Chapter II: Part 2

Exp. 3. When the instrument is cooled, the water in the tube does not simply fall by its own weight. It is forced down by the pressure of the outward atmosphere. For although the expansive force of the air within is diminished by the cold, there is still force left, far more than sufficient to counteract the weight of the water. So that the water descends, not by its own weight, but by the pressure of the atmosphere without, acting upon the surface of the water in the tube. This may be proved in the following manner. Raise the water in the tube as high as possible, by placing the instrument before the fire, and then stop the upper end of the tube with the thumb, or a little hot sealing-wax. Now, if the thermometer be taken to a cool place, it will be found that the water will not fall. The pressure from above in the tube being taken off the water is kept up by the expansive force which still remains in the air within. When the stopper is removed from the tube, so as to allow the external atmosphere to press upon the water again, it will immediately subside.

Exp. 4. Whatever may have been the temperature of the room where the thermometer was made, the water in the tube will be, when at that temperature, just level with the water in the phial; and of course, when it begins to rise, it will be some little time before it gets up above the neck of the phial. Now as it can be seen better above the neck of the phial than below, it is convenient to have the instrument so adjusted, as to have the surface of the water in the tube always kept above. This can be effected by forcing a little more air into the phial, thus increasing the expansive force within. A few bubbles of air may be blown in with the breath, by applying the mouth to the top of the tube. This will add to the force within, so that, even when the thermometer is cold, the water will stand in the tube above the neck of the phial, and all the changes that take place will be above that level, where they can be easily seen.

Exp. 5. Place the mouth at the top of the tube, and blow down into it as long and as hard as you can. By this means you will force air in, until the expansive force within is increased so much that you cannot any longer overcome it. Then, before taking the mouth away, stop the upper part of the tube with the thumb. You will now have so great a quantity of air within, that it will probably have force enough to raise the water higher than the top of the tube. If so, on taking away the thumb the water will spout out at the top, in a jet,--doing no harm, however, except to sprinkle the spectators. After a few such experiments, you will find that the water has spouted itself all out, and you will be sadly puzzled to know how to get more in without taking out the cork. There is a very easy way, if you only had philosophical knowledge enough to discover it.

THE RABBIT.

A STORY FOR LITTLE READERS.

"Henry, dear, do come out to walk, this beautiful afternoon. _I_ am going, and do not want to go alone; _please_ come, won't you?"

"Supposing I should say, No; I won't go; what would you do, sister?"

"I should say, well, suit yourself, brother Henry, and I'll try to go alone; but I _do_ wish you would go with me, it is so pleasant to have _some_ one, and I would rather have you than any one else."

"Well, you are a darling, good little girl, and I _will_ go with you."

"Oh, thank you, thank you, dear Henry," said Caroline; and they were soon in the shady lane which extended from their father's house to their uncle's, who was their next neighbour.

Caroline and Henry wandered on, admiring the beautiful things which surrounded them, and now and then stopping to pick a flower. Often Caroline would leave Henry, examining some plant, (for he was quite a botanist,) and walk along without him.

"Come, Henry; let us walk as far as the brook, and then we'll go home."

"Just wait till I see what this curious flower is," said Henry. But Caroline did not mind him, and continued walking slowly along, that he might catch up with her, when he was ready. Presently she stopped; her eyes sparkled, and she almost screamed with delight; for, on the ground before her, was a beautiful white rabbit. She held her breath for fear of frightening it; but though she drew nearer the dear little creature did not seem disposed to run away; and she soon perceived that it had hurt its foot very much, so that it _could_ not walk. Caroline took the rabbit in her arms, and as she was quite near the brook, she thought she would give it some water; so she stepped on the little bridge, but when there, she found that she had no means of getting any, and she called aloud:

"Henry, come quick; I have found a rabbit almost dead; come quick." Henry was soon at her side. "Let me see," said he; and he bent forward to look at it. "Poor little thing, we will take you home and nurse you till you are well again."

"Don't you think, brother, that it would drink some water?"

"No, no; we had better take it home at once, and _mother_ will tell us what to do." And the two children hastened home with all speed. Their kind mother gave them directions for their new-found pet, and in a week it was quite well, and their parents gave them leave to keep it to play with, after they had learned their lessons, and as long as they were kind towards this curious little creature.

THE SLEIGH RIDE.

"Oh, I'm afraid! I'm afraid!" William Jones cried, shrinking back, as his father took his hand, in the act of leading him forward to lift him into a beautiful sleigh, that had just drove up to the door, and in which his mother and elder sister were already seated; their feet comfortably wrapped up in a warm buffalo robe.

"Afraid! what are you afraid of?" Mr. Jones asked, in a tone of surprise.

"Oh, I'm afraid the horses will run away--or that the sleigh will break. Indeed, I'd rather not go."

