head, borrowed a pair of shoes from a person who lived near the fatal pond, and begged old Martha's son to take charge of the two boys, desiring them to run home; and told Stephen to give orders that Edwin should instantly be put into a warm bed, and she would follow as fast as she could.

On her arrival at the hall, she found her nephew a little recovered from his fright; the mud had been washed off, and, when once more warm and in safety, he began to reproach the donkey, and accuse it of being the cause of all his sorrows.

"Do not find fault with the poor animal," said his aunt, as she seated herself by his bed-side. "Oh, Edwin, you have no one to blame but yourself. Reflect for one moment over the many grievous faults you have to-day committed. My dear child, you are now of an age to think and understand. You must feel that all I say is for your own good, and therefore listen with patience. First, you disobeyed my commands."

"Oh, but aunt,” cried Edwin, “I thought you were busy, and would never know anything about it."

"Fie! fie! Edwin; do you only act right because the eye of a parent is there to watch your actions? Have you, then, forgotten that

God is everywhere, that he knows and sees everything? and was not your wickedness equally great, if you disobeyed me, whether I saw you or not? Thus you see one sin plunges you into another: you began by disobeying my commands, and then the sin of deceit naturally followed."

"Ah, aunt," cried Edwin, "I feel I have been very wicked, but will you not forgive me?"

"No, my dear, not yet. It is easy to ask for forgiveness, but you must first endeavour to deserve it, and convince me that you will behave better for the future. Since you seem not to think of the displeasure of your Heavenly Father, how much less will you dread my reproof; and you were doubly to blame, for Charles set you an example which you ought to have followed."

"Oh, yes, aunt," sobbed out Edwin, "he did indeed. Do you think God will ever forgive me ?"

"If you sincerely repent, and endeavour to amend your ways, and implore his pardon, I am sure he will. But remember, he is all-seeing, -he can read your heart, and will know whether your repentance is true or not. And now I must remind you that the end of your misfortunes was brought on by your cruelty to a poor, meek, unoffending animal. Had you

not wantonly beat and ill-used the donkey, it would have carried you quietly along, and you would have escaped a good fright and wetting, and spared me much alarm. Oh, my dear Edwin, you must, I am sure, feel that cruelty to poor dumb beasts is a terrible vice. Does not that usually quiet donkey perform his daily labour patiently and tractably? He carries his mistress to market, he draws a little cart laden with corn or hay, to form the winter fodder for his master's cows and horses. His services are also useful in the fields and garden, and on the Sundays the children ride him to the church. In all these various duties how quiet and industrious he has proved himself to be, and I grieve to add, how far superior to you. He obeys his master's commands, and exerts the little reason he possesses to please and assist him: you, a reasoning creature, disobey your Heavenly Master, disobey and deceive your aunt, and then ill-treat an animal that never injured you, but that, on the contrary, was carry ing you along quietly."

“Aunt, aunt, I have been very wicked,” said Edwin, and he began to weep bitterly.

"I shall now,” replied Mrs. Mortimer, "leave you for a little time to reflect on your conduct, and before bed-time shall come to you again."

His aunt then left the room, and at night,

when she returned with Charles, to hear him and Edwin say their evening prayers, the latter added a simple petition for the pardon and forgiveness of Heaven; he then begged her to stoop down, and whispered in her ear, that with her permission he would the next day write to his mother, confessing his wickedness, and imploring her pardon also.

"Dear Edwin,” replied Mrs. Mortimer, kissing him affectionately, "your words have made me very happy. To confess a fault is the first step towards correcting it; and I trust that the events of this day, and the little conversation we have had together, will be remembered to your profit and advantage."

CHARADE.

My first is called, or bad, or good-
May pleasure or offend ye;
My second, in a thirsty mood,
May very much befriend ye.

My whole, though styled a "cruel word,"
May yet appear a kind one ;

It often may with joy be heard,

With tears may often blind one.

BEAR HUNTING.

THE following short story, illustrative of the sagacity of the bear, was related to me some years since, by a friend, who is now, I regret to say, no more. As it had happened to himself, but a few weeks before he came to visit me, I do not doubt the accuracy of the statement, and shall give it in his own words as I then wrote it down.

During my wanderings in the Pyrenees, I was so much pleased with the scenery of the Valley of Ossau, (situated to the eastward of the Valley of Aspe, and forming part of Béarn,) that I determined to remain some time at the famous watering-place of the Eaux Bonnes, in the Vale of Valentin, in order to enjoy, at my leisure, the power of exploring all the highly picturesque environs. But as it is merely one adventure I am going to relate, I will not detain you by a description which would be inevitably a very long one, of all the romantic and wildly beautiful scenery I discovered, but proceed at once to say, that the Valley of Ossau was the most magnificent, and