two dollars out of it, for that, as he confessed to me, is all that his wood is worth, - and return the remainder to the poor Frenchman. For the breakfast I want nothing."

The judge was much moved at these words of the good innkeeper. He counted out the two dollars to the peasant, and dismissed him with a severe rebuke. The rest was returned to the emigrant, who, on hearing the story, with difficulty prevailed upon the innkeeper to accept a small sum for the peasant's breakfast.

XIV. -THE SUNBEAM.

MRS. HEMANS.

THOU art no lingerer in monarch's hall:
A joy thou art and a wealth to all;
A bearer of hope unto land and sea ;
Sunbeam, what gift hath the world like thee?

Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles;
Thou hast touched with glory his thousand isles;
Thou hast lit up the ships, and the feathery foam,
And gladdened the sailor like words from home.

To the solemn depths of the forest shades

Thou art streaming on through their green arcades,
And the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow
Like fireflies glance to the pools below.

I looked on the mountains: a vapor lay
Folding their heights in its dark array ;
Thou brakest forth, and the mist became
A crown and a mantle of living flame.

I looked on the peasant's lowly cot:
Something of sadness had wrapped the spot;

But a gleam of thee on its casement fell,
And it laughed into beauty at that bright spell.

Sunbeam of summer, O, what is like thee,
Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea?
One thing is like thee, to mortals given-
The faith touching all things with hues of heaven.

XV.-FLOWERS.

O, THEY look upward in every place
Through this beautiful world of ours,

And dear as a smile on an old friend's face
Is the smile of the bright, bright flowers!
They tell us of wanderings by woods and streams;
They tell us of lanes and trees;

But the children of showers and sunny beams

Have lovelier tales than these

The bright, bright flowers!

They tell of a season when men were not,
When earth was by angels trod,
And leaves and flowers in every spot

Burst forth at the call of God;

When spirits, singing their hymns at even,

Wandered by wood and glade;

And the Lord looked down from the highest heaven

And blessed what he had made

The bright, bright flowers.

That blessing remaineth upon them still,
Though often the storm cloud lowers,
And frequent tempests may soil and chill
The gayest of earth's fair flowers.

When Sin and Death, with their sister Grief,
Made a home in the hearts of men,
The blessing of God on each tender leaf
Preserved in their beauty, then,

The bright, bright flowers.

The lily is lovely as when it slept

On the waters of Eden's lake;

The woodbine breathes sweetly as when it crept,

In Eden, from brake to brake.

They were left as a proof of the loveliness
Of Adam and Eve's first home;

They are here as a type of the joys that bless
The just in the world to come

The bright, bright flowers.

XVI. THE SPRING TIME.

O, TAKE me from this close dark room, from this uneasy bed;
The clothes, so gray and shroud-like, lie on my breast like lead;
The ancient ebon wardrobe, and the pictures on the wall,
And the ticking of the watch, mother, I'm weary of them all.

O, take me where the glad free air may visit me again,

And the rich evening sun ray soothe the sullen throb of pain; Where I may see the grass, and hear the robins on the bough, And feel the breath of the early spring upon my cheek and

brow.

Then bear me from this dreary room, where every thing I see
Recalls some hour of anguish, or some dream of agony,
When you have bent above me, mother, and listened to my moan,
And felt the pangs of your dying child more keenly than your

own.

I planted it and watered it- how clean it was, and neat!
The flowers are all neglected now

fast:

the weeds have grown so

I little thought that happy, happy summer was my last.

How delicate the air is!
The glad spring flowers

round about:

All the flowers are coming out --
to fling their stores of sweetness

The bee is on the wing, the merry swallow sweeps the sky, The gnat hums in the sunbeam, mother- all things are glad but I.

Last spring I was so happy! the linnet on the bough,
The wild bee, was not half so gay; and I am dying now.

I crowned me with the May blooms then, I revelled in the flowers,

And only by the joys they knew, counted the passing hours.

Bring me my young geranium, mother, for I want to see
My little favorite― how it grows - if any flowers there be;
Look! there's a bud - but O, I shall not live to bless its bloom;
"Twill be so strong and beautiful when I am in the tomb!

I always dearly loved the flowers-let heaps of them be. spread

Upon me in my coffin cold the living with the dead;
And do, dear mother, see that on my little grave is set

My own sweet lilac bush and plant of purple violet.

And sometimes, in such days as this, so glad, and bright, and mild,

Dear mother, will you come and sit by the grave bed of your

child?

And will you bring this sweet geranium? though you may

never see,

I will look down from heaven, and listen while you talk to me.

My walnut tree, too, watch it well when I am gone away :
With my own hands I planted it, to mark my third birthday;
They told me I should sit beneath its broad green shade,
And count the branches on its trunk, that many years had made.

I wish it was the autumn; 'twould be less sad to die

When the rich green leaves and the glorious flowers fade as well as I;

But in this merry month of May, when all things are awake, Pray for me, mother, to endure, O pray, for pity's sake.

XVII. - ANECDOTES OF DOGS.

THE dog stands to man in the relation both of a valuable servant and an engaging companion. In many employments, especially those of shepherds and herdsmen, he performs services of great importance, such as could not be supplied without him. In those sports of the field, such as hunting and shooting, which many persons pursue with such eagerness, the assistance of the dog is essential to success. By his keenness of scent he discovers the game, and by his swiftness of foot he runs it down. There is no period of time recorded by history in which we do not find the dog the friend and the servant of man; nor is there any literature which does not contain some tribute to his faithfulness and sagacity.

The savage, roaming over the pathless wilderness, and dependent upon the animals in the forest and the fish in the streams for his daily food, and the civilized man, dwelling in a comfortable house in a town or village, agree in the attachment they feel for their four-footed friends. Many men of great eminence in literature and science have been remarkable for their fondness for dogs; and more than one poet has sung the praises of particular specimens of the race. Sir Walter Scott was strongly attached to them, and had one or more of them