Scene VIII.

Tiny remembers now that the fairy had said her wings would last only till sunset, so she thinks it is time to fly towards home; for the sun is getting low already. You see, they are fairy wings, so she can fly just as fast as she pleases; and in a few minutes she alights in the wood, near the spot she had started from.

The first thing she sees, close to her in the long grass, is a handsome grasshopper. "How d'ye do, dear?" chirps he. "I am very glad to see you, for I am bored to death with the conversation of this stupid mole." As he speaks, he points out to Tiny the mole's nose just peeping out of a molehill. "You see," he continues, "instead of being like me, instead of having bright sparkling eyes, and wearing a splendid green coat, all over gold, he is a very poor creature, with scarcely any eyes at all; and he spends his time almost always under ground, so of course he knows nothing, and is very dull company." "What good do _you_ do, with your green coat and gilding?" replies the mole. "You do nothing but chirp, while I devour the vermin that would eat up the roots of the corn. So that, although buried, I am useful to others."

"Certainly the mole has the best of the argument there," thinks Tiny. At that moment the sun goes down: Tiny's wings drop off on to the ground, and at once shrivel up and disappear; she recovers, too, her natural size. Then she sees her mother's cottage through the trees, and a candle just lighted is burning in the window.

As she walks towards it, she talks to herself as if she were somebody else. "Now, Miss Tiny," she begins, and she touches her own breast with the point of her finger as she speaks,--"now, Miss Tiny, let us think a little. The good fairy told you you should learn a lesson and grow wise. Let us see what you have learnt. All these creatures are more or less conceited, and, just because they are so, they are always quarrelling; and how disagreeable and ridiculous they make themselves, to be sure! I wonder if Miss Tiny is as disagreeable and absurd as they are? If she is, she won't be so any more. From this day, she will always try to see whatever there is that's good and nice and pretty in everybody else, and make the most of it."

Tiny keeps to her resolution; the consequence is, that everybody loves her, and she is happier than ever she has been before.

NURSERY RHYME.

There was an old woman called Nothing-at-all, Who lived in a dwelling exceedingly small; A man stretched his mouth to its utmost extent, And down at one gulp house and old woman went.

The man he was troubled with terrible pain, And wished the old woman and house up again; He groaned and he yelled, but could get no relief, And he died of his gluttony, 'tis my belief.

GETTING UP IN THE MORNING.

"Unpleasant!" says the Sponge, "very unpleasant to be squeezed like this."

"Nonsense, you stupid thing," says the water; "what are you made for I should like to know, if not to be squeezed. You are not nice soft, lukewarm water like me."

"Don't talk so much, but mind your own business, and think how I go on rubbing," says the soapy Flannel; "rub, rub! if I didn't rub so hard we should never make a clean little girl."

"I am glad to say that this little ear is quite clean now," says the Towel, slyly; "now we have only the other one to do. I have rubbed the little pink cheeks till they glow again."

"First this little right shoulder, and then the left," says the little clean shirt. "How white and dimpled they are! it is quite a pleasure to touch them: I think they must belong to a very good child."

"Well, we haven't got any thinner either in the night," exclaim the socks to the little round fat waddling legs.

"Come, come, come, little horse, and be shod!" say the shoes.

Up comes the brush, bristling finely. "Let me see what I can do here," says he; and soon the pretty golden locks are disentangled. And comb giving his assistance, a nice parting is made, and then Brush says, "I think we have done our work very nicely."

"Over the head without spoiling the pretty curls," says the Petticoat. "Yes, that's the way we do it."

"Now I'm coming!" says the little Frock, like a person of importance for whom all the rest have been waiting. It knows quite well it is a pretty blue frock, all trimmed with braid, and that the little child chose the stuff to make it; and that it is her favourite frock.

"Now, if you please, I must come, for I am quite as important, if not so gay as you," says the pinafore; "besides, I have two little pockets."

"I live in one," says the Pocket-handkerchief, "and before I get into it, I should like very much to know if the little nose is quite nice and tidy."

Mr. Pocket-handkerchief being quite satisfied, a chorus of voices shout, "All ready now!"

"Ah! but here is a tear, a stupid little tear, on my darling's face. Never mind, I'll kiss it off," says Mamma, who came into the nursery at that minute.

AFTER SUNSET.

The sun has set, the sky is calm, And yonder uplands dim, With all the little trees, stand out A sharp and fringe-like rim.

A roll of clouds like indigo Hangs in the lower sky, All edged above with crimson fire, And piled up gloriously.

And far behind are flakes and flaws, And streaks of purest red; And feathery dashes, paling slow, Still linger overhead.

And far, far off--how far it looks!-- The sky is green and clear, And still in front a little flight Of black clouds saileth near.

Oh! wondrous sight! oh! joyous hour! Ye workmen passing by, Why stay ye not your boisterous mirth To gaze upon the sky?

Ye merry children playing near, Why stop ye not your play, To see how God with glory crowns The closing of the day?

Oh! would that they whose weary minds The things of sense enthral, Upon whose lives but scanty rays Of grace and beauty fall,--

Would that they knew what noble store Of purest joy and love Is given to bless the poor man's lot, And lift his heart above.

MAMMA'S SUNDAY TALK. MIRACLES OF OUR SAVIOUR:

TEN LEPERS HEALED.

One of the most common faults--or rather, I should say, one of the most common sins--that we meet with in the world, is that of ingratitude. Some are ungrateful from pride or conceit, thinking that the kindnesses or services of others are due to them of right. But most people are ungrateful simply from thoughtlessness: yet this very thoughtlessness--the want of thought for others--has its root in what is the foundation of all faults--selfishness.

Even in dumb creatures--from whom, by the way, we may often learn good lessons--we seldom see ingratitude. If you are kind and gentle to a dog or cat, a horse or bird, it will be thankful, and generally manage in its own fashion to make you understand its gratitude. My darling children, never be ungrateful! Be grateful to God first of all--be grateful to God for everything. Be grateful to your father and mother; and be grateful also to all those who show so many kindnesses to you. Never forget to thank them both with heart and lip.

I am going to tell you to-day of an instance of man's ingratitude: not that of man to man, but of ingratitude to our Lord Jesus Christ.

We are told by St. Luke that,--"It came to pass as Jesus went to Jerusalem, He passed through the midst of Samaria and Galilee. And as He entered into a certain village, there met Him ten men that were lepers, which stood afar off; and they lifted up their voices, and said, 'Jesus, Master, have mercy on us.' And when He saw them, He said unto them, 'Go, show yourselves unto the priests.' And it came to pass that, as they went, they were cleansed."

I must tell you that this leprosy, with which these poor people were afflicted, was a terrible disease common among the Jews at that time. It was a disease of the skin, which was hereditary, and also was caught by contagion. Hence those afflicted with it were prohibited by strict laws from associating with other people. They might not enter the walled cities at all, and in the villages they were obliged to live apart from the other inhabitants. You see these lepers "stood afar off" while they cried out to Jesus for mercy.

We must suppose that before anyone recovering from the leprosy was allowed to associate with his fellow-citizens, he had to go before the priests, that they should pronounce him cured; and this explains the injunction of our Saviour--"Go, show yourselves to the priests." The lepers had faith, and turned at once to obey. They had scarcely moved a step when the change in their condition seems to have taken place; and we may imagine their joy and surprise, on looking at each other, to see the ghastly and loathsome hue of the leprous skin change for the bloom and freshness of health. But now we come to the sad instance of ingratitude.

