GEMS GATHERED IN HASTE:
A New Year's Gift for Sunday Schools

Dedicated,
As a labor of love,
To four Sunday Schools,
Each of which will know that it is one of the four
By the initials of
Their friend,
T.B.F.

A BRIGHT THOUGHT SPEEDILY EXECUTED.

It is an excellent rule, no doubt, children, not to be in a hurry; and the proverbs, "Take time by the forelock" and "The more haste the worse speed," are wise proverbs, worth keeping. But occasions occur, once in a while, when working hastily is a great deal better than not working at all, and may be working to some purpose too. I remember a case of this kind. In a certain town, on the forenoon of July 3, 183-, when "Floral Processions" were novel affairs, a company of ladies and gentlemen were assembled in a barn-chamber, finishing off and packing up a lot of moss baskets, and arranging bunches of flowers to be sent to Boston, to the Warren-street Chapel, by the mail coach at 3 o'clock, P.M. It was about 10 o'clock when one of the party,—suppose we call him, for convenience just now, Mr. Perseverance,—who had been looking out of the window, down upon a very little garden, suddenly turned round, and exclaimed that something might be made prettier than any thing they had yet done. He told what it was. "It is impossible to do it now. We must wait till next year," said his friends. "Nothing like trying: a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. No time like the present," replied Mr. Perseverance, a pertinacious gentleman, who wanted to "strike when the iron was hot," and carry out his notion without delay. Accordingly, he caught up two sticks, and nailed them together, so as to get the right shape. Then he went down town,—the town being small, he had not far to go,—begged at the bookstore a few "show-bills," containing the letters he needed for patterns; bought a sheet of gold paper and half an ounce of gum-arabic, twice as much of both as he really wanted; people in a hurry are not apt to calculate very nicely, or be very economical, you know. He carried his articles back to the barn, and asked a lady to try to cut out a motto he had selected, and gum it on a ribbon. "But where shall I get the ribbon?" said the lady. "Oh! find it somewhere," said Mr. Perseverance; "and be sure and have all ready when I return." There was one spot in the woods he remembered visiting months before with a boy in his neighborhood, on which grew another material, indispensable to his project. He found the lad: they jumped into a chaise; rode two or three miles to a grove; and, on searching a few moments, found what they were after,—a plant green in mid-winter as well as in summer, and prized by everybody who loves Christmas; gathered a bushel of it, more or less; and got home again before dinner. Meanwhile, the lady, with others to help her, had been busy; and all were wide awake now, entering into the spirit of the matter, thinking that the bright idea of Mr. Perseverance might possibly be accomplished in season. A splendid bunch of pure white lilies, not quite open, was fastened to the longest stick, the stems covered with wet paper or moss; then both pieces of wood were wound round with thick and rich evergreen, leaving the glorious flowers standing out gracefully, and white as the new-fallen snow. Next came the motto, in golden letters, on a broad white satin ribbon, which Mrs. Perseverance had found: it was the belt of her bridal dress, carefully preserved for several years, and now devoted to a good cause. The "emblem" was completed and packed just in time for the coach. "And what was it?" An evergreen cross, with the lilies at the centre; the ribbon hanging as a festoon from the arms, and bearing the words—

"Consider the Lilies!"

On reaching the city, it was much admired, and attracted a good many eyes in the show the next day. I believe there has hardly been a "Floral Procession" since, without a similar device; and among the banners used at the Warren-street Chapel, is a bright one of silk, which has on it the cross and the lilies finely painted.

Now, let me tell you why I have sketched this incident as an introduction to the following pages. On the 24th of December, 1850, a letter came to me from a friend, asking if I was preparing a tract, as in former days, for a New Year's Gift, or if I could help him, his brother and sister teachers, in selecting some fit and cheap book for all the two hundred children they love to meet every Sunday. At first, I only thought of answering that I was sorry to say he must look to somebody else for what was wanted. But I did not quite like to do this; and, presently remembering the achievement of Mr. Perseverance, I said to myself, if he got that cross made in a few hours, why cannot a tract be made in a few days? I consulted the printer, and he agreed to do all he could. So we went to work immediately, and here are the "Gems Gathered in Haste."