"Do you not think that your mother, and sister Ellen, and myself, will be in just the danger you fear?"

"Yes."

"And is not my son willing to share that danger with those he loves?"

"But why do you go, father, when there is danger?"

"We do not think that we shall be in any more real danger, while riding with two gentle horses, than we would be if we were sitting in the house, or walking in the street. But come, William; I cannot stand talking to you here; and it is quite necessary that you try to overcome your fears. So jump in, and take your place alongside of sister Ellen."

"But, indeed, I would rather not go, father," William urged, holding back.

Mr. Jones said no more, but took his boy up gently, though firmly, and placed him beside his sister. Then he got in himself,--took hold of the reins,--spoke to his two fine horses, and at once the whole party began to move off; the sleigh bells jingling a merry tune.

Poor little William clung, frightened, to his sister; and it was a good while before he could get over the idea that the very next moment they would all be thrown over and dashed to pieces. After a while, however, he got used to the motion of the sleigh, and seeing that they passed on so smoothly, safely, and merrily, the idea of danger gradually faded from his mind; and long before he reached his uncle's house, he was enjoying the ride as much as the rest.

William's cousins were all delighted to see him, and he spent with them one of the happiest days in his life.

And when the time came for Mr. Jones and his family to return, William parted, with a feeling of reluctance, from his happy playmates. As he again stood by the sleigh, and looked at the two stout horses that were harnessed to it, he felt his old fear stealing over his mind. But he was not only now ashamed of that fear, but felt that to indulge in it was not right. So, with his best effort, he restrained it--stepping resolutely into the sleigh.

The last "good-byes" said, Mr. Jones gave the word, and off they went. When about half of the way home, and at a time when even the lingering remains of William's timidity had passed away, two wild young men, half intoxicated, came dashing along in another sleigh, at a most furious rate. Bent on mischief, and thoughtless of the harm they might occasion, they appeared determined to frighten the horses attached to other sleighs, and thereby cause those who were in them to be thrown out into the snow-banks.

It so happened that the sleigh in which were Mr. Jones and his family, were passing near a steep declivity, at the time these young men came up to them, and ran their horses so close upon those of Mr. Jones, that he was compelled either to be rolled down the bank, or receive the shock of their sleigh against his own. He chose the latter alternative. As the two vehicles struck each other, that of Mr. Jones was nearly thrown over, and it so happened that Ellen, who was much alarmed, lost her balance, and but for the fact that William, himself dreadfully frightened, seized hold of, and clung to her with all his strength, she would have been thrown down a very steep hill, and, perhaps, have been killed. As it was, however, no one was injured.

"If it hadn't been for me," William said, while they were all talking over the matter, on arriving at home, "Ellen would have been pitched head foremost down that steep bank."

"But if you had staid at home," his father remarked, "it would not have been in your power thus to have saved, perhaps, your sister's life. And now, an't you glad, my son, you were with us?"

"Yes, father, I am very glad now."

"Suppose, William," Mr. Jones asked, in a serious tone, "that in the effort to save your sister, you had yourself been thrown out of the sleigh, and badly hurt, would you then have been sorry that you went with us?"

William paused for some moments, with a thoughtful countenance. He was weighing the fear of bodily pain against his love for Ellen. At last he said, with the moisture dimming his eyes,

"No! I would not have been sorry, father."

"Why not, William?"

"Because, I would only have been badly hurt; while, if I had not been along with her, sister might have been killed."

"Very true, my dear boy! And now, you remember how often I have talked to you about selfishness, and what an evil thing this selfishness is?"

"Yes, father."

"Well, this feeling of timidity, which you indulge so much, is a selfish feeling."

"Selfish, father! How can that be?"

"Because there is nothing in it of self-sacrifice for the happiness or comfort of others."

"I cannot understand you, father."

"I do not know that it will be in my power to make you understand me fully, William. But I will try. You knew, this morning, that it would give your father and mother pleasure to have you with them, and also that your cousins would be delighted to see you. But your idle fear, lest some accident should happen, made you unwilling to go. You would not risk anything for the sake of others. If the great and good General Washington, when called upon to take command of the American army, had refused to do so, because there was danger of his being killed; cannot you see that in that feeling there would have been a strong principle of selfishness?"

"Oh, yes. If he had done so, he would have been very selfish. He would have thought more of personal safety than the good of his country."

"Just so, William, will you think, when you grow up to be a man, if you do not conquer this timid feeling, which you now indulge. You must learn, for the good of others, to risk personal danger, and to be willing to bear pain of body as well as mind, if called upon to suffer while doing your duty to others. Of danger, it is not our place to think, when fully satisfied we are doing right; knowing that the Lord's providence is over all, and that He will not suffer any harm to befall us that is not really for our good. Learn, also, this harder lesson,--a willingness to encounter bodily pain, and even great danger, for the good of others."