St. Luke goes on to tell us--still speaking of the lepers:--"And one of them, when he saw that he was healed, turned back, and with a loud voice glorified God; and fell down on his face at Jesus' feet, giving Him thanks."

Thus we find, out of these ten, one only showed himself grateful, and thought, before aught else, of glorifying God, and giving thanks to Jesus. The other nine, in their joy at the blessing which had just been bestowed upon them, forgot the Bestower of that blessing. They hastened on, thinking only of their own good fortune, and eager to make known their recovery to the priests, that they might be restored to communication with their fellow men.

Our Saviour only remarked upon this instance of ingratitude:--"Were there not ten cleansed? but where are the nine?"

SOME OF MY LITTLE FRIENDS:

Charlie.

I made the acquaintance of my little friend Charlie under very unusual and startling circumstances. When I saw him for the first time he was situated as you see him in the picture. I saw a lad about thirteen years of age, clinging desperately, for very life, to the topmast of a sunken ship in the British Channel. I will tell you how it happened.

I must go back nearly twenty years;--indeed, I ought to explain that Charlie was a little friend of mine a long time ago; now he's a grown-up man. Well, twenty years ago I was not very old myself; but my sister, who is some years older than I am, was already married, and her husband was very fond of yachting. They lived, during a great part of the year, in the Isle of Wight, and there I often used to go to stay with them.

The "Swallow"--that was the name of my brother-in-law's yacht--was a beautiful boat, and many happy hours have I passed on board her, as she skimmed merrily over the sparkling water. I delighted to sit on deck, watching the fishing-boats as they rode bravely from wave to wave; or sometimes wondering at some large ship, as it passed by, on which men live for weeks and months without ever touching land. We used to sail long distances, and occasionally be out for several days and nights together. My brother-in-law's skipper could tell me what country almost every vessel that we saw was bound for. Some were sailing to climates where the heat is so great that our most sultry summer in England is comparatively cold; others were off northward, perhaps whale-fishing, where they would see huge icebergs, and hear the growling of the polar bears.

We were taking our last cruise of the season: it was already near the end of October, and the weather was becoming stormy. Passing out of the Solent into the Channel, we found the sea much rougher than we expected; and as night came on it blew a regular gale. The wind and sea roared, the rain poured down in torrents, and the night seemed to me to be the darkest I had ever known. But on board the "Swallow" we had no fear; we trusted to the seamanship of our skipper and the goodness of our vessel, and went to bed with minds as free from fear as if the sea were smooth and the sky clear.

I awoke just as dawn was breaking, dressed quickly, and throwing a water-proof cloak over me, popped my head up the companion-ladder to see how things looked. The old skipper was on deck; he had not turned in during the night. I wished him good-morning, and he remarked, in return, that the wind was going down, he thought. Looking at the sea, I observed two or three large fragments of wood floating near, and they attracted his notice at the same moment.

"Has there been a wreck, captain?" I asked, with a feeling of awe.

"That's about what it is, miss," answered the old seaman.

"Do you think the people are drowned?" I inquired anxiously.

"Well," replied Captain Bounce, casting, as I thought, rather a contemptuous glance at me, "people don't in general live under water, miss."

"Perhaps they may have had boats," I said meekly. "Do you think boats could have reached the shore in such a storm?"

"Well," answered the old captain, "they might have had boats and they mightn't; and the boats, supposing they had 'em, might have lived through the storm, and at the same time they mightn't."

This was not giving me much information, and I thought to myself that my friend the skipper did not seem so much inclined for a chat as usual; I turned to look at the sea in search of more pieces of wreck, when I discovered, in the distance, a dark speck rising out of the water. I pointed it out to the skipper at once, who took his glass out of his pocket, and, after looking through it for a moment, exclaimed,--

"There's something floating there, and a man clinging to it, as I'm alive!"

As he spoke, my brother-in-law came on deck, and also took a look through the telescope. Then he, the captain, and every sailor on board became eager and excited; you would have thought it was some dear friend of each whose life was to be saved. The yacht was headed in the direction of the object, the boat was quickly lowered, the captain himself, with four sailors, jumping into it; and, in another minute, they caught in their arms a poor little exhausted and fainting boy, as he dropped from the mast of a large sunken ship. We could now distinguish the tops of all the three masts appearing above the waves; for the sea was not deep, and the ship had settled down in an upright position.

Poor Charlie Standish was soon in the cabin of the yacht, and after swallowing some champagne he revived sufficiently to tell us his story. The sunken ship was the "Melbourne," bound for Australia, and this was Charlie's first voyage as a midshipman on board. During the darkness of the night she had been run into by a large homeward-bound merchantman of the same class. She sank within an hour of the collision. In the scramble for the boats Charlie thought he had but little chance for finding a place; and as the ship filled, and kept sinking deeper in the water, an instinct of self-preservation led him to climb into the rigging. Then up he went, higher and higher, even to the topmast; and at last, when the vessel went down all at once, he found himself, to his inexpressible relief, still above the surface.

What most astonished us all was that a boy so young should have been able to hold on for more than an hour to a slippery mast, exposed to the fury of the wind, and within reach, even, of the lashing waves. We sailed home at once to the Isle of Wight, and wrote to the boy's mother, a widow living in London, to tell her of his safety. The boy himself stayed with us two or three days. My brother-in-law took a great fancy to him; he has watched his career, and seen him at intervals, ever since. Charlie Standish is now a chief mate on board a great merchantman of the same class as the "Melbourne."

_PUZZLE-PAGE._

Now find out this puzzle page, children. Two of these objects begin with C, one with M, one with O, one with P, and one with S. Try if you can find out what they all are.

A SONG FOR AUTUMN.

_Andantino._

1. Good-bye, daisy pink, and rose, and snow-white lily too; Every pretty flower that blows, here's a kiss for you. Good-bye, merry bird and bee, and take this tiny song.... For the ones you sang to me all the summer long.

2. Good-bye, mossy little rill, that shivers in the cold; Leaves, that fall on vale and hill, cover you with gold. Good-bye, pretty birds that roam, and rills, and flowers, and trees; But when winter's gone, come home; come whene'er you please.

LIONS.

The Lion is called the king of beasts, because he is the most courageous, the strongest, and the grandest-looking of all beasts. The picture represents a great lion and his family; you see he has just caught a poor little gazelle, of which herds are found in the plains of Africa. And that, as I daresay you know, is also the country of the lions.

Lions belong to what is called the cat tribe of animals, as do also tigers and leopards. The members of this tribe are remarkable for their powerful jaw, large fangs, the quickness and grace of their movements, and for the manner in which the sharp hooked claws of the feet are drawn back when not in use, and thrust forward when needed for action.

The colour of the lion is a tawny yellow, lighter on the under parts of the body, and darker above. The ears are almost black, and there is a tuft of black hair at the tip of the tail. When full-grown, the male lion has a thick, shaggy mane of long hair, which falls from the neck and shoulders, covering the throat and breast. He measures some four feet in height at the shoulder, and about eleven feet in length, including the tail. These measurements, however, are only applicable to the animals which have lived in freedom in their native land, with their limbs unshackled, and spirits unbroken.

The lioness is a smaller animal than her mate, the difference in size appearing greater than it really is, because she is without the shaggy mane, which makes the lion seem so grand and imposing. But though smaller, she is quite as terrible as the lion; and if she has cubs to look after and protect, she is a fearful enemy to any who cross her path.