GEMS GATHERED IN HASTE.

To show how great evils may be prevented by a little care, and how much good a child may do, let me begin with the story of

THE LITTLE HERO OF HAARLEM.

At an early period in the history of Holland, a boy was born in Haarlem, a town remarkable for its variety of fortune in war, but happily still more so for its manufactures and inventions in peace. His father was a sluicer,—that is, one whose employment it was to open and shut the sluices, or large oak-gates, which, placed at certain regular distances, close the entrance of the canals, and secure Holland from the danger to which it seems exposed, of finding itself under water, rather than above it. When water is wanted, the sluicer raises the sluices more or less, as required, as a cook turns the cock of a fountain, and closes them again carefully at night; otherwise the water would flow into the canals, then overflow them, and inundate the whole country; so that even the little children in Holland are fully aware of the importance of a punctual discharge of the sluicer's duties. The boy was about eight years old, when, one day, he asked permission to take some cakes to a poor blind man, who lived at the other side of the dyke. His father gave him leave, but charged him not to stay too late. The child promised, and set off on his little journey. The blind man thankfully partook of his young friend's cakes; and the boy, mindful of his father's orders, did not wait, as usual, to hear one of the old man's stories; but, as soon as he had seen him eat one muffin, took leave of him to return home.

As he went along by the canals, then quite full,—for it was in October, and the autumn rains had swelled the waters,—the boy now stopped to pull the little blue flowers which his mother loved so well; now, in childish gayety, hummed some merry song. The road gradually became more solitary; and soon neither the joyous shout of the villager, returning to his cottage-home, nor the rough voice of the carter, grumbling at his lazy horses, was any longer to be heard. The little fellow now perceived that the blue of the flowers in his hand was scarcely distinguishable from the green of the surrounding herbage, and he looked up in some dismay. The night was falling; not, however, a dark winter night, but one of those beautiful, clear, moonlight nights, in which every object is perceptible, though not as distinctly as by day. The child thought of his father, of his injunction, and was preparing to quit the ravine in which he was almost buried, and to regain the beach, when suddenly a slight noise, like the trickling of water upon pebbles, attracted his attention. He was near one of the large sluices, and he now carefully examines it, and soon discovers a hole in the wood, through which the water was flowing. With the instant perception which every child in Holland would have, the boy saw that the water must soon enlarge the hole through which it was now only dropping, and that utter and general ruin would be the consequence of the inundation of the country that must follow. To see, to throw away the flowers, to climb from stone to stone till he reached the hole, and to put his finger into it, was the work of a moment; and, to his delight, he finds that he has succeeded in stopping the flow of the water.

This was all very well for a little while, and the child thought only of the success of his device. But the night was closing in, and with the night came the cold. The little boy looked around in vain. No one came. He shouted—he called loudly—no one answered. He resolved to stay there all night; but, alas! the cold was becoming every moment more biting, and the poor finger fixed in the hole began to feel benumbed, and the numbness soon extended to the hand, and thence throughout the whole arm. The pain became still greater, still harder to bear; but still the boy moved not. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he thought of his father, of his mother, of his little bed, where he might now be sleeping so soundly; but still the little fellow stirred not, for he knew that did he remove the small slender finger which he had opposed to the escape of the water, not only would he himself be drowned, but his father, his brothers, his neighbors—nay, the whole village. We know not what faltering of purpose, what momentary failures of courage, there might have been during that long and terrible night; but certain it is, that, at day-break, he was found in the same painful position by a clergyman returning from attendance on a death-bed, who, as he advanced, thought he heard groans, and, bending over the dyke, discovered a child seated on a stone, writhing from pain, and with pale face and tearful eyes.

"Boy," he exclaimed, "what are you doing there?"

"I am hindering the water from running out," was the answer, in perfect simplicity, of the child, who, during the whole night, had been evincing such heroic fortitude and undaunted courage.

—Sharpe's Magazine.