STORY OF A GREYHOUND.

Llewellyn, son-in-law to King John, had in his possession one of the finest greyhounds in England. His name was Gelert. One day Llewellyn, going out to hunt, called all his dogs together; but his favourite greyhound was missing, and nowhere to be found. He blew his horn as a signal of the chase, and still Gelert came not. Llewellyn was much disturbed at this, but at length pursued the chase without him.

For want of Gelert, the sport was limited; and getting tired, Llewellyn returned home at an early hour, when the first object that presented itself to him at his castle gate, was Gelert, who bounded with his usual transport to meet his master--having his lips besmeared with blood. Llewellyn gazed with surprise at the strange appearance of his dog. But on going into the apartment where he had left his infant son asleep, he found the bedclothes all in confusion, the cover rent, and stained with blood. He called on his child, but no answer was made: from which he concluded that the dog must have devoured him, and, without waiting to reflect, or examine, plunged his sword to the hilt in Gelert's side. The noble dog fell at his feet, uttering a dying yell which awoke the infant, who was sleeping beneath a heap of mingled bedclothes; while under the bed lay a great wolf, covered with gore, which the faithful and gallant hound had destroyed.

Llewellyn, smitten with sorrow and remorse for the rash and frantic deed which had deprived him of so faithful an animal, caused an elegant marble monument, with an appropriate inscription, to be erected over the spot where Gelert was buried, to commemorate his fidelity and unhappy fate. The place, to this day, is called Beth-Gelert, or "The grave of the greyhound."

THE TRUANT.

I received part of my education at a beautiful town on the banks of the river Trent. It was here, while a boy, that I first learned the danger of disobedience. The precept had been instilled in my mind a thousand times, and I knew it was the command of heaven that we should respect and obey our parents and teachers; but I had never felt either the danger or the criminality of a disregard of the Divine command till after the following event.

It was December; and the river, on whose beautiful banks the academy was situated, was frozen over, so that people could travel, and sport upon it in safety. It was a favourite diversion of the students, most of whom were between ten and fifteen years old, to play ball upon the ice, upon skates; and many times nearly the whole school, consisting of fifty youths, was collected in one game on the glassy surface of the frozen stream. We grew, at length, so fond of this recreation, that we began to encroach upon the hours of study. The bell rang unheeded, and when we came into school, we were, as we deserved to be, reprimanded by our good and indulgent preceptor; and many of our number, ashamed of their behaviour, refused to offend in like manner again. It was not so with us all.

One day, a part of our number having staid out upon the river more than a quarter of an hour after the bell had done ringing, one of the boys was sent for us; but we soon forgot that we had been called, and continued our game. Shortly we saw the preceptor, himself, coming down to the river. We were then alarmed; and all, but myself and Nathaniel Beecher, ran, by a round-about way, to the shore and to school. _We_ resolved to stay the whole afternoon. The preceptor came out upon the wharf, and called to us to come to him. Fearing that we should be taken back to school and punished, we resolved not to answer, and pretended not to hear him. After repeatedly calling us, and receiving no answer, he came upon the ice; but when he had walked a short distance from the shore we saw that we were in no danger of his catching us, as the ice was very smooth. At length, in an attempt to catch me, the preceptor slipped and fell heavily upon the ice. I stood still, and dared not go near, for fear he would punish me; but I was now very sorry for what we had done. Our preceptor had always been kind to us, and my feelings were hurt to think I had been so ungrateful. Meantime he had got up, and with a painful effort walked to the shore. I followed him, and Nat went off towards the other side of the river. As I approached the shore, I turned to see where he was going, continuing to skate backwards as I looked. Suddenly I found myself in the water. I had fallen into a hole which had been cut for fishing. As I dropped I threw out my arms, and thus saved myself from going under; but the current was very strong, and it was with the utmost difficulty that I could hold myself above the water. I felt as though some evil spirit beneath the water was dragging me under, and my heart sunk within me. At length I was drawn out of the water by my preceptor. He spoke kindly to me, and said he would take me home, that I might change my clothes. I was very much affected. I had prepared myself to bear my well-merited punishment; but when I heard his kind and gentle tones, and saw that he was not angry, I burst into a passionate flood of tears, and, dropping on my knees, begged his pardon for my bad behaviour. He took me up at once, and told me never to kneel but to the Lord, that he would forgive me. We had nearly reached the shore, when I looked round for Nat. He was looking towards us, and skating along with his arms folded, and all at once dropped beneath the ice and disappeared. He had, while looking at us, skated into an air-hole. I involuntarily screamed, and started with all speed for the place. The preceptor followed, having guessed the cause of my exclamation.

The accident had been seen from the shore, and many persons came hurrying to the spot, and among them the father of the boy. He was told, on shore, that it was his oldest son; and rushing to the spot, and putting his head down in the hole, held it there a long time, looking, but all was in vain. The rapid tide had borne him far down the river, and his body was never more seen.

