in every one's life there are occasions in which presence of mind is important, and I hope you will always be able to meet them.

XLVI.-A MONUMENT TO A MOTHER'S GRAVE.

J. R. CHANDler.

I FOLLOWED into a burying ground, in the suburbs of the city, a small train of persons, not more than a dozen, who had come to bury one of their acquaintance. The clergyman in attendance was leading a little boy by the hand, who seemed to be the only relative of the deceased.

I gathered with them round the grave; and when the plain coffin was lowered down, the child burst forth in uncontrollable grief. The little boy had no one left to whom he could look for affection, or who could address him in tones of parental kindness. The last of his kinsfolk was in the grave, and he was alone.

When the clamorous grief of the child had a little subsided, the clergyman addressed us with the customary exhortation to accept the monition, and be prepared; and turning to the child, he, added,

"She is not to remain in this grave forever. As true as the grass, which is now chilled with the frost of the season, shall spring to greenness and life in a few months, so true shall your mother rise from that grave to another life a life of happiness, I hope."

The attendants then shovelled in the earth upon the coffin, and some one took little William, the child, by the hand, and led him forth from the lowly tenement of his mother.

Late in the ensuing spring, I was in the neighborhood of the same burying ground, and, seeing the gate open, I walked among the graves, for some time, reading the names of the dead; when, recollecting that I was near the grave of the poor widow, buried the previous autumn, I turned to see what had been done to preserve the memory of one so utterly destitute of earthly friends.

To my surprise, I found the most desirable of all memorials for a mother's sepulchre; little William was sitting near the head of the now sunken grave, looking intently upon some green shoots that had come forth, with the warmth of spring, from the soil that covered his mother's coffin.

William started at my approach, and would have left the place. It was long before I could induce him to remain ; and, indeed, I did not win his confidence until I told him I was present when they buried his mother, and had marked his tears at the time. "Then you heard the minister say that my mother would come up out of this grave," said William.

"I did."

"It is true is it not?" asked he, in a tone of confidence. "I most firmly believe it," said I.

"Believe it!" said the child; "believe it! I thought you

knew it. I know it."

"How do you know it, my dear?”

"The minister said that, as true as the grass would grow up, and the flowers bloom in spring, so true would my mother rise. I came a few days afterwards, and planted flower seeds on the grave. The grass came green in this burying ground' long ago; and I watched every day for the flowers, and to-day they have come up too. See them breaking through the ground. By and by mother will come again."

A smile of exulting hope played on the features of the boy; and I felt pained at disturbing the faith and confidence with which he was animated. 66 But, my little child," said I, "it is

not here that your mother will rise."

"Yes, here," said he, with emphasis: "here they placed her, and here I have come ever since the first blade of grass was green this year."

I looked round, and saw that the tiny feet of the child had trod out the herbage at the grave side, so constant had been his attendance. What a faithful watch-keeper! What mother would desire a richer monument than the form of her only son bending, tearful, but hoping, over her grave?

66 But, William," said I, "it is in another world that she will

arise;" and I attempted to explain to him the nature of that promise which he had mistaken. The child was confused, and

he appeared neither pleased nor satisfied. "If mother is not coming back to me, up here,

if she is not to come

- what shall I do? I cannot stay without her." "You shall go to her," said I, adopting the language of the Scripture; "you shall go to her, but she shall not come again to you."

"Let me go, then," said William; "let me go, that I may rise with mother."

"William," said I, pointing down to the plants just breaking through the ground, "the seed which was sown there would not have come up if it had not been ripe; so you must wait till your appointed time, until your end cometh."

"Then shall I see her?"

"I surely hope so."

"I will wait then," said the child; "but I thought I should see her soon; I thought I should meet her here."

In a month, William ceased to wait. He died, and they opened his mother's grave, and placed his little coffin on hers. It was the only wish the child expressed in dying. Better teachers than I had instructed him in the way to meet his mother; and young as the little sufferer was, he had learned that all the labors and hopes of happiness, short of heaven, are profitless and vain.

NEVER give up! It is wiser and better
Always to hope, than once to despair;
Fling off the load of doubt's cankering fetter,
And break the dark spell of tyrannical care.

Never give up! or the burden may sink you;
Providence kindly has mingled the cup;
And in all trials or troubles, bethink you,

The watchword of life must be, "Never give up."

Never give up! There are chances and changes
Helping the hopeful a hundred to one;
And, through the chaos, high Wisdom arranges
Ever success, if you'll only hope on.
Never give up! for the wisest is boldest,

Knowing that Providence mingles the cup;
And of all maxims, the best, as the oldest,

Is the true watchword of, "Never give up!"

Never give up! Though the grape shot may rattle,
Or the full thunder cloud over you burst,

Stand like a rock, and the storm or the battle
Little shall harm you, though doing their worst.
Never give up! If adversity presses,

Providence wisely has mingled the cup;

And the best counsel, in all your distresses,
Is the stout watchword of, "Never give up!"

XLVIII.-THE DEATH OF WYCKLIFFE.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

[This lesson is taken from a poem called Rokeby, the scene of which is laid in England, in the year 1644, when the country was torn by a civil war between the king and the Parliament. Oswald Wyckliffe is represented as a designing villain, and Bertram Risingham as a lawless ruffian. They had been partners in guilt; but Oswald had of fended Bertram, who had vowed vengeance in consequence. Oswald was on the side of the Parliament, which was successful. Some prisoners had been intrusted to him, whom he has prepared to put to death on account of a false charge of treachery and breach of their word. For that purpose a scaffold had been reared in a dismantled church, and the prisoners brought there.]

THE Outmost crowd have heard a sound
Like horse's hoof on hardened ground;

Nearer it came, and yet more near ;
The very deathsmen* paused to hear.
"Tis in the churchyard now the tread
Hath waked the dwelling of the dead!
Fresh sod and old sepulchral stone
Return the tramp in varied tone.

All eyes upon the gateway hung,
When through the Gothic arch there sprung
A horseman armed, at headlong speed;
Sable his cloak, his plume, his steed.
Fire from the flinty hoof was spurned,
The vaults unwonted clang returned.
One instant's glance around he threw,
From saddle-bow his pistol drew.
Grimly determined was his look ;
His charger with the spur he strook,
All scattered backward as he came,
For all knew Bertram Risingham.
Three bounds that noble courser gave:
The first has reached the central nave,†
The second cleared the chancel ‡ wide,
The third he was at Wyckliffe's side.
Full levelled at the baron's head

Rang the report the bullet sped

And to his long account, and last,
Without a groan, dark Oswald passed.
All was so quick that it might seem
A flash of lightning, or a dream.

While yet the smoke the deed conceals,
Bertram his ready charger wheels;
But floundered on the pavement floor
The steed, and down the rider bore,

*Deathsmen, executioners.

+ Nave, the central aisle or body of the church.

Chancel, the space in front of the altar, at the head of the central aisle.