I copy these verses for two reasons. They teach trust in God; and they were written by a gentleman who, I am sure, remembers with pleasure when he was a scholar in the Sunday School; the request of whose superintendents induced me to make this miniature book.

STORM AT SEA.

We were crowded in the cabin;

Not a soul would dare to sleep:

It was midnight on the waters,

And a storm was on the deep.

'Tis a fearful thing, in winter

To be shattered in the blast,

And to hear the rattling trumpet

Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"

So we shuddered there in silence;

For the stoutest held his breath,

While the hungry sea was roaring,

And the breakers talked with Death.

As thus we sat in darkness,

Each one busy in his prayers,

"We are lost!" the captain shouted,

As he staggered down the stairs.

But his little daughter whispered,

As she took his icy hand,

"Isn't God upon the ocean

Just the same as on the land?"

Then we kissed the little maiden,

And we spoke in better cheer,

And we anchored safe in harbor

When the morn was shining clear.

J.T. Fields.

Here are two anecdotes: one for boys, the other for girls. When you read the first, remember that all good deeds are not published, and cherish always the belief that many kind acts are done which are never put in print to be read by everybody.

KINDNESS.

This word seldom begins an article in a newspaper, but "cruelty" or "murder" more often instead. It is a pleasure to record an act of kindness; painful that we have not frequent opportunities. Yet such an act made our heart glad, filled it with a new love for our kind, only a day or two since. A school-girl, about ten years of age, was passing, with a smaller school-girl in her arms, whom she carried with much difficulty; for the weather was sultry. Other children were in company, with books in their hands. The whole party stopped to rest under the shade of a tree. Just then, a gentleman observed the group. His attention was particularly attracted by the child, still supported by the arm of her friend. "What's the matter, my little Miss?" he inquired, in his kind, soft tone. "She's sick, sir," replied the friend. "And are you taking her home?" "I'm trying, sir." "How far off does she live?" "Down by the Long Bridge." "A mile or more! and you would carry her through the hot sun! no shade on the way either!" "I must try, sir," answered the school-girl. "No, you must not," said the kind gentleman, "it would kill both of you." A carriage passed at this moment. A word and a waving arm caused it to draw up to the pavement. All the party entered it, and all right merry, except the sick one; but even she looked up with a faint smile, fixing her large, tender eyes on the face of the stranger. The driver had been instructed fully as to his destination, had been paid too, and now drove away. "Poor little girl!" said the gentleman to himself, in a low voice. "Good bye, sir!" said all the children, in a high tone.

—Washington News.

A BRAVE BOY.

An interesting little boy, who could not swim, whilst skating on our river on New Year's Day, ran into a large air-hole. He kept himself for a time above water: the little boys, all gathered round the opening, tried to hand him poles; but the ice continued breaking, and he was still floating out of reach. Despair at last seized his heart, and was visible in every face around. At this moment, when, exhausted, the poor little fellow was about to sink, a brave and generous-hearted boy exclaimed, "I cannot stand it, boys!" He wheeled round, made a run, and dashed in at the risk of his own life, and seized the little boy and swam to the edge of the ice with him: after breaking his way to the more solid ice, he succeeded in handing him out to his companions, who then assisted him out. In Rome, this act of heroism would have insured this brave youth a civic crown. His name is Albert Hershbergar.

—Charleston (Va.) Republican.

I know a little girl who has committed this to memory. Let all little girls and boys who read it do the same, and they will have music worth listening to in their own hearts.

LITTLE CHILDREN, LOVE ONE ANOTHER.

A little girl, with a happy look,

Sat slowly reading a ponderous book,

All bound with velvet and edged with gold,

And its weight was more than the child could hold;

Yet dearly she loved to ponder it o'er,

And every day she prized it more;

For it said, and she looked at her smiling mother,—

It said, "Little children, love one another."

She thought it was beautiful in the book,

And the lesson home to her heart she took;

She walked on her way with a trusting grace,

And a dove-like look in her meek young face;

Which said, just as plain as words could say,

"The Holy Bible I must obey:

So, mamma, I'll be kind to my darling brother;

For 'little children must love each other.'