I think it would amuse you to hear an anecdote of a revengeful lioness, which I lately read. The gentleman, who relates the story, was out with a party of hunters in Southern Africa, in search of elephants. They had not had much sport, and as they were going to encamp for a day, this gentleman thought he would ride off alone to a patch of jungle or wood not far away, which appeared likely to harbour wild beasts. He discovered no sign of elephants, but he found a new footprint made by a lion. Now he had never shot a lion, and had a great ambition to do so; accordingly, he followed the lion's track, which of course was very brave of him, but, I must say, I think, very rash. After a little while he came suddenly upon the savage beast, and luckily shot him dead at the first shot.

Having achieved this exploit, he was anxious to carry back the skin with him as a trophy; and therefore set to work to skin the dead beast, which, it seems to me, must have been a most horrible business. This operation took a long time, and when accomplished, our friend the hunter found great difficulty in persuading his horse to carry the skin. Horses have a great horror of lions, and the poor animal probably did not feel sure that the skin alone could do him no harm.

At last all was satisfactorily arranged, and the hunter started to return to the encampment; but so much time had been lost, that before he had gone far, night began to close in, and he thought it best to bivouac where he was till daylight. There was a stream of water close by; and he had with him a blanket, a flask of brandy, and a box of matches. He took the precaution also, before it was quite dark, to shoot a guinea-fowl for his supper. Then, collecting a quantity of dry wood, he piled it up in a circle, leaving space enough inside for himself, his horse, and the skin. Setting fire to the wood, he considered himself safe from any attack of wild beasts within this magic circle of fire, and made himself comfortable for the night. He cooked and ate his supper, and then, lying down by the side of his horse, soon began to doze.

Presently he was disturbed by a loud snort from his horse. He rose up, and kicking the burning wood together with the heel of his boot, made a brighter blaze, and distinctly saw the head of an old lioness looking through the surrounding bushes. She was gone in an instant, but you may be sure the hunter did not go to sleep again. He suspected at once that she was the widow of the lion he had killed, and that she had followed the scent of his skin to be revenged upon his murderer.

Our hunter made his fire burn as brightly as he could, and remained upon the watch for the lioness. He thought he could see her again among the bushes, and seizing a piece of burning wood, threw it at her; then he detected her slinking away into the darkness. He did not fire, for he saw too imperfectly to be sure of his aim. Not long afterwards he suddenly heard a terrific roar, and at the same moment some large body flew through the air close to him. Then followed a crash, and the hunter saw his poor horse knocked down, as if shot, beneath the weight of the lioness, who stood on him, tearing at him and growling. The hunter fired: the first shot wounded her, the second killed; but she had so far revenged the lion's death that she had killed the horse.

The hunter now had her skin as well as the lion's, which must have been a satisfaction to him. He set to work to skin her at once, and then buried both skins in the ground that they might not be eaten or damaged by prowling animals, while he trudged back on foot to the encampment. In the afternoon he returned in a waggon, and fetched away both skins, which he kept as trophies.

My own experience of a lioness is of a very different sort to this, as my acquaintance with either lions or lionesses has been made only at the Zoological gardens. But I remember a few years ago there was a dear old lioness there, who had five little cubs; and I can only say her kindness and tenderness to her young ones would have afforded a good example to many mothers.

I will tell you another anecdote about a lion. It is related of a lion of the Zoological gardens, who died there of inflammation of the lungs many years ago. Sir Edwin Landseer was then just rising into fame as a painter of animals, and a friend of his suggested to the manager of the gardens, that the dead lion should be sent to Sir Edwin, in case he might like to paint it.

So one morning, just at daylight, (this is how the story is told) the artist was awakened by a knocking at his bedroom door. He called out to know who was there.

"Please, sir," was the reply, "have you ordered a lion?"

"Ordered a what?"

"A lion, sir; have you ordered a lion? because there's a dead one just come to the door."

"Oh, very well," said the great painter, "take him in: I'll be down directly."

Dressing hurriedly, he went downstairs, and beheld the enormous beast stretched at full length upon the floor of his studio. The artist quickly arranged his palette, and painted a picture of a lion lying dead in the desert. The picture was exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1849, and added greatly to the artist's fame.

THE LITTLE GIRL TO HER DOLLY.

There, go to sleep, Dolly, in own mother's lap; I've put on your night-gown and neat little cap; So sleep, pretty baby, and shut up your eye: By-bye, little Dolly; lie still, and by-bye.

I'll lay my clean handkerchief over your head, And then make believe that my arms are your bed, So hush! little dear, and be sure you don't cry; By-bye, little Dolly; lie still, and by-bye.

There, now it is morning, and time to get up, And I'll crumb you a mess in my doll's china cup; So wake, little baby, and open your eye, For I think it high time to have done with by-bye.

TINY TASTEALL.

Little Tiny had a sad habit of tasting everything that came in her way. This was because she was so greedy; and it was very naughty too, because she used to take things that had not been given to her. At last she had a lesson, which I am going to tell you of, and I think it almost cured her of her bad habit.

One day Tiny's mother was in the kitchen, preparing some nice dish, and she said to her little girl,--"Run into the back kitchen, dear, and bring me a lemon; you will find some upon the shelf." When Tiny found herself alone in the back kitchen, she looked about to see if there was anything she could taste. On a shelf she saw a number of jars, which looked as if they contained jam, or preserves, or something of that sort; so she placed a stool, and standing on tip-toe upon it, chose a pretty little jar, which she took down. It contained some yellow powder: she put her fingers into the powder without hesitation, and then put them into her mouth. Bah! it was mustard. Crying and spluttering, she went back to her mamma, who simply said,--"My dear, it serves you right."

AUNT TOTTY'S PETS:

Jacquot.

Here is another of Aunt Totty's stories about her pet animals. I shall tell it to my little readers as nearly as I can in her own words; and they must fancy Aunt Totty seated in the midst of her little nephews and nieces, who are all ready to listen. This is how she begins:--

"Now, my dears, I am going to give you an account of a pet I had whose name was Jacquot. I daresay you think from the name it must have been a monkey or a parrot. No such thing! it was a great brown bear, and this is how I made his acquaintance.

"I was not more than nine years old, and was travelling with my papa and mamma, and my brother, who was two or three years older than myself. We were making a tour in Switzerland, and stopped for a few days at a town of which I forget the name now; for you may suppose it was a great many years ago. However, what I _do_ remember is that a fair was being held in the town at the time, and that is how it happened that the bear was there.

"On the morning after our arrival I came down early,--as I thought, before anyone else of the party--and seated myself at the open window of our sitting-room in the hotel. As I sat there watching all that was going on outside, I saw my brother cross the courtyard of the hotel, coming out from a long low range of buildings on the other side of it. A minute afterwards he entered the room, and coming up to me, said with an air of mystery,--'Totty, I want to show you something: come with me before mamma and papa are down; you'll see something curious.'

"'What is it?' I inquired, feeling quite excited.

"'I won't tell you what it is; but come along and see,' answered my brother.

"As he spoke, he led me downstairs. We crossed the courtyard hand in hand, and entered the stables of the hotel. I could not help looking about rather nervously, as he led me past a number of horses and mules--keeping always, however, at a safe distance from their heels--till we came to the last stall of all. In a corner of this, I perceived a huge ragged hairy ball, but what it was I could not at first imagine. I saw that a strong chain attached it to a ring in the wall; then I discovered that it was some living creature, for its sides rose and fell with the breath as it slept. A man, who was lying on some straw close by, seeing my brother and me, rose up, and said in French,--'You need not be afraid, he won't hurt you.' Then patting the creature with his hand, he added,--'You wouldn't hurt the young lady, would you, Jacquot?'

