equally narrow-a step to the right hand or to the left would equally lead you into dangers. Pick your road, my boys, through youth, manhood, and old age, but especially in youth; and never will you regret the trouble it will cost you.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree,

The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long;

His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat-
He earns whate'er he can;

And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach
He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice
Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begun,
Each evening sees its close:
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!

Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought

TRAINING A HORSE.

IF you want to have a good and quiet horse, you must begin to handle him, with gentleness and care, from the earliest age. The power of biting and kicking is given to horses by nature, that they may defend themselves from their enemies. Do not let them, therefore, regard man as their enemy, and they will show no desire to employ these weapons against him.

But though a horse should be handled from an early age, it should not be constantly in harness, or suffered to do any heavy work, before its fourth year; and even then it should have a summer's run at grass. Its muscular strength ought to be well established before it is put to hard labour; for if it is worked too soon, it becomes worn out before its time.

The work of a young horse should be limited, at first, to carrying a light load on its back, or drawing a lightlyloaded cart; and the best way of training a horse to bear the resistance of a weight, is to yoke it alongside of a trained one, and to teach it to pull by degrees, by slackening the traces, when it feels the pull at the collar unpleasant, until it becomes accustomed to it. After a little practice in this

way, it will very soon bear the shafts of the cart, and not care for the rattling of the wheels, and learn to draw in single harness.

Patience and gentleness, as well as firmness, are necessary on the part of any one who undertakes to break in or train a horse. A passionate man, who forces the collar over its head, or a snaffle or bit into its mouth, hurting its teeth and jaws; or who beats it on the head, or kicks it on the ribs, when it is afraid to move forwards; or who

K

flogs the tender and timid animal, if it trips, or makes a false step, when its inexperienced limbs cannot move with ease and security on a rough road,-is not fit to be a horsebreaker.

The docility of the horse, under judicious management, is wonderful: no animal, except the dog, is so capable of being rendered the companion of man. No other creature can be so brought by patience and gentleness to face what it fears extremely. For instance, the cavalry and artillery horses, which are used in war, stand fire without flinching, and hear all the thunders of the cannon without any apparent terror. And, I daresay, you have seen or heard of the astonishing feats done by the horses which are exhibited in the circus, and which have been trained for that purpose.

Any horse, gently handled in its early years, patted playfully at proper times, fed from the hand with a bit of carrot, or with oats, may be taught to follow its master or remain steadily by his side, though at liberty all the while to escape from him; may, in short, be taught, like the dog, to obey his voice and gesture.

But too frequently everything is done to crush the spirit of the sensitive animal. If it shows any nervous alarm at any new object, it is flogged or spurred; and then, of course, when it next sees the same object, it feels double terror, because it not only fears the object itself, but also dreads again the spur or the whip, with which its idea of that object has become associated. Surely such treatment is enough to spoil the temper of any horse.

THE STORY OF DICK WHITTINGTON AND HIS CAT.

In the reign of the famous King Edward the Third, there lived in a village at a great distance from London a little boy called Dick Whittington. His father and mother had died while he was very young, and he was left a poor ragged orphan, running about from village to village. Dick, however, was a sharp fellow, and very fond of asking questions, or listening when persons were talking together. Once a week you might be sure to see Dick leaning against the sign-post of the village-inn, where people stopped as they returned from market: and whenever the barber's shop was open, Dick listened to all the news he told his customers. In this manner Dick heard of the great city of London; and from what he heard, he thought that all who lived there must be great and rich people; and that the very streets were really paved with gold.

One day, a waggon, with eight horses, and bells at their heads, drove through the village while Dick was leaning against the sign-post. The thought immediately struck him that it must be going to London; so he took courage, and asked the waggoner to let him walk with him by the side of the waggon. The man, finding that the poor boy had no parents, and seeing by his ragged clothes that he could not be worse off than he was, told him he might go with him if he pleased: so they set off together.

How Dick got on, on his long journey, history does not tell us; but he got safe to London; and so eager was he to see the fine streets and the gold, that, thanking his friend the waggoner, he ran off, as fast as his legs could carry him, through several streets, expecting every moment to