I'm sorry he's naughty, and will not play;

But I'll love him still, for I think the way

To make him gentle and kind to me

Will be better shown if I let him see

I strive to do what I think is right;

And thus, when I kneel in prayer to-night,

I will clasp my hands around my brother,

And say, 'Little children, love one another.'"

The little girl did as her Bible taught,

And pleasant indeed was the change it wrought;

For the boy looked up in glad surprise,

To meet the light of her loving eyes:

His heart was full,—he could not speak;

But he pressed a kiss on his sister's cheek;

And God looked down on that happy mother

Whose "little children loved each other."

—Bath Paper.

The two next pieces ought to go together. They resemble each other, not only in their subjects, but in their beauty also. I hardly know which is the most interesting.

THE SISTER'S GRAVE.

At Smyrna, the burial-ground of the Americans, like that of the Moslems, is removed a short distance from the town, is sprinkled with green trees, and is a favorite resort not only with the bereaved, but with those whose feelings are not thus darkly overcast. I met there one morning a little girl with a half-playful countenance, busy blue eye, and sunny locks, bearing in one hand a small cup of china, and in the other a wreath of fresh flowers. Feeling a very natural curiosity to know what she could do with these bright things, in a place that seemed to partake so much of sadness, I watched her light motions. Reaching a retired grave, covered with a plain marble slab, she emptied the seed, which it appeared the cup contained, into the slight cavities which had been scooped out in the corners of the level tablet, and laid the wreath on its pure face. "And why," I inquired, "my sweet child, do you put the seed in those little bowls there?" "It is to bring the birds here," she replied with a half-wondering look: "they will light on this tree," pointing to the cypress above, "when they have eaten the seed, and sing." "To whom do they sing?" I asked: "to you or to each other?" "Oh! no," she quickly replied, "to my sister: she sleeps here." "But your sister is dead?" "Oh! yes, sir; but she hears the birds sing." "Well, if she does hear the birds sing, she cannot see that wreath of flowers." "But she knows I put it there; I told her, before they took her away from our house, I would come and see her every morning." "You must" I continued, "have loved that sister very much; but you will never talk with her any more, never see her again." "Yes, sir," she replied, with a brightened look, "I shall see her always in heaven." "But she has gone there already, I trust." "No, she stops under this tree till they bring me here, and then we are going to heaven together." "But she has gone already, my child: you will meet her there, I hope; but certainly she is gone, and left you to come afterward." She cast to me a look of inquiring disappointment, and the tears came to her eyes.

Oh! yes, my sweet child, be it so,

That, near the cypress-tree,

Thy sister sees those eyes o'erflow,

And fondly waits for thee;

That still she hears the young birds sing,

And sees the chaplet wave,

Which every morn thy light hands bring,

To dress her early grave;

And in a brighter, purer sphere,

Beyond the sunless tomb,

Those virtues that have charmed us here

In fadeless life shall bloom.

THE LITTLE FLOWER-GARDEN.

In yonder village burying-place,

With briers and weeds o'ergrown,

I saw a child, with beauteous face,

Sit musing all alone.

Without a shoe, without a hat,

Beside a new-raised mound,

The little Willie pensive sat,

As if to guard the ground.

I asked him why he lingered thus

Within that gray old wall.

"Because," said he, "it is to us

The dearest place of all."

"And what," said I, "to one so young,

Can make the place so dear?"

"Our mother," said the lisping tongue,—

They laid our mother here.

And since they made it mother's lot,

We like to call it ours:

We took it for our garden-spot,

And planted it with flowers.

We know 'twas here that she was laid;

And yet they tell us, too,

She's now a happy angel made,

To live where angels do.

Then she will watch us from above,

And smile on us, to know

That here her little children love

To make sweet flowerets grow.

My sister Anna's gone to take

Her supper, and will come,

With quickest haste that she can make,

To let me run for some.

We do not leave the spot alone,

For fear the birds will spy

The places where the seeds were sown,

And catch them up and fly.

We love to have them come and feed,

And sing and flit about;

Yet not where we have dropped the seed,

To find and pick it out.