"The ball uncurled itself, growled, and rose upon four legs. It was a bear: but the saddest-looking, the thinnest, and most ragged you can imagine. It had twenty scars on different parts of its body, and one ear was almost torn away. I must have looked shocked and distressed, for the man seemed to understand my thoughts, and said,--'Ah, well! what can you expect? poor Jacquot is not happy.'

"Then he went on to tell us the bear's history. It appeared that he was himself only the keeper or attendant of the bear, not the owner. He told us that Jacquot was born in the Pyrènean mountains: he was caught when quite a baby, and received an excellent education, being able to dance and perform every trick a bear can learn; he was perfect also in point of docility. At one year of age, his education being considered complete, he had been sold to the man who was still his master. This man, at the time he made the purchase, was the owner also of other animals. Jacquot's first companions were a camel, two monkeys, and a red and blue parrot. One of the monkeys passed the greater part of his time on the bear's back, the other monkey and the parrot on the back of the camel. But they were not a happy family: the monkeys and parrot bit and scratched, and generally tyrannised over, the patient camel and the good-natured bear.

"The owner of these animals used to take them about in a caravan from place to place, to exhibit them; but he was not kind to them, or did not treat them properly, for the camel, one monkey, and the parrot died; and when I made the acquaintance of Jacquot they had lately been replaced by a small leopard. So that the collection consisted then of a bear, a monkey, and a leopard, the latter being kept in a strong-wooden cage.

"Just as the man finished speaking, a monkey jumped down from a manger, and seized upon some cabbage leaves which the man, while talking to us, had given poor Jacquot. The bear, who was enjoying his little bit of greenmeat, objected to part with it; whereupon the monkey, looking like a little fiend, seized upon an old saucepan which lay near, and belaboured the poor bear cruelly upon the head and nose. Not content with this, it jumped upon the bear's back, and bit and tore the poor creature, until the man took up a whip; at the sight of which the savage monkey quickly made off into its manger again. From that moment I hated the monkey, and loved the poor, patient, oppressed, ill-used bear.

"During the next few days I used to pay a visit to Jacquot whenever I could get my brother to take me into the stable; and on such occasions I always took him a present of fruit or cakes. More than once, also, I saw him performing in the fair, and then it always seemed to me that he looked out of the corner of his little eye as if he recognised me. There was a knowing twinkle in his eye which seemed to say,--'We don't appear to be friends in public, but we have our pleasant little secret interviews for all that.' It went to my heart to see how the patient creature was knocked about and ill-treated by his cruel master, who always acted himself as showman. Poor Jacquot danced and went through his different performances hour after hour, with nothing but blows for his reward. He was the principal performer: the monkey was not very clever, and did not do much; while the only trick that the leopard had been taught was to jump through a hoop, which was thrust into his cage between the bars. When not doing this he only walked backwards and forwards in his cage, to be looked at.

"One evening I had some nice cakes, which mamma had given me from the dessert after dinner, to take to Jacquot. I looked about for my brother to go with me into the stable, but not finding him, at last, after some hesitation, I ventured to go alone. The coast was quite clear; there seemed to be nobody about. I passed by the horses and mules, and went on to the last stall, which was Jacquot's habitation.

"He welcomed me with a friendly grunt, and while he was munching his cakes, for which he seemed very grateful, I happened to look through an open door which led into a room beyond the stable. This room was probably intended as a harness room, but I knew that in it the leopard was kept. There was his cage, too, standing on the ground, just in the place where I had seen it before; but I noticed, to my inexpressible astonishment, that the cage was empty. I did not observe, or do not remember, whether the cage door was open or the cage was broken; but the conviction on my mind at once was that the leopard had escaped.

"In a corner of the stable was a heap of clean straw, on which the keeper of the animals, Auguste,--the man who had told us the history of Jacquot--was accustomed to lie down; probably it served for his bed at night. While I was wondering what could have become of the leopard, and beginning to feel very frightened, I heard a rustling sound, and saw the handsome, wicked-looking head of the creature peep from beneath the straw; then slowly it crept out altogether, its eyes glaring at me, and showing its teeth the while. It was just going to spring when my friend Jacquot saved my life. As I stood immovable from fear, Jacquot stepped in front of me, the length of his chain just allowing it; and there he stood up, exactly as a man might have done, to defend me. He gave a tremendous growl as the leopard sprang upon him. I saw no more, but ran off as fast as I could.

"In the courtyard I met Auguste, who had heard the bear growl, and was running to see what had happened. I afterwards learnt that he had only been able to liberate poor Jacquot and secure the leopard by striking the latter on the head with an iron bar, which he kept always handy for emergencies of the kind. The creature was stunned by the blow and restored to its cage, but both animals were very much hurt in the fight.

"Then the question arose, how was Jacquot to be rewarded for having saved my life? My father said at once that he should like to buy the bear, so as to save it from further ill-treatment by its master, the monkey, or the leopard. But when we had him what were we to do with him? He could not be taken about with us like a pet dog. Then I proposed that it should be bought from its present owner, and made a present to Auguste, who, I felt sure, would always treat it kindly. This plan was carried out; and before we left Switzerland I had the satisfaction of knowing that Jacquot was earning a good living for itself, and for a kind master, by its accomplishments.

"Many years afterwards I was staying at the house of some French friends of ours near Versailles, when one of the children--for there was a large family--ran into the drawing-room, looking very excited, to say that there was a wonderful performing bear, which had come into the garden, and they had now got it in the nursery, which opened on to the garden. The bear was doing the most extraordinary things, the child said, and would we come to see it? We elders of the party went off to the nursery immediately, for it sounded alarming to have a bear playing with the children. As we entered, I at once recognised in the bear's master, who was standing in a corner of the room, and looking on with great pride at his bear's performances, my old friend Auguste.

"I told Jacquot's story to my friends, and you may be sure the bear and its master were both made much of."

CROSS TOMMY.

The bird that will not sing, The bell that will not ring, The wheel that won't go round about, The horse that will not spring, And the child that won't be happy With what each day doth bring,-- Now I call every one of these A naughty, useless thing.

Little Tommy's crying;-- What's it all about? He cannot tell you why himself, So greatly he's put out. He's all that he can wish for, And plenty more beside,-- A drum and a gun, And a great plum bun, And a rocking-horse to ride.

Young Master Tommy does not know What it is he wants to-day; He can't enjoy his dinner, And he does not want to play. Suppose we send him off to bed, And take his toys away!

TIT FOR TAT.

Philip and Rosa work very hard at their lessons. They are the two oldest of a family of seven: Philip goes to college in the day-time, and Rosa has a daily governess, so that in the evening they both have lessons to prepare for the next day; and they like to work quietly together in a little room they call their school-room.

One evening Philip had been having a game with one of his little brothers. Tommy--that was the little brother's name--had had a present made to him of a bat and ball, and Philip showed him how to play. Now Master Tommy was so pleased with the game, that when evening came on, and it was time for him to go in, and when Philip, too, wanted to go to his lessons, he would not leave off. At last Philip adopted the plan, when Tommy's back was turned for a moment, of making the bat and ball disappear. Then Tommy began to cry; and his big brother assured him that "Bogy" had taken the bat and ball; adding,--"But if you are a good boy he'll bring them back to-morrow." So saying, off he went to his work in the school-room.