The events of this day taught me the lesson of _obedience_. It stamped upon my mind the truth, that the first great duty, next to our devotion to our Maker, is respect and obedience to those who are placed in authority over us. I never again _played truant_.

A SUMMER MORNING RAMBLE.

Oh! the happy summer hours,
With their butterflies and flowers,
And the birds among the bowers
Sweetly singing;
With the spices from the trees,
Vines, and lilies, while the bees
Come floating on the breeze,
Honey bringing!

All the east was rosy red
When we woke and left our bed,
And to gather flowers we sped,
Gay and early.
Every clover-top was wet,
And the spider's silky net,
With a thousand dew-drops set,
Pure and pearly.

With their modest eyes of blue,
Were the violets peeping through
Tufts of grasses where they grew,
Full of beauty,
At the lamb in snowy white,
O'er the meadow bounding light,
And the crow just taking flight,
Grave and sooty.

On our floral search intent,
Still away, away we went,--
Up and down the rugged bent,--
Through the wicket,--
Where the rock with water drops,--
Through the bushes and the copse,--
Where the greenwood pathway stops
In the thicket.

We heard the fountain gush,
And the singing of the thrush;
And we saw the squirrel's brush
In the hedges,
As along his back 'twas thrown,
Like a glory of his own,
While the sun behind it, shone
Through its edges.

All the world appeared so fair,
And so fresh and free the air,--
Oh! it seemed that all the care
In creation
Belonged to God alone;
And that none beneath his throne,
Need to murmur or to groan
At his station.

Dear little brother Will!
He has leapt the hedge and rill,--
He has clambered up the hill,
Ere the beaming
Of the rising sun, to sweep
With its golden rays the steep,
Till he's tired and dropt asleep,
Sweetly dreaming.

See, he threw aside his cap,
And the roses from his lap,
When his eyes were, for the nap,
Slowly closing:
With his sunny curls outspread,
On its fragrant mossy bed,
Now his precious infant head
Is reposing.

He is dreaming of his play--
How he rose at break of day,
And he frolicked all the way
On his ramble.
And before his fancy's eye,
He has still the butterfly
Mocking him, where not so high
He could scramble.

In his cheek the dimples dip,
And a smile is on his lip,
While his tender finger-tip
Seems as aiming
At some wild and lovely thing
That is out upon the wing,
Which he longs to catch and bring
Home for taming.

While he thus at rest is laid
In the old oak's quiet shade,
Let's cull our flowers to braid,
Or unite them
In bunches trim and neat,
That, for every friend we meet,
We may have a token sweet
To delight them.

'Tis the very crowning art
Of a happy, grateful heart
To others to impart
Of its pleasure.
Thus its joys can never cease,
For it brings an inward peace,
Like an every-day increase
Of a treasure!

THE HOTTENTOTS.

At the southern part of Africa, a great many years ago, there lived a simple race of uncivilized people,--to whom the name of Hottentots has been since given,--who supported themselves in their rude way, and kept sheep and herds, whose milk served them for food, and whose skins kept them warm.

The Dutch people, who were very fond of sailing about in their ships, came to this part of the world, and finding the country pleasant, and a great many delicious fruits in it, they resolved to make a settlement, and have a town of their own there.

The Hottentots did not like very much to have a new kind of people settling down among them, and as they had been used to fighting with wild beasts, and were quite brave, they did all they could to keep the people away.

But the Dutch had so much more skill and knowledge than the poor Hottentots, that they soon got the better of the savages, and the natives were obliged to allow them to settle in their country.

The Europeans, when they heard of this pleasant, warm country, came in great numbers, and each emigrant was allowed to receive for his farm as much land as an officer appointed for the purpose, could walk across in an hour. They probably always tried to get a tall man, who could take pretty long steps. Whether they asked the poor natives' consent to this arrangement, the history does not say; but at the end of a hundred and fifty years, the Hottentots had been deprived of all their land, and were compelled to work for their invaders, except that some of the more ferocious and bolder tribes retreated to the deserts, and remain in a savage state to this day.

The colony afterwards fell into the hands of the British, and about eighteen years ago, the Hottentots of the Cape, about thirty thousand in number, were made free, and allowed to have all the privileges enjoyed by the white inhabitants.

Christian missionaries have visited this part of the world, and many of the native inhabitants are said to have been brought under the gentle influence of Christianity. The Moravian missionaries, some years ago, collected a number of the Hottentots into a village, built a church, and instructed them in many of the arts of civilized life. They were taught several kinds of manufactures, and travellers speak of their establishment as being in a very flourishing state.