But now the great round yellow sun

Is going down the west;

And soon the birds will every one

Be home, and in the nest.

Then we to rest shall go home too;

And while we're fast asleep,

Amid the darkness and the dew,

Perhaps the sprouts will peep.

And, when our plants have grown so high

That leaves are on the stem,

We'll call the pretty birdies nigh,

And scatter crumbs for them.

For mother loved their songs to hear,

To watch them on the wing:

She'll love to know they still come near

Her little ones, and sing."

"Heaven shield thee, precious child!" methought,

"And sister Annie too!

And may your future days be fraught

With blessings ever new!"

Hanna F. Gould

This is a true story. A little girl received it in a letter from a very dear friend before it was printed.

THE FEATHER BRUSH.

So, my dear little friend, you wish for an answer to your letter, and could not understand that the little feather brush I sent you was a reply to your loving remembrance, just as if I had written one with pen and ink. But you were a kind and loving child to transfer the gift to little Julia, in your pity for her tears. I hope it soothed her troubled heart, and dried her blue eyes; and you now shall have, instead, the story which those soft feathers were sent to tell.

One evening last summer, Miss L—— came home from one of her rides, with a large basket closely covered; and what do you think it contained? Why, a great anxious mother-hen, all tawny-colored and white, with thirteen downy little chickens, who were frightened enough, and wondering where in the wide world they were. We made a house for them in the green meadow, of a barrel turned upside down; and they all crept under their mother's wing, and went to sleep. But, lo! a great storm came in the night, such a pouring rain, such a blowing gale,—we really feared the tiny things would be drowned! But a kind neighbor put on his big coat, and went to their rescue. He put them all together in the basket again, and brought it into the kitchen, where they got thoroughly warm and dry; after which, they were taken out to the barn, where they lived a few days very comfortably. Then one of them disappeared, we never knew where; and another lamed herself in some way, and, notwithstanding all our care, she died. But the rest grew up, a healthy and obedient little family, always ready to eat, and so quick to run with their tiny feet, when any one appeared at the door, that it was very funny to see them.

Another day, Miss L—— brought home two large chickens; one of them with a long neck, and a beautiful black crest upon her head, and a dress of black feathers softer than velvet. Her we named Donna: sometimes we call her Bella Donna. The other was dressed in white feathers, some of them tipped with glossy black and brown, but many of them pure white. She was named Luca. They were shut together for a few days, until they began to feel at home; then they were set free to scratch in the barn-yard, and get acquainted with the neighbors' fowls, when we began to see how different they were in character as well as dress. Donna holds her head very high, and pays no attention to any other hens; runs away from us, when we invite her to dinner, no matter how nice it is; and never will get acquainted, all we can do. But Luca we love as we should a gentle, timid little girl. Sometimes, when we open the door, there she stands patiently waiting, and looks up at us with her bright eye so pleasantly, that we must stop, if ever so busy, and feed her. Occasionally we hear a gentle sound on the door-step, which we all know; then some one is sure to exclaim, "There's Luca," and run to get her something nice to eat. The little chickens, with Mater their mother, all come rushing, tapping, perching, chirping at the door, and tease and tap-tap and "yip-p yip-p" until we quite weary of them. If the door stands open, they fly up the steps, walk in, look round the room, and pick up any thing they can find, until we send them away. The moment their tin pan appears, they are all in a flying huddle, tumble over each other, fly to the pan, to our shoulders, or anywhere, to get the first mouthful. Old Mater is ravenous and impolite as the rest, except that she always waits for her children to get a few mouthfuls first; but not another hen or chicken must come near them. Luca, patient gentle Luca, often stands and waits modestly behind; and, if she gets nothing, makes a little mournful sound,—that is all.

Some flocks of russet, black and brown hens, crowers, and chickens, who live close by, are a great annoyance to Mater, and to all of us. They come shooting into the yard like little steam-engines, and snatch all they can of the dinner to which they were not invited; and, if driven away a dozen times, rush back, the first chance, to get and devour all they can. Why, they have been into the house, and eaten a pie which was set to cool, pecked at the apples, Pony's oats, and any thing they could find to eat! What would you have said then? Even Mater's children never did such impertinent things, hungry as they always are. One white chicken about their size, a naughty-looking little thing, with her head always down, left her own mother, and would come dashing in as if she belonged among them; but Mater and her little ones always found her out, and sent her away.