Just when Philip and Rosa had settled to their work, with books and slates scattered upon the table, a little figure, with knapsack on his back, and cap much too large for him covering his head, crept quietly into the room. They thought it best to take no notice of Master Tommy, as then perhaps he might go away of himself; but presently, when they were most occupied with their lessons, he suddenly slipped some of the books from the table into his knapsack, and taking others and a slate under his arm, ran out of the room. At the door he turned and cried out, "Bogy's got 'em; if you good, perhaps he'll bring 'em 'gain to-morrow."

Philip and Rosa pursued, and picked up the books, which Tommy dropped as he ran downstairs. They both took the joke very good-naturedly. Philip declared it was only tit for tat; and Rosa supplied Tommy with a lot of old finery, for him to take into the nursery, that he and the other children might amuse themselves by dressing up.

After all, Tommy had capital fun that evening. The children dressed up, and fancied themselves all sorts of wonderful people: kings, and queens, and fairies; judges and generals, and I know not what.

GOOD-BYE, SUN.

Good-bye, pretty sun, good-bye! You are sinking behind the sea, But I know you'll come back to-morrow To shine again upon me.

I know that, although you seem To be taking a bath out there, You are only gone to shine Upon other countries fair,

Where people like us live, Although they are far away: You shine upon girls and boys, And light them at their play.

And I hope that every day That I see the sun once more, He'll find me a little wiser Than I was the day before.

MAMMA'S SUNDAY TALK. MIRACLES OF OUR SAVIOUR:

THE RAISING OF LAZARUS.

Listen to me, now, my darling children, while I relate a wonderful miracle, called "The Raising of Lazarus." I have already told you of many instances in which our Saviour restored the sick to health, the blind or deaf to sight or hearing. I have related one case--that of the daughter of Jairus--where He restored a child to life; but I am now going to describe how our Lord brought back to life a man who had been four days dead.

In the little city of Bethany, in Judæa, lived a family which we are told that Jesus loved. This family consisted of two sisters and a brother, and their names were Mary, Martha, and Lazarus. Now Lazarus fell sick, and his sisters sent to tell Jesus of this. The message they sent was simply, "Lord, he whom Thou lovest is sick." They made no request, but probably they thought that the kind and good Lord who had done so many works of mercy for others, would come and heal their brother.

When Jesus received this message, He was in the country beyond the river Jordan, about thirty miles from Bethany, which is near Jerusalem. He had retired to a distance from the latter city, because the priests and Pharisees had succeeded in stirring up a portion of the populace against Him. His reply to the messengers was as follows:--"This sickness is not unto death, but for the glory of God, that the Son of God might be glorified thereby." These seemed like words of comfort for the anxious sisters; yet they saw their brother get worse hour after hour. The Saviour came not; and at length their brother died.

And where was Jesus at the time? After receiving the message, He "abode two days still in the place where He was." But this delay does not appear to have arisen from any hesitation to return to the neighbourhood of Jerusalem. He said to His disciples, at the end of the two days, "Lazarus is dead. And I am glad for your sakes that I was not there, to the intent ye may believe: nevertheless, let us go unto him."

These words appear to signify that our Saviour was glad He had not been with Lazarus when he was ill, because then He should have cured him, and the miracle would not have been so wonderful as it would be now--not so likely to increase the faith of those who beheld it. Therefore He rejoiced that He should have to raise Lazarus from death to life instead of curing him of sickness.

The disciples attempted to dissuade Christ from returning so near to Jerusalem, but finding Him resolved, they declared their willingness to accompany Him, and they all departed together into the land of Judæa. As they approached Bethany, Martha, hearing that the Lord was coming, went out to meet Him, while Mary remained in the house. As soon as Martha met Jesus, she thought, doubtless, of all the people He had so mercifully healed by a touch of His hand or a word from His mouth, and said to Him, "Lord, if Thou hadst been here, my brother had not died." Then added immediately afterwards, "But I know that even now, whatever Thou wilt ask of God, God will give it Thee."

These words of Martha's prove how strong her faith was. And Jesus answered her, saying, "Thy brother shall rise again."

She does not seem to have felt sure that this promise was meant in the sense of restoring Lazarus to life; but what followed is best related in the words of St. John, who tells us:--

"Martha saith unto Him, 'I know that he shall rise again in the resurrection at the last day.' Jesus said unto her, 'I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. Believest thou this?' She saith unto Him, 'Yea, Lord: I believe that Thou art the Christ, the Son of God, which should come into the world.' And when she had so said, she went her way, and called Mary her sister secretly, saying, 'The Master is come, and calleth for thee.'"

It was the custom among the Jews, when anybody died, for the friends and neighbours of the bereaved family to gather round the remaining members of it, and mourn with them, or endeavour to console them. Mary was surrounded by friends when Martha returned to her, and said, "The Master is come." St. John goes on as follows:--

"As soon as she heard that, she arose quickly, and came unto Him. Now Jesus was not yet come unto the town, but was in that place where Martha met Him. The Jews then which were with her in the house, and comforted her, when they saw Mary, that she rose up hastily and went out, followed her, saying, 'She goeth unto the grave, to weep there.' Then when Mary was come where Jesus was, and saw Him, she fell down at His feet, saying unto Him, 'Lord, if Thou hads't been here my brother had not died.' When Jesus therefore saw her weeping, and the Jews also weeping which came with her, He groaned in the spirit, and was troubled; and said, 'Where have ye laid him?' They said unto Him, 'Lord, come and see.' Jesus wept."

Christ, the Son of God, wept with the mourners. Although He knew He should raise Lazarus from the dead, He shed tears at the sight of human grief.

They came to the grave. It was a sepulchre hewn out of the rock, and a large stone had been rolled against the entrance. Jesus desired that this stone should be rolled away. Then Martha reminded Him that Lazarus had been dead four days. She said this because in hot countries like Judæa bodies decompose rapidly after death. But Christ replied,--"Said I not unto thee that if thou wouldest believe, thou shouldest see the glory of God?"

The stone was removed. Jesus first lifted up His eyes, and prayed, then He cried in a loud voice,--"Lazarus, come forth!"

And the man who had been dead four days came forth, all wrapped in his grave-clothes, and his face bound about with a napkin. Those who stood round and beheld this miracle, were too astounded to approach Lazarus, until Christ said,--"Loose him, and let him go." St. John adds:--"Many of the Jews which came with Mary, and had seen the things which Jesus did, believed on Him."

SOME OF MY LITTLE FRIENDS:

Janey.

The name of my little friend, whose picture you see on the last page, is Janey; and I will tell you how I became acquainted with her.

One very cold day in December last year, just before Christmas time, I was walking rather briskly in a London street near my own house, with a certain pair of little pattering feet trotting along beside me, and a certain pair of bright blue eyes looking alternately up to my face and at the brilliantly decorated shops. Now and then we stopped to look in at the windows of the toy-shops, and see the beautiful toys, and other pretty things displayed there. And now and then we did still better, for we went in at the glass doors, and mingling with a host of other merry Christmas folk, bought some of the pretty things we had been looking at from the outside. Both Lily and I would come out of the shops laden with such a number of parcels--such a load of dolls and horses, balls and musical instruments, that it was a wonder and a puzzle to ourselves how we contrived to carry them all. I think my little Lily's slender arms grew stronger and longer for the occasion. Once, too, we went into a pastrycook's, and came out with still an additional parcel or two: these were intended for the little ones at home.