In the year 1811, this place was visited by a severe earthquake, which alarmed the people greatly, as nothing of the kind had occurred since the settlement of the town. It does not appear from the accounts, that any lives were lost, but many of the buildings were cracked, and in part thrown down.

The Hottentots are said to be kind and gentle in their natures, and hospitable to strangers. Those who have been converted to Christianity, have left off, for the most part, their rude sheepskin dress, and wear a more civilized attire.

The picture at the beginning of this article represents a native Hottentot, in his sheepskin cloak, but the rest of his dress appears to be after the European fashion. The more savage Hottentots, who have never joined the colony, lead a wandering life, living on wild roots, locusts, and eggs, toads, lizards, mice, and such other food as can be obtained in the deserts. They use, as weapons of defence, the javelin, and bows and arrows. Their arrows are small, but they are tipped with poison, so that a wound from them is generally fatal.

They teach their children early the use of the bow and arrow; and some travellers say, that, to do this, they sometimes put a little boy's breakfast, probably a nice toad, or half a dozen ant's eggs, or some other of their favourite kinds of food, up into the high branches of a tree, and then make the boy shoot his arrows at it, until he brings it down. This gives him a good appetite, and teaches him early the use of the bow and arrow.

PHILOSOPHY AT HOME.

THE WHISPERING FIGURE.

ILLUSTRATING THE PROPAGATION OF SOUNDS.

Sound is propagated through a confined channel of air, as for instance, a long tube, very perfectly. It is not uncommon in large establishments, where it is necessary to pass many orders to and fro, to have such tubes laid in the walls, so that words can pass through them from room to room. The experiment may be tried in a leaden pipe, laid down for an aqueduct, before the water is admitted, and it will be found that the slightest whisper can be heard for a distance of half a mile or more. This tendency of a confined channel of air to increase the distinctness of the sound passing through it, may be shewn by a tube formed by rolling up a large sheet of paper and whispering through it. If the tube is gradually enlarged towards the outer end, it greatly increases the loudness of the sound transmited through it, as in the case of the horn, the speaking trumpet, &c.

When the sound of a voice passes in this manner through a tube, the voice always appears to come from the end of the tube where the sound issues, and not from the end where the words are really spoken. This has given rise to an ingenious contrivance called the whispering figure, which is sometimes fitted up in museums for the entertainment of visitors. It is as follows:--

A large dog or other image is placed upon a stand at a little distance from the side of the room. There is a tin tube within the figure, one end of which is opposite the mouth, and the other passes down through the floor, and thence along under the floor, as represented by the dotted line in the cut. After passing the partition, it is turned up, and opens in a funnel-shaped extremity in the next room. If now a person speaks or whispers at the outer end of the tube, the persons who are in the room with the figure will hear the sound coming through its lips, as if the figure itself were speaking. The tube being entirely concealed within the dress of the figure, and under the floor, the spectators, not suspecting such a communication with the next room, wonder by what contrivance an image can be made to speak.

This experiment is sometimes performed by children in private, by placing a board across the tops of two chairs, and covering it with cloth, so as to represent a table. The tube comes up through this board into the body of some image placed upon the table, as a doll, a figure of a dog or cat, or a grotesque effigy made by means of a mask. In this case a person is concealed under the table to whisper into the tube, in answer to such questions as the spectators address to the figure. Of course, all these arrangements are made before the spectators are admitted to the room.

STORY OF THE SEA.

Captain Albert had recently returned from a long and perilous whaling voyage, and was seated beside a bright blazing fire at his own hearth. His wife sat opposite, with her youngest child in her lap, while the two sons, Edward and William, stood on each side looking earnestly in his face, that they might be quite sure their father had indeed returned, and that they were not still deceived by one of those pleasant dreams with which they had been so often visited during his absence.

"Oh, father," said Edward, "the next time you go, take me with you, do!"

"Tell us a story of the sea, will you not, father?" said William, at the same time.

"Very well, my son, I will try," replied their father; "and that will, perhaps, change Edward's mind about going with me the next time.

"One day, in the great Southern ocean, we had followed a fine whale farther south than we had ever before been. The whale was enormously large, and I saw in a moment that if we could take it there would be oil enough to fill our casks, and enable us to return home. Its motions were very rapid, and we followed it as swiftly as we could, but, after all, it escaped. I believe the creature swam under water till it was out of the reach of my glass. While I was looking out to try to get a sight of it again, I espied something which appeared to be an island, to the south, but while I was looking at it I was sure it moved. It did move, and we soon came near enough to see what it was distinctly. It proved to be an iceberg, shooting up to a great height, like one of the sharp-pointed Alps, and spreading out to a wide extent, on all sides. At the same time, the whole ocean, as far south as the eye could reach, was covered with floating ice.