One day we thought we would name the eleven chickens, as Mater could not name them herself; and, since then, we know them each and all, and just how they behave. Annie and Mary are two sober-looking little creatures, in quakerish feathers of drab and grey. Nat is a white crower, with beautiful soft feathers, and a long graceful black tail. Louise has a shaded dress of grey and white, and is almost as modest and gentle as Luca. Hannah is a little bantam, with tufted head and large eyes, the smallest but the sprightliest of the family: she always tumbles in amongst the rest, and gets the first taste of every thing; and her mother allows her to do it. One of them, named Lise, a white one, came in the other morning, just as we had finished breakfast; and, seeing many things spread out to eat, she flew up to the back of a chair, and, perching herself there, surveyed the whole table, and was very unwilling to get down. At length, getting a little alarmed at our efforts to teach her better, she pounced directly down amidst the cups and dishes, putting her foot into a saucer of tea, and making a great commotion in her fright. Two, named George and John, are trying to learn to crow. Little Mary hears the large hens cackle, and you would laugh loud to hear her try to imitate them. They are having warm, new dresses made for them; so they let the summer ones blow about in the breeze for any little girls who want them, particularly kind and neat and useful little maidens, who love to dust their mother's books, picture frames, and flower baskets.

If I can send you another brush, my little friend, you must imagine neat little Louise, Annie and Mary, gentle Luca and handsome Donna, sending their best love and kind wishes, and inviting you to come some summer's day, to see them eat their dinner, and run about with them in the green meadows. So, my darling, good bye. Perhaps, before you come to see us, Luca may be a little mother, with a brood of pretty downy children, following all around her.

Kisses and love from your friend,
F. E. H.

(From the "Child's Friend.")

If any child wishes to know how to be neat and orderly, here, to teach them, is the example of

LITTLE PINK.

On a swinging little shelf

Were some pretty little books;

And I reckoned from their looks,

That the darling little elf,

Whose they were,

Was the careful, tidy girl,

With her auburn hair a-curl.

In a little chest of drawers,

Every thing was nice and prim,

And was always kept so trim,

That her childish little stores,

Books or toys,

In good order could be found,—

Never careless thrown around.

And she laid her bonnet by,

When she hastened home from school;

For it was her constant rule,—

And she was resolved to try,

School or home,

How to prove the saying true,—

"Order in all things you do."

When she put away her shawl,

Nicely laying by her book,

She had only once to look

In its place to find her doll

Snugly there:

She could shut her smiling eyes,

Sure to find her pretty prize.

See her books,—how clean they are!

Corners not turned down, I know!

There's a marker, made to show

In her lessons just how far.

Dog-eared books

Are a certain sign to me

That the girl must careless be.

She's as tidy as a pink!

Clean and neat, and gentle too!

If you take her actions through,

Just the same, I know, you'll think.

School or home,

Tasks or play,

Books or toys,

Every way,

Order keeps this loving girl,

With her auburn hair a-curl.

Friend of Youth.

What boy or girl in the Sunday School has not heard of Grace Darling? Are not these two women, whose noble deeds are told below, worthy to be called her sister-spirits?

THE HEROINE OF PILLAU.

A most interesting story is told, in a late German paper, of a remarkable woman in Pillau, Prussia, whose heroism of character certainly rises into the gigantic, or whose intrepidity, to say the least, appears to be unprecedented. This woman, by a truly generous daring, is the widow of a seaman, with whom, for upwards of twenty years, she made long voyages; and, since his death, she has devoted her life, for his memory's sake, to the noble and perilous task of carrying aid to the drowning. Her name is Katherine Klenfoldt. Whenever a storm arises, whether by day or night, she embarks in her boat, and quits the harbor in search of ship-wrecks. At the age of forty-seven, she has already rescued upwards of three hundred individuals from certain death. The population of Pillau venerate her as something holy, and the seamen look upon her as their guardian-angel. All heads are uncovered as she passes along the street. The Prussian and several other governments have sent her their medals of civil merit: the municipality of Pillau has conferred on her the freedom of her town. She possesses an athletic figure and great strength, seeming to be furnished by nature in view of a capacity to go through wild scenes and high deeds. Her physiognomy is somewhat masculine, with the expression softened by a look of gentleness and goodness.