My Lily and I had lately made several expeditions of this kind in the service of a certain giant tree at home. For a long time this tree seemed insatiable: the greedy branches never had enough, though every day new ornaments, or toys, or trinkets of some sort were hung upon them. But to-day's was to be our last expedition; we needed only a few toys to fill up some gaps near the foot of our great Christmas tree.

We had just made up our minds to go into no more shops, but hurry home with the purchases we had made, when, in turning a corner, Lily ran up against a poor little girl scarcely bigger than herself, though probably about eight years old. The little girl had on a dress with short sleeves, although it was so cold; she had a little three-cornered grey woollen shawl upon her shoulders, and a torn straw hat upon her head. This little girl was Janey; and my Lily, who was walking very fast, had almost knocked her over.

As the two children recovered from the shock, I saw Janey turn her pretty brown eyes wistfully towards the parcels of toys and sugar-plums we were carrying; when Lily, touched at the sight of the forlorn little girl, suddenly held out half-a-crown, which had been clutched in her hand ever since we had been out. This half-crown had been given to her that morning by her god-father, and she had brought it out to spend it, but had not done so. I thought it rather much to give to a strange child; but I said nothing, as the girl had already got the money safe in her poor little cold red hand.

"It was my own, you know, mamma dear," pleaded my Lily, perhaps reading my thoughts.

"Yes, dear," I replied, as I watched the expression of delight in both the children's faces: one delighted at receiving, the other at giving the present.

The strange child murmured some words of thanks, and we continued on our way. We had not gone far, however, when I discovered that I had lost my purse, and feeling sure that I had left it on the counter in the last shop we had been to, I and Lily began to retrace our steps as quickly as we could. We had not gone far when we came in sight of the little girl again. She was standing in front of a toy shop, as you see her in the picture; she held the half-crown in her hand, and was glancing, sometimes at the shop window, sometimes at some oranges on a fruit stall in the street, seeming undecided what to buy. Just before we reached her, however, she appeared to have made up her mind, and without entering the shop, she trotted briskly on in front of us.

Presently we saw her walk into a baker's shop; we passed it, but had not gone far beyond, before she overtook us, walking very fast, and carrying two large loaves under her shawl. Then I stopped her, and asked where she was going.

"Home, ma'am," she said; "I am taking mother this bread for our little ones: they are so hungry!"

"You didn't buy yourself a toy, nor even an orange then?" I said. "But you have still money enough to do so."

"Oh, I have lots left out of what the little lady gave me, but I would rather, please, take it all home to mother. She would give us toys if she could, but it is hard for her to give us bread, and I know she will spend the money better than I can. I did stop at the toy shop window, ma'am, but I am very glad I didn't buy anything."

And this was Christmas time!--the time, above all others in the year, when we should help each other, in remembrance of Him who came to us one Christmas night, and living on the earth among the poor, taught us by His precept and example to love and succour all our poorer brethren.

We walked with little Janey to see her mother, and her home, which was very near; and I think the readers of "Wide-awake" will be glad to hear that Janey, her mother, and the little ones have not suffered from want of bread since that day. Besides, on Christmas day itself they had a real Christmas dinner, with roast beef and plum-pudding, and oranges; and good little Janey had some toys given to her into the bargain.

_PUZZLE-PAGE._

Now, little people, see if you can guess this puzzle-page. One of these objects begins with L, one with N, one with R, two with T, and one with W.

THE DOLLS' TEA-PARTY.

_Lively. mf._

1. The dolls had a tea party: wasn't it fun! In ribbons and laces they came one by one; We girls set the table, and poured out the tea; And each of us held up a doll on our knee.

2. You never saw children behave half so well; Why nobody had any gossip to tell! And--can you believe it? for badness that day, No dolly was sent from the table away.

3. The cups and the saucers they shone lily white: We helped all the dollies; they looked so polite; We had cake and jam from our own pantry shelves; Of course we did most of the eating ourselves.

4. But housewives don't know when their cares may begin-- The door it stood open, and pussy popped in; He jumped on the table,--and what do you think?-- Down fell all the crockery there in a wink.

5. We picked up the pieces with many a sigh; Our party broke up, and we all said good-bye. Do come to our next one:--but then we'll invite That very rude pussy to keep out of sight.

ASKING PARDON.

Cissy and Lily are feeding a little tame sparrow. The poor bird had fallen out of its nest, and the gardener picked it up, and gave it to the children. The little creature sits on Cissy's finger, while Lily feeds it with bread and milk. It is getting quite tame, puts its little head on one side, and looks at Lily out of its pretty bright eye. The children have had it some days: it can fly a little now, but shows no wish at present to fly away.

"I'm the mother of it," says Lily, "tos I feed it." Then she adds, after considering a moment: "Cissy can be father if she likes."

Cissy, aged nine years, smiles at this remark, and says,--"You don't know what you're talking about, my dear child; I can be aunt or grandmamma: Johnny can be father, if he likes."

Johnny is marching up and down the room with a gun over his shoulder. He is two years old, and likes to be one thing at a time, so he answers in a gruff voice,--"No, me tan't: Donny soldar; tan't be father now;" and he continues his march.

"I shall call it Tommy," says Lily.

"Teddy's a prettier name," suggests Cissy.

"Shan't call it Teddy," rejoins Lily; "peoples 'ill think he's a donkey." Lily once knew a donkey who had that name.

"Pretty Teddy! Teddy! Teddy!" cries Cissy in a teazing way. Whereupon Lily, who, I am sorry to say, is very short-tempered, raises her little hand, and brings it down smartly on Cissy's face. A skirmish takes place: the sparrow flies off to a distant part of the room; and mamma, coming in at the moment, finds voices raised, tears flowing, and red and angry faces.

After hearing what each has to say, mamma thinks that both children have been very naughty, and she tells them to make it up. Neither will say that she is sorry. Then mamma looks very grave, and tells the children how we ought always to ask pardon when we have done wrong.

At last peace is restored: the little girls kiss each other and are quite happy again. Then Cissy says:--"Sometimes people had better not ask pardon, mamma dear. Don't you remember Hans Christian Andersen's story in 'What the Moon saw?'"

"I doubt very much, dear, if there is any story of Hans Christian Andersen's which teaches us we ought not to ask pardon, when we have done wrong: I don't know which you can be thinking of. 'What the Moon saw' is a collection of little stories, one of which is supposed to be related every evening by the moon to a poor artist, who was fond of looking at her from his window. The moon relates to him something she has seen on the world every evening. But, Cissy dear, get the book, and read us the story you are thinking of; it is sure to be amusing."

The book is on the table, for Cissy has been reading it to-day. She takes it up, and begins at once to read:--

WHAT THE MOON SAW. SECOND EVENING.

"Yesterday," said the moon to me, "I looked down upon a small court-yard surrounded on all sides by houses. In the court-yard sat a clucking hen with eleven chickens; and a pretty little girl was running and jumping round them. The hen was frightened, and screamed, and spread out her wings over the little brood. Then the girl's father came out and scolded her; and I glided away and thought no more of the matter.

