How great was the delight of the poor old woman we may easily imagine, when she was told that she was actually within three miles of Fort George, and when the shepherd promised to go there in the morning and beg leave for her son to visit her at the cottage. But, alas! when morning dawned it became very evident that her strength had been too severely taxed; she was quite prostrate, and only half conscious of her surroundings. In these circumstances her kind host lost no time in starting on his humane errand, and, in the afternoon, mother and son met once more, but for the last time. The old woman had barely strength to whisper his name, but the look in her eyes was enough to show that she had her heart's desire, and that she could die in peace. A few days afterwards the little old woman was quietly laid to rest in the churchyard of the Highland village, and the good son was on his way to the Far East, carrying with him the memory of a mother's love.
THE SENSIBLE HARE.
A Fable.
Once upon a time, the beasts in a certain wood built a theatre in which plays were to be performed by the cleverest of the animals, for the amusement and instruction of the rest. Nearly all the animals took an interest in the scheme, and promised to support it, except the hare. When asked by Reynard the Fox, who had been appointed manager, why he did not favour the idea, the hare replied: 'There is quite enough amusement in my own family, and is it likely that I am going to leave them all in the evening to find what is already provided for me at home?' The fox for once in his life was taken at a disadvantage, and did not know what to say.
There are plenty of pleasures at home if we know how to look for them.
CLOUD PICTURES.
MONG the grass I love to lie,
And watch the fleecy clouds pass by:
For many pictures there I see,
So clear although so far from me.
Sometimes across the blue there floats
A stately fleet of white-sailed boats;
On shining mountains' rugged crests
The grey-winged cloud-birds seek their nests.
And o'er the sunset's radiant bar,
Lone fairy lands most surely are,
With ruby isles in lakes of gold,
Where towers in crimson light unfold.
The black clouds gather from afar,
As mighty armies march to war,
And when they meet in thunder-crash,
I see their spears of lightning flash.
For ever changing, to and fro,
Blown by the careless wind they go;
No wonder the cloud pictures there
Are always fresh, and always fair.