"The situation was full of danger, but the wind was in our favour, and I prepared to press all sail, in hopes of escaping, when suddenly a shower of hail and sleet rushed upon us with such fury that some of the men were beaten down to the deck, and all found it difficult to stand under it. The sails, shrouds, and sheets, were all cased in ice, stiffened, and almost as immoveable as if they had been made of iron.

"I now began to blame myself severely for suffering the whale to tempt me so far into those regions of ice and storms. I looked with bitter regret toward those faithful sailors who had trusted their lives to my care, and who were now exposed to unnecessary hardships and dangers by my boyish rashness. The noble fellows never uttered a word of complaint, but _their_ generous fortitude did not help to reconcile me to myself. Full of anxiety, I took my glass to look out again for the iceberg. While I was looking towards it, I spied something among the cakes of ice, which appeared like some small craft; but I could not believe a vessel of that size could have reached a latitude so far south. A vessel, it certainly was--a small schooner, sailing among the cakes of ice, as if it knew how to pick its way alone, for I could not see a person moving on her deck. We steered, as well as we could, directly towards her. My ship was new and strong, and well prepared, so that I did not much fear the loose cakes of ice. When we were near enough, I hailed the little craft, and thought I heard a distant shout in reply. As we came nearer, I saw a young man alone, and sitting upon the helm, apparently managing it with the motions of his body, so as to steer his little vessel safely through.

* * * * *

"We all stood looking for a moment at the brave young man, with wonder and admiration; but as soon as I ordered out a boat, the sailors rushed to the side and began to work with a will, although everything they touched was cased in ice, and terrible to handle. Down went the boat, and was manned in an instant. It was not long before the young man was on board our ship, but he would not leave the schooner until he had seen a rope rigged to tow her after us. The poor fellow was almost dead with cold and hunger; he had not tasted any food for more than twenty-four hours, as he told us afterwards. He could hardly speak a word, and as soon as he felt the warmth of the stove, he fainted entirely away. We put him into a hammock, and did all we could for him, and soon had the pleasure of seeing him revive. After he had taken some warm tea, he fell asleep, and slept till I began to fear he would never awake again; but Providence had provided him the refreshment he needed, and when he awoke, the next day, he was well and lively. I inquired how he came into so strange a situation, when he told me that four young men, without much consideration, had purchased the vessel, and fitted her up for a voyage of discovery into those far-off seas. They had encountered a furious storm, which drove them among the ice, near the place where they were found. They had suffered very much with cold and want of sleep, while the vessel was every moment in danger of being crushed to pieces.

"In this distress his companions began to drink spirits to warm them. They offered him some, and urged him to drink, but he replied it would make him worse, and reminded them of a ship which was cast away one very severe winter, among the rocks near his own native town, when all the sailors who drank rum were frozen, while those who did not drink, escaped. His companions, however, would not listen to his advice, but continued to drink, and were soon unable to move, and were all frozen to death, and were still on the deck, covered with ice and sleet. Robert (this was the young man's name,) was saved by not drinking any of the rum, but by using it outwardly, pouring it into his boots, and a part into his bosom."

"But how did you escape that terrible iceberg, and get out of that dreadful sea?" said Edward: "were any of your men frozen?"

"No," replied Captain Albert; "we suffered very severely, but we did not use any 'fire-water,' and every sailor who went out in the ship, returned in good health; still, all that we were able to do would have been no more than the fluttering of a leaf in a whirlwind, without the help of Him, who, you will remember, was once in 'a little ship when a great storm arose,' and who said, 'Peace be still, and there was a great calm.'"

THE OLD SLATE.

"I have a great mind to break this stupid old slate," said little Charlie Fidget, one morning, as he sat over his first sum in subtraction.

"Why, what has the poor slate done?" asked the pleasant voice of his sister Helen, behind him.

"Nothing; just what I complain of; it won't do this plaguy sum for me; and here it is almost school-time!"

"What a wicked slate, Charles!"

"So it is. I mean to fling it out of the window and break it to pieces on the stones."

"Will that do your sum, Charlie?"

"No; but if there were no slates in the world, I should have no good-for-nothing sums to do."

"Oh, ho! that does not follow, by any means. Did slates make the science of arithmetic? Would people never have to count or calculate, if there were no slates? You forget pens, lead pencils and paper: you forget all about oral arithmetic, Charlie."

"Well, I don't love to cipher, that's all I know."

"And so, you hasty boy, you get angry with the poor harmless slate, that is so convenient when you make mistakes and want to rub them out again. Now that is the way with a great many thoughtless, quick-tempered people. They try to find fault with somebody or something else, and get into a passion, and perhaps do mischief, when if they would but reflect a little, it is their own dear selves who ought to bear the blame. Now, Charlie, let me see what I can do for you."

So Helen sat down in her mother's great easy-chair; she tried to look grave and dignified, like an old lady, though she was but eighteen. Charlie came rather unwillingly, laid the slate in her lap, and began to play with the trimming on her apron. "Why, what is all this?" said she; "soldiers, and cats, and dogs, and houses with windows of all shapes and sizes!"

