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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.—Br. Aikin.
LESSON XCTII. THE FROST.
The frost looked out one still clear night,
In si-lence I'll take my way.
But I'll be as busy as they."
Then he flew to the moun-tain and pow-dered its crest;
Of the quiv-er-ing lake he spread
Where a rock would rear its head.
He went to the win-dows of those who slept,
By the light of the moon were seen
All pic-tared in sil-ver sheen.
But he did one thing that was hard-ly fair;
"Now just to set them a think-ing,
Shall tchick! to show them I'm drink-ing."
LESSON XCIV. THE LOST CHILD AND THE LAMB.
A lit-tle child wan-dered from its moth-er's cot-tage to the green mcad-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-turning. 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 af-ter the lamb, as it gam-boiled 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 fath-er'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-fiies 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 lit-tle 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-fiies 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