very tired of staying alone - Tom Allen snatched off my new cap, and threw it into the gutter.

"I had a book in my hand, and I raised it to throw it at him; but I thought just in time; and I was so glad that I had governed my passion, that I did not care about my cap, or Tom, or any thing else. But one swallow doesn't make a summer, as aunt Betsey says; so I waited till I should get angry again. It seemed as if I never should: there were provoking things that happened; but, somehow or other, they did not provoke me. Why do you smile, father?"

"I smile with pleasure, my dear boy, to find that one fortnight's resolute watchfulness has enabled you so to curb your temper that you are not easily provoked."

"But stay, father; you have not heard all. Yesterday, just as I was putting up my arithmetic, which I had written almost to the end without a single blot, Tom Allen came along, and gave my inkstand a jostle, and over it went on my open book. I thought he did it on purpose; I think so still; but I don't feel so sure. I did not reflect then I doubled up my fist to

strike him."

"O Wallace!

"But I did not, father, I did not: I thought just in time. There was a horrid choking feeling, and angry words seemed crowding out; but I did not speak one of them, though I had to bite my lips to keep them in.”

"God bless you, my son."

"And the best of it all was, father, that Tom Allen, who never before seemed to care how much harm he did me, or how much he hurt my feelings, was really sorry; and this morning he brought me a new blank book, nicely ruled, and offered to help me copy my sums into it; so I hope I did him some good, as well as myself, by governing my temper."

"There is no telling, Wallace, how much good may be done by a single right action, or how much harm by a single wrong one."