united couple in the county.

But it must be

said, that their comfort was not complete till they had seen each other, in safety, over the perilous anniversary of St. Mark's Eve.

The moral this story conveys is one which might prove a useful monitor to us all, if we could keep it in daily remembrance. Few, indeed, are so coarse in their manifestations of ill-temper as this Kentish couple are described; but we all indulge, more or less, in unreasonable fretfulness, and petty acts of selfishness, in the relations of husband and wife, parents and children, brothers and sisters, in fact, in all the relations of life. It would help us greatly to be kind, forbearing, and self-sacrificing toward neighbors, friends, and relatives, if it were always present to our minds that death may speedily close our intercourse with them in this world. - L. M. C.

WHAT THE OLD WOMAN SAID.

NE summer eve, I chanced to pass, where, by the cottage gate,

ΟΝΕ

An aged woman in the town sat crooning to her mate. The frost of age was on her brow, its dimness in her

eye,

And her bent figure to and fro rocked all unconsciously. The frost of age was on her brow, yet garrulous her tongue,

As she compared the "doings now," with those when she was young.

"When I was young, young gals were meek, and looked round kind of shy;

And when they were compelled to speak, they did so modestly.

They stayed at home, and did the work; made Indian bread and wheaten;

And only went to singing-school, and sometimes to night meetin❜.

And children were obedient then; they had no saucy

airs;

And minded what their mothers said, and learned their

hymns and prayers.

K

But now-a-days they know enough, before they know their letters;

And young ones that can hardly walk will contradict their betters.

Young women now go kiting round, and looking out for beaux;

And scarcely one in ten is found, who makes or mends her clothes!

But then, I tell my daughter,

Folks don't do as they 'd ought'-ter.

When I was young, if a man had failed, he shut up house and hall,

And never ventured out till night, if he ventured out at

all;

And his wife sold all her china plates; and his sons

came home from college;

And his gals left school, and learned to wash and bake, and such like knowledge;

They gave up cake and pumpkin-pies, and had the plainest catin';

And never asked folks home to tea, and scarcely went to meetin'.

The man that was a Bankrupt called, was kind'er shunned by men,

And hardly dared to show his head amongst his town folks then.

But now-a-days, when a merchant fails, they say he

makes a penny;

The wife don't have a gown the less, and his daughters

just as many;

His sons they smoke their choice cigars, and drink their costly wine;

And she goes to the opera, and he has folks to dine! He walks the streets, he drives his gig; men show him all civilities;

And what in my day we called debts, are now his lieabilities!

They call the man unfortunate who ruins half the city,—
In my day 't was his creditors to whom we gave our pity.
But then, I'll tell my daughter,
Folks don't do as they'd ough'-ter.

FROM THE OLIVE BRANCH.

THE SPRING JOURNEY.

O, GREEN was the corn as I rode on my way,
And bright were the dews on the blossoms of May,
And dark was the sycamore's shade to behold,
And the oak's tender leaf was of emerald and gold.

The thrush from his holly, the lark from his cloud,
Their chorus of rapture sung jovial and loud;
From the soft vernal sky to the soft grassy ground,
There was beauty above me, beneath, and around.

The mild southern breeze brought a shower from the hill,
And yet, though it left me all dripping and chill,

I felt a new pleasure, as onward I sped,

Το gaze where the rainbow gleamed broad overhead.

O such be life's journey! and such be our skill
To lose in its blessings the sense of its ill;
Through sunshine and shower may our progress be even,
And our tears add a charm to the prospect of heaven.

BISHOP HEber.

P

ROBABLY there are no two things that tend so much to make human beings unhappy in themselves and unpleasant to others, as habits of fretfulness and despondency; two faults peculiarly apt to grow upon people after they have passed their youth. Both these ought to be resisted with constant vigilance, as we would resist a disease. This we should do for our own sakes, and as a duty we owe to others. Life is made utterly disagreeable when we are daily obliged to listen to a complaining house-mate. How annoying and disheartening are such remarks as these: "I was not invited to the party last night. I suppose I am getting to be of no consequence to anybody now." "Yes, that is a beautiful present you have had sent you. Nobody sends me presents." "I am a useless encumbrance now. I can see that people want me out of their way." Yet such observations are not