Charlie looked foolish. "Oh, the sum is on the other side," said he, turning it over.

"Ah, silly boy," said Helen; "here you have been sitting half an hour drawing pictures, instead of trying to do your sum. And now, which do you think ought to be broken, you or the slate?" and she held it up high, as if she meant to strike at him with it.

Charlie looked up, with his hands at his ears, making believe he was frightened, but laughing all the while, for he knew she was only playing with him. Presently, however, she put on a serious face, and said, "Now, my little man, you must go to work in good earnest to make up for lost time."

"Oh, Helen, it wants only twenty minutes to nine; I can't possibly do this sum and get to school by nine. I shall be late. What shall I do? Miss Fletcher will certainly punish me if it is not done. Can't you, just this once, Helen?"

"No," said Helen.

"Oh, do, there's a dear, good sister; just this once."

"No, Charlie; there would be no kindness in that. You would never learn arithmetic in that way."

"Just once," still pleaded Charlie.

"No," answered Helen, in a kind, but resolute tone: "if I do it once, you will find it harder to be refused to-morrow; you will depend upon me, and sit playing and drawing pictures, instead of ciphering. I will keep you close at it till you perform your task."

So she passed her hand gently round him, and though Charlie pouted at first, and could hardly see through his tears, she questioned him about his rule, and then began to show him the proper way to do his sum, yet letting him work it out himself, in such a pleasant manner, that he was soon ashamed of being sullen. First she held the pencil herself, and put down the figures as he told her to do; and then she made him copy the whole, nicely, on another part of the slate, and rub out her figures.

After all this was finished patiently and diligently, Charlie was surprised to find he should still be in good time for school.

"Now, to-morrow, Charlie," said Helen, "don't waste a moment, but go to your lesson at once, whatever it is, and you will find it a great saving, not only of time, but of temper. You won't get into a passion with this clever old slate of mine. It went to school with me when I was a little girl, and I should have been sorry if you had broken it for not doing your work. Generally, Charlie, when you see a person fidgety and angry, and complaining of things and people, you may be sure he has either done something he ought not to do, or left undone something he ought to do."

Away ran Charlie to school, thinking to himself, "Well, I suppose I was wrong both ways. I ought not to have been drawing soldiers, and I ought to have been ciphering."

CHILDREN.

The early lark, that spreads its wings
And mounts the summer air,
Obeys its Maker while it sings
In morning carols there.

The skilful bee from flower to flower
Pursues its nectar'd store,
Nor has it instinct, skill or power
To please its Maker more.

But children, born with nobler powers,
In paths of vice may stray,
Or rise to virtue's fragrant bower
In realms of endless day.

Then let me shun those wicked ways
Which lead to sin and shame,
So shall my heart be taught to praise
My Lord and Saviour's name.

LIZZY; A FAIRY TALE.

Lizzy was walking in a wood one day, and as she stooped under a tree to gather some flowers that grew at its foot, she heard a loud tapping high up in the tree; she looked up, and there she saw, clinging to a dead bough that industrious and happy bird, the woodpecker. "Are you going to dig out a chamber for yourself there?" asked Lizzy. "That bough is too small, I should think."

"Oh! I am not doing carpentry work now," said the bird; "there are some nice little insects under this bark,--sweet things!--which I love as well as you love the lambs."

"And yet you intend to make a meal upon them--barbarous bird!"

"Yes, as good a meal as you make upon the lamb,--barbarous child! But let us forgive each other; we must eat to live. You would love to eat me if I were nicely cooked, and I should relish you exceedingly if I could only change you into a beetle-bug, or a grub of some sort."

"Do not talk so, Mr. Carpenter: I would rather go without my dinner than to have you killed and cooked for me."

"Ah! do you love me so well? Then I will confide in you, and tell you a secret. My chamber is in the trunk of this tree, and my six eggs lie on the floor of it. Jump up here, and I will show it to you."

"I could not jump twenty feet into the air," said Lizzy.

"Why! are you not twenty times longer than I am?"

"Oh, more; and more than forty times heavier?"

"Well, well, I will go down and help you up."

"I should like to know how you expect to help me," said Lizzy.

"We shall see;" and the woodpecker flew down;--but where is he? Lizzy looked about, and she could not see him anywhere.

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed a voice close by her ear; and Lizzy turned, and saw a pretty little fairy figure standing close beside her. "I was only acting the woodpecker for my amusement. We fairies are very fond of masquerading."

"Then I cannot see the woodpecker's nest," said Lizzy. "It is too bad to disappoint me so, when I did so want to see his pretty eggs."

