In process of time, when the boy had grown up to manhood, his father gave him the precious stone, as an emblem of the heart that is freed from the base passions, and purified by virtue.

KRUMMACHER.

THE CANARY-BIRD.

A LITTLE girl, named Caroline, had a sweet little canary-bird. It sang from morning until night, and was a beautiful creature, yellow as gold, with a black head. Caroline gave him seeds to eat and cooling groundsel, and now and then a lump of sugar, and she supplied him with fresh water every day.

But all at once the bird began to be dull, and one morning when Caroline came to change his water, the poor bird lay dead at the bottom of the cage.

The child immediately burst forth into loud lamentations over her little favourite, and wept exceedingly but her mother went and bought another bird, which sang as delightfully as the first, but surpassed it in beauty of colour, and put it into the cage.

The girl, however, wept still more bitterly when she saw the new bird. Her mother was much surprised at this, and said: My dear child, why dost thou still grieve and weep thus? Thy tears cannot recall the dead bird to life, and here thou hast another, in no respect worse than that which thou hast lost.

Ah, dear mother, answered the girl, I used the poor bird ill, and was not so kind to him as I ought to have been.

My dear Caroline, replied her mother, hast thou not always waited on him assiduously?

Ah, no! interrupted the child; but just before he died I did not carry him a lump of sugar that thou gavest me for him, but ate it myself. Thus spake the girl, and she gave full vent to her tears. But her mother did not smile at the grief of the child; for she recognised and respected the sacred voice of nature in the heart of her daughter.

Ah! said she, what must be the feelings of an ungrateful child at the grave of his parents! KRUMMACHER.

THE HYACINTH.

EMILY was grieved because the winter lasted so long; for she was fond of flowers, and had a little garden, in which she raised some of the most beautiful with her own hands. Therefore did she anxiously desire that the winter might pass away, and long for the return of spring.

See, Emily, said her father, I have brought thee a flower-root, but thou must cultivate it thyself with care.

How can I, father, replied the maiden. Every thing is buried in snow, and the earth is as hard as a stone!-Thus spake she, for she knew not that flowers may be reared in vases. But her father gave her a vase with mould, and Emily put the bulbs into it. She looked, nevertheless, at her father, and smiled, doubtful whether he was in earnest in what he had said: for she imagined that flowers could not thrive unless they had the azure sky above their heads, and the genial breezes of spring about them.

In a few days the mould in the pot was raised,

and green leaves pushed it up on their points and exposed themselves to view. Emily was overjoyed, and she acquainted her father, her mother, and the whole household, with the birth of the young plant.

How little is required, said her mother, to rejoice the heart, while it remains true to nature and innocence!

Emily then besprinkled the plant with water, and smiled complacently upon it.

Her father observed her, and said: That is right, my child. Rain and dew must be succeeded by sun-shine. The beam of the benevolent eye giveth value to the bounty which the hand dispenses. Thy plant will be sure to thrive, Emily.

The leaves soon shot forth entirely above the surface of the earth, and were of a lovely green. Emily's joy was greater than ever. O, said she, with an overflowing heart, I should be content, though it were not to produce any flower!

More will be given to thee, said her father, than thou darest hope for. This is the reward of moderation, and of a heart that is content with little. He showed her the germ of the flower, which lay hidden between the leaves.

Emily's care and attention increased every day as the blossom gradually unfolded itself. With delicate hand she sprinkled it with water, and when a gleam of sun-shine burst forth she carried the plant to the window, and her breath, light as the morning breeze that plays about the rose, blew away the dust which had settled upon its leaves.

O the sweet union of the tenderest love and innocence! said the mother.

Emily's thoughts were occupied with her flower till she fell asleep at night, and as soon as she awoke in the morning. Öften, too, did her dreams

present to her view her hyacinth in full blossom; and when in the morning she found that it was not yet open, she was under no concern on that account, and said, smiling: I must have patience a little longer. Sometimes she would ask her father in what hue the flower would be arrayed; and when she had gone through all the colours, she would cheerfully say: 'Tis all one to me, so it do but blossom!

At length the blossom appeared. Early one morning twelve little bells were found expanded. They hung down in the full bloom of youthful beauty, between five broad leaves of emerald green. Their colour was a pale red, like the rays of the morning dawn, or the delicate flush on Emily's cheek. The flower diffused around a fragrant odour. It was a serene morning in the month of March.

Emily's joy was calm and silent, as she knelt before the flower and gazed upon it. Her father approached, and he looked at his beloved child and at the hyacinth, and said: Behold, Emily, what the hyacinth is to thee, thou art to us!

The maiden sprang up and threw herself into the arms of her father, and after a long embrace, she said, in a low voice: O father! would to heaven that I could rejoice your hearts as you have rejoiced mine!

KRUMMACHER.

INTERVIEW BETWEEN LEICESTER AND THE COUNTESS AT KENILWORTH.

THE Countess Amy, with her hair and her garments dishevelled, was seated upon a sort of couch in an attitude of the deepest affliction, out of which

she was startled by the opening of the door. She turned hastily round, and fixing her eye on Varney, exclaimed, "Wretch! art thou come to frame some new plan of villany?"

Leicester cut short her reproaches by stepping forward, and dropping his cloak, while he said in a voice rather of authority than of affection, "It is with me, madam, you have to commune, not with Sir Richard Varney."

The change effected on the Countess's look and manner was like magic. "Dudley!" she exclaimed, “Dudley! and art thou come at last?" And with the speed of lightning she flew to her husband, clung around his neck, and, unheeding the presence of Varney, overwhelmed him with caresses, while she bathed his face in a flood of tears; muttering, at the same time, but in broken and disjointed monosyllables, the fondest expressions which love teaches his votaries.

Leicester, as it seemed to him, had reason to be angry with his lady for transgressing his commands, and thus placing him in the perilous situation in which he had that morning stood. But what displeasure could keep its ground before these testimonies of affection from a being so lovely, that even the negligence of dress, and the withering effects of fear and grief, which would have impaired the beauty of others, rendered hers but the more interesting. He received and repaid her caresses with fondness, mingled with melancholy, the last of which she seemed scarcely to observe, until the first transport of her own joy was over : when, looking anxiously in his face, she asked if he was ill. "Not in my body, Amy," was his answer.

"Then I will be well too.-O Dudley! I have been ill-very ill, since we last met!-for I call