"But this evening, only a few minutes ago, I looked down into the same court-yard. Everything was quite quiet. But presently the little girl came forth again, crept quietly to the hen-house, pushed back the bolts, and slipped into the apartment of the hen and chickens. They cried out loudly, and came fluttering down from their perches, and ran about in dismay, and the little girl ran after them. I saw it quite plainly, for I looked through a hole in the hen-house wall. I was angry with the wilful child, and felt glad when her father came out and scolded her more violently than yesterday, holding her roughly by the arm. She held down her head, and her blue eyes were full of large tears. 'What are you about here?' he asked. She wept, and said, 'I wanted to kiss the hen and beg her pardon for frightening her yesterday; but I was afraid to tell you.'

"And the father kissed the innocent child's forehead, and I kissed her on the mouth and eyes."

Here ended the story of "What the Moon saw," and as Cissy leaves off reading, mamma says:--

"Why, my darling Cissy, this story does not teach that it is ever better not to ask forgiveness. The little girl was only silly for thinking that the hen could understand her, and so it happened that she only frightened the poor creature instead of doing any good. If the hen could have understood her, as little girls understand each other, it would have been very glad, I daresay, to let her kiss it. Besides, you see in the story, that directly the father knew his little girl had meant to ask pardon of the hen, he kissed her on the forehead, for he saw how good she really was."

A HAPPY PARTY.

In the quiet summer evening, The children gather round, While granny reads aloud to them With voice of pleasant sound.

A happy cheerful party, Indeed we all must say;-- Both granny and the children Enjoy the close of day.

Katrina stands beside her; Lina's knitting at her feet; Karl feeds himself, and Faust the dog, With bread and jam--a treat!

Even pussy and the dicky-birds Seem pleased and quiet too: I think, my little children, Indeed, and so would you.

SWANS.

My little readers all know very well what a swan is like. Which of you has not seen the beautiful large bird sailing proudly on the water; either on some river or lake, or perhaps on the Serpentine, or round a pond, in Kensington Gardens? How graceful the Swan is, with its long arched neck and pure white plumage! How grand it looks, turning slowly from side to side, followed perhaps by one or two cygnets! The mother swan casts sharp glances round her to see that no one is daring to interfere with her children. Then, too, how curiously she thrusts her long neck and head under the water, seeking for river weeds or some water insect.

In the picture there we see two swans and two growing-up cygnets. The papa and mamma swans, and one of the cygnets, are all engaged in obtaining food with their heads under water. Swans live upon water plants, frogs, and insects; and some swans get a great deal of bread besides. Certain little friends of mine, and indeed almost all little children living at the west end of London, take delight in carrying out pieces of bread for the swans in Kensington Gardens. These swans are nearly always gentle to children, and will come waddling out of the water, and eat from the children's hands. I must say, however, if swans could know how awkward they look when waddling about on dry land, they would never--at least if they care for admiration--show themselves out of their proper element. They are as awkward and ungainly in all their movements when on land, as they are graceful in the water. I know few prettier sights than that of a swan moving lazily along in summer on some calm lake or river; his reflection just broken now and then by the tiny wavelets that he makes in swimming.

Swans build their nests on the bank of some river or piece of water, or still more frequently on some small island. In the nest the mother swan lays six or seven greenish-white eggs, on which she sits patiently for two months before the young cygnets appear. She nurses them with the most tender care, teaching them to swim, and sometimes carrying them on her back when the water is rough, or the current strong.

I told you just now how gentle tame swans generally are, but I must add that they are not always so. They are anything but gentle if you go near their nests, or their young ones. When I was a little girl, and was staying at a country house, where there was a large lake, I had a very disagreeable adventure with a swan.

I had been feeding some swans in the morning with bread which I had brought from breakfast. My governess had taken me down to the lake, and we had found the beautiful creatures perfectly tame. In the afternoon, after my early dinner, I took some bread from the table, thinking I would run down and feed them again. I ran off alone, for they had been so gentle in the morning it did not occur to me that there was any danger. Reaching the edge of the water, I found that my friends whom I had fed before had gone off to another part of the lake, but there was a solitary one not far away, sitting among some reeds upon the bank.

I approached it, and tried to make it come to me by calling, and by holding out the bread in my hand; but it took not the slightest notice. Then I threw some bread to it, when I saw its feathers rising as if it was growing angry. But I wanted to make it, either come to me, or go into the water, that I might see it swim; so at last I threw a piece of hard crust at it, calling out at the same time,--"You stupid thing, get up." It did get up, and more quickly than I expected, for it ran at me as fast as it could waddle, hissing angrily, flapping its wings, and with all its feathers raised up. I was a tall child of eight years old, and could easily have escaped by running, but unluckily I stumbled and fell just as I turned to run away. The swan instantly seized my dress in his bill, while he beat me cruelly with his wings. My screams soon brought a gardener to the spot, who drove the swan away, but I was already dreadfully bruised. Then the gardener warned me solemnly never to go near a sitting swan again: I had disturbed the poor swan while she was sitting on her eggs.

At the top of this page we have a picture of a black swan. I daresay you have seen them, for they are common in England now. They were found in Australia, and are handsome birds with scarlet bills, but their long necks have not the graceful curve seen in the white swans.

CHRISTMAS EVE.

Christmas Eve! the bells are ringing,-- Ringing through the frosty air, Happiness to each one bringing, And release from toil and care.

How the merry peal is swelling From the grey old crumbling tower! To the simplest creature telling Of Almighty love and power.

Ankle deep the snow is lying, Every spray is clothed in white; Yet abroad the folk are hieing, Brisk and busy, gay and light.

Now fresh helps and aids are offered To the agèd and the poor, And rare love-exchanges proffered At the lowliest cottage door.

Then while Christmas bells are ringing, Rich and poor your voices raise, And, your simple carol singing, Waft to heaven your grateful praise.

MAMMA'S SUNDAY TALK. MIRACLES OF OUR SAVIOUR:

HEALING THE EAR OF MALCHUS.

We come now to the last miracle that Jesus did before His crucifixion, and with that I shall finish my description of them. But you must not suppose, my dear children, that I have told you all, or nearly all, the miracles He performed.

The crucifixion itself was marked by miracles: darkness overspread the land; the veil, or curtain, which hung before the sanctuary in the temple, was rent in two; an earthquake tore asunder rocks and opened graves; but all these were signs and wonders sent by God: they hardly can be classed among the miracles performed by Christ Himself.

Our Saviour's last miracle, then, which I am going to tell you of to-day, took place at the time of His seizure by the soldiers and people the night before the crucifixion. I have already told you, my children, the sad story of our Saviour's trial and crucifixion: I have told you how He was arrested during the night in the place called the garden of Gethsemane, at the foot of Mount Olivet, just outside Jerusalem. He was there with several of His disciples, and was praying--perhaps for those who He knew were about to inflict upon Him the suffering of a cruel death--when some soldiers and a crowd of people, led by the traitor Judas, approached. What followed is thus described by St. John:--

"Jesus, therefore, knowing all things that should come upon Him, went forth, and said unto them, 'Whom seek ye?' They answered Him, 'Jesus of Nazareth.' Jesus saith unto them, 'I am he.' And Judas also, which betrayed Him, stood with them. As soon, then, as He had said unto them, 'I am he,' they went backward, and fell to the ground. Then asked He them again, 'Whom seek ye?' And they said, 'Jesus of Nazareth.' Jesus answered, 'I have told you that I am he: if therefore ye seek me, let these go their way.'"