"Oh, if you wish to see some pretty eggs. I can show you some as pretty as the woodpecker's. I have hundreds of them stowed away in a woodpecker's hole, up in this very tree. I had come here this morning to deposit some, and this is what made me think of acting the woodpecker just now."

"Where did you get so many eggs? Do you rob birds' nests?"

"Oh, no, indeed! they are not birds' eggs; they come down in the rain, and we use the large flower-cups to catch them in."

"And what will hatch from them?"

"Ah, that is more than I can tell as yet. I will give you some of them, and they will hatch just such kind of creatures as you tell them to."

"That is a very likely story,--but give me some, do; and I will tell them to hatch most beautiful birds and butterflies."

"Stay; let me explain a little, before you count your unhatched birds and butterflies. I will tell you how to hatch them. Put them in your bosom, and they will be hatched by its warmth; but what is hatched from them must depend entirely upon what kind of feeling shall warm your bosom, and upon what deeds you do. If you have a wicked feeling, an ugly creature will begin to form within one of the eggs; and if you let that feeling cause you to do anything wrong, then the egg will hatch. Are you willing to take the risk of having spiders and scorpions in your bosom, for the sake of the hope that they may be pretty birds and butterflies?"

"Oh, yes!" said Lizzy; "I do not think I ever have such bad feelings as spiders and scorpions are made of."

"Come, then," cried the fairy; and she led Lizzy round to the other side of the tree, where she saw, high up in the trunk, a woodpecker's hole.

"Run up," cried the fairy.

"How can I? There is nothing but an ivy-vine to cling to."

"You mistake," said the fairy; and she touched the ivy-vine with her wand, and there was a nice rope-ladder leading up to the woodpecker's hole. It was almost full of small, pearly white eggs.--"Take out three or four," said the fairy, "and put them in your bosom, and before you reach home, they will very likely all be hatched."

"Oh, what pretty little things!" cried Lizzy, as she took them out; "they shall certainly hatch something pretty."

She was going to put them all in her bosom at once; but the fairy told her she had better put only one in at a time, and the others in one of the pockets of her apron; for it would be rather worse if there should be several spiders running about in her bosom, than only one.

"Oh, there will not be any," said Lizzy; "there will be a pretty bird hopping about there--but I will do as you advise." She ran down the ladder, and the fairy tripped along after her, and when Lizzy turned to bid her good morning, she saw the ivy-vine clasping the tree, and the woodpecker tapping away at the bark.

Lizzy ran along through the wood, hoping that something would happen to arouse in her breast a good affection of some sort,--for there was nothing there now but a mingled feeling of pleasure and dread,--for a sweet-brier bush, for what purpose is not known, caught hold of her dress, and thus occasioned a frightful rent; and sweet-brier bushes, if they do bear sweet roses, do also love to play off their jokes upon people, in quite as unbenevolent a way as the blackberry and thorn. But Lizzy thought it no joke at all. What barbarous cruelty to tear her dress so, and then to hold upon it so relentlessly! and whilst she was trying to force the thorns to let go their hold, she became so angry that she cried out, "Oh! I wish there was not a sweet-brier bush in the world, I do! and I wish this was dead and burnt up." But before she had released herself from the bush, she felt something moving in her bosom. Putting her hand in, she pulled out an empty egg-shell, while the wasp, which had just been hatched, flew around her face. She brushed it away with her handkerchief. She looked at the sweet-brier roses,--those little rosy cups all arranged so garland-like on the bending boughs,--and said, "I wonder it was not a scorpion. Poor little roses! I do not wish you to wither; I want you to flourish, and breathe out your sweet breath;" and she bent her head over them, and while they breathed forth their sweet breath, they looked so much like little infants, that the tears came into Lizzy's eyes, while she said, "May the Lord that made you, forgive me!"--When she lifted up her head, she saw a wasp fall to the ground, and then a pretty bird came, and picked it up and swallowed it. Lizzy then took another egg from her pocket, placed it in her bosom, and walked on, taking care to keep at a safe distance from sweet-briers and brambles.

She had not gone far when she saw a little sparrow fly from a low shrub, making a sound as if he had a nest there. When he had gone so far away that she thought he would not see her, she peeped in amongst the leaves, and there she espied the little home, with its three inmates; not three little birds as yet--but, what she knew were quite as dear to the parents, two speckled eggs. "Ah!" thought Lizzy, "how I should like to see if I could not hatch a sparrow's egg. I should be sure that a wasp would not come out of a sparrow's egg." And she put her hand very slily into the nest, and stole away one of the sparrow's speckled treasures, and laid it in her bosom by the side of the fairy egg. As she left the bush, she turned to see if the sparrow went to look at it; and while she stood watching him, she felt a strange nestling and fumbling in her bosom, that she thought both eggs must have hatched. Looking in, she saw a small snake writhing about most energetically. "I will put the sparrow's egg back," thought she, for she was struck with horror.