A GENUINE PHILANTHROPIST.

The island of Rona is a small and very rocky spot of land, lying between the isle of Skye and the main land of Applecross, and is well known to mariners for the rugged and dangerous nature of the coast. There is a famous place of refuge at the north-western extremity, called the "Muckle Harbor," of very difficult access, however; which, strange to say, is easier to be entered at night than during the day. At the extremity of this hyperborean solitude is the residence of a poor widow, whose lonely cottage is called the "light-house," from the fact that she uniformly keeps a lamp burning in her little window at night. By keeping this light, and the entrance to the harbor open, a small vessel may enter with the greatest safety. During the silent watches of the night, the widow may be seen, like "Norma of the Fitful Head," trimming her little lamp with oil, being fearful that some misguided and frail bark may perish through her neglect; and for this she receives no manner of remuneration—it is pure, unmingled philanthropy. The poor woman's kindness does not rest even there; for she is unhappy till the benumbed and shivering mariner comes ashore to share her little board, and recruit himself at her cheerful and glowing fire, and she can seldom be prevailed upon to take any reward. She has saved more lives than Davy's belt, and thousands of pounds to the under-writers. This poor creature, in her younger days, witnessed her husband struggling with the waves, and swallowed up by the remorseless billow, "in sight of home and friends who thronged to save." This circumstance seems to have prompted her present devoted and solitary life, in which her only enjoyment is in doing good.

Here is a pretty piece. It was written, thirty-four years ago, by a class-mate and friend; but it sounds "as good as new." If he should happen to see it here, he will, I know, excuse the alteration of two lines, which, though quite proper for college-boys studying Latin and Greek, are not quite proper for children in a Christian Sunday School.

THE RAIN-DROP AND THE POET.

Come, tell me, little noisy friend,

That knockest at my pane,

Whence is thy being? Where dost end,

Thou little drop of rain?

I come from the deep,

Where the dark waves sleep,

And their beauty ever the sea-pearls keep;

I go to the brow

Of the mountain-snow,

And trickle again to the depths below.

But, wanderer, how didst win thy way

From caverns of the sea?

Did not thy sisters say thee nay,

Sweet harbinger of glee?

With his far-darting flame,

The Day-king came,

And bore me away in a cloudy frame;

And I sailed in the air,

Till the zephyrs bare

Me hither to hear thy minstrel-prayer.

And why dost change that tiny form,

Thou sweetest ocean-child?

Why art the snow in winter-storm,

The rain in summer mild?

The breath from above

Of Him who is Love,

In the snow and the rain-storm bids me to rove,

Lest the young-budding earth

Be destroyed in the birth,

And Famine insult over Plenty and Mirth.

And wilt thou, little one, bestow

The minstrel's small request?

Wilt come when cares of earth below

Press on his aching breast?

'Tis the minstrel's own

To kneel at the throne

Of Him who reigns in the heavens alone;—

The grief of the soul

'Tis His to control,

Who bids in the azure the planets roll.

His couch when balmy slumber flies,

In watches of the night,

Wilt, soother, come, and close his eyes,

And make his sorrows light?

I cannot come

From my sea-deep home,

Whene'er I list on the earth to roam:

Who rules in the form

Of the ocean-storm

His will must the rain-drop, too, perform.

Thy gentle prattle at the pane

Makes timorous Fancy smile:

Then let me hear that tender strain;

Blithe charmer, stay a while.

No: I cannot delay,

But must quickly away

Where the rills in the valley my coming stay;

I haste to the dell

Where the wild-flowers dwell,

Then "Peace to thee, minstrel," is the rain-drop's farewell.