You see even at that moment Christ thought of the safety of His disciples, and in saying, "let these go their way," He was requesting that they might not be arrested with Him. When He advanced towards the soldiers and people saying, "I am he," they were at first so impressed with the composure and majesty of His Divine presence, that they started back, and fell prostrate; or, as St. John says, "fell to the ground." This impression, however, passed quickly away; and, urged on, we may suppose, by the priests and Pharisees who were with them, they kept to their purpose of arresting Christ. The miracle which Jesus then did is thus related by St. Luke:--

"When they which were about Him saw what would follow, they said unto Him, 'Lord, shall we smite with the sword?' And one of them smote the servant of the High Priest, and cut off his right ear. And Jesus answered and said, 'Suffer ye thus far.' And He touched his ear, and healed him."

Peter was the disciple, as we learn from the other evangelists, who cut off this man's ear, and the man's name was Malchus. He was probably one of the most forward in rudely seizing Jesus: but when he was wounded, the compassion of the Saviour appeared. "Suffer ye thus far," He cried amidst the strife. They were probably binding Him with cords, and He asked for a moment's liberty, that He might touch and heal the wounded man.

A word of reproof was addressed at the same time to the rash disciple. Our Saviour reminded Peter how easily He could obtain the protection of legions of angels, if He wished for any protection or defence at all. "But how then," said He, "shall the scriptures be fulfilled?" And He added:--"The cup which my Father hath given me to drink, shall I not drink it?" He would exert no power to help Himself, but He performed a miracle--His last miracle--to do good to an enemy. After this the disciples fled, and Jesus was conducted bound into Jerusalem.

We are surprised to find that this miracle did not produce any conviction of the Divine mission of our Saviour upon the minds of the priests, Pharisees, and others who witnessed it: We can only suppose that they had become familiar with miracles, and that those men whose interest or pride led them to oppose the teaching of Jesus, tried to persuade themselves that these miracles were not done through a power derived from God. Yet the character of the miracles ought to have removed the possibility of doubt. Christ exercised His power to do good to the suffering and afflicted: the sick were healed; the blind and deaf restored to sight and hearing; the dead brought back to life.

BABY'S GRACE.

Our little baby is such a darling! He has curly golden hair, and great blue eyes, that he opens very wide. He looks up so earnestly, with such a solemn look in his eyes sometimes, that you would fancy he had all the cares of the world to think about, instead of only what his dinner will be, and when it will come, like other babies of two years old. Baby can talk nicely; he says his prayers night and morning, and before nurse feeds him with his beef-tea, he will fold his hands, and say his grace after her, as well as he can in his baby lisp. This is what he says,--

"Lord, that givest all things good, To whom the ravens look for food, Deign to look on us from heaven, And bless the food that Thou hast given."

THE STORY BOOK.

What shall we read to-night? Of lord and lady bright? Of the babies in the wood, And the little robins good? Of the man with beard so blue, Or of Cinderella's shoe? Of Beauty and the beast, Or, last, but not the least, The Belle who slept so long, Told in story and in song? When the Prince a kiss did take, She was "Little Wide-awake."

INDEX.

Some of My Little Friends-- Rosie, 1 Stephen, 52 Jack and Jerry, 66 Ruby, 97 Frank, 129 Lena, 162 Alec and Elfie, 194 Dora, 226 Sammy, 258 Margaret, 289 Charlie, 321 Janey, 354

Puzzle Pages.--6, 49, 87, 113, 141, 169, 217, 241, 261, 293, 325, 357.

A Story of a Wooden Horse-- I. In which we make the acquaintance of a Nice Little Boy, and a Pretty Wooden Horse, 7 II. A Spoilt Child.--Jeanne.--Maurice makes Comparisons, 41 III. Journey to Paris.--Cressida in the Garden of the Luxembourg.--Maurice's Uncle.--A Great Temptation.--Maurice Keeps his Word, 77 IV. Maurice's Father is Ill.--A Rich little Girl.--A Family in Distress.--What ought Maurice to do?, 102 V. A Man of Science.--Maurice Parts with the Horse.--Journey to Nice.--Return Home.--An unexpected Visit, 142 VI. A Philosopher at Home.--The Horse is Stolen, 170 VII. Eusèbe at Paris.--How he Becomes the Owner of Cressida, 198 VIII. How Eusèbe Treats the Horse at Dieppe.--Maurice Recovers it.--The Thieves are Arrested.--Return of Fritz.--His Gratitude to Maurice.--He Mends the Horse., 233 IX. A Friendly Party.--What Adrienne did with her Ten Pieces of Gold.--Unexpected Visitors.--A Happy Meeting., 264 X. Conclusion, 268

Natural History Pages-- Cats, 17 The Sparrow-hawk, 39 Squirrels, 71 Herons, 119 Deer, 135 Woodpeckers, 167 Hares, 215 Grouse, 231 Goats, 275 The Shriek, or Butcher Bird, 297 Lions, 339 Swans, 369 Peter's Raven, 19 Otto in the Water-bottle, 21

Mamma's Sunday Talk-- Water Turned into Wine, 30 The Nobleman's Son Healed, 62 The Miraculous Draught of Fishes, 94 The Man with the Withered Hand Healed, 126 Stilling the Tempest, 158 Raising the Daughter of Jairus, 190 The Two Blind Men restored to Sight, 222 Christ Walking on the Sea, 254 Cure of a Deaf and Dumb Man, 285 Ten Lepers Healed, 318 The Raising of Lazarus, 349 Healing the ear of Malchus, 372 St. Valentine's Day, 34

Music-- Chipperee, Chip, 50 Come Rosy, my posy, 69 Spring Voices, 100 Spring Showers, 132 Flower Bells, 164 Morning, 196 The Hen and Ducklings, 229 The Rabbits, 263 Song of the Squirrel, 294 A Song for Autumn, 327 The Doll's Tea-party, 358

Aunt Totty's Pets-- Moko, 56 Coco and Marquis, 121 Tiger, 277 Jacquot, 337

My Lily, 89 The Mother Chamois and her Little ones, 91 Do as you are Bid, 152 The Child among the Wolf-cubs, 154 The Giant Hand, 178 Old Tom, 186 Scenes in the Life of Mr. Lovesport, 208 The Fox and the Goat, 218 Jack and Dobbin, 245 Uncle John's School-days, 246 Little Peter Pryor, 282 A Fable, 299 Tiny and the Fairy, 302 Getting up in the Morning, 313 Tiny Tasteall, 334 Tit for Tat, 346 Asking Pardon, 360 Baby's Grace, 375

Poetry-- The Robin's Song, 4 What News?, 14 Winter, 15 Nursery Rhyme, 20 Christmas Time, 28 The Fairy Queen, 37 The Crying Boy, 55 To the Lady-bird, 61 Pumpkin-head, 75 The Seasons, 88 Children, 93 The Summer Shower, 114 Cowslip Gathering, 124 "Two Legs sat upon Three Legs", 137 Dame Duck's Lecture, 139 The Butterfly, 150 Little Lambs, 156 Baby's Ride, 177 "Multiplication is Vexation", 185 Idle Words, 188 Birds, Beasts, and Fishes, 206 Mother's Pets, 213 Angels, 226 Early Lessons, 243 Treasures, 253 Little-doll Hall, 272 "When I go walking Along", 281 Flowers, 284 See-saw!, 301 Nursery Rhyme, 312 After Sunset, 316 The Little Girl to her Dolly, 333 Cross Tommy, 345 Good-bye, Sun, 348 A Happy Party, 365 Christmas-Eve, 370 The Story Book, 376

Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, London and Aylesbury.

Transcriber's Notes

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