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dreadful to think what will then become of his soul. Ah', my dear boys'! I could not help thinking, when I read my leger, of what that man said to me years ago and I have told you his story, hoping that you will remember his words', 'Beware of the first drink.' The man who does that' will never be a drunkard. And boys, when old Uncle Philip is laid in the grave, which must be before many years', remember, as you look upon the place, that he told you the story of Tom Smith', and charged you to beware of the first drink.""

LESSON LXVI.

THINGS I DON'T LIKE.

I DON'T like to see boys cling to carriages that pass along. I'll tell you some anecdotes which will show you why.

Thomas and I were one day going along behind a cart, drawn by oxen, down a steep hill', and in a playful mood, we hung on behind. Presently Thomas swung round against one of the wheels, which some how or other caught his clothes and pulled him on it, carrying him over it in an instant. I screamed ou't to the teamster', who stopped his team just as Thomas had fallen down before the wheel', and it began to press against him. In one second more the cart wheel would have run exactly over the middle of his body' and would probably have killed him. But I can assure you of one thing. You have never seen Thomas nor me hang on the hind part of a cart, or wagon, or stage coach', from that day to this.

A boy one day seated himself on the hind part of a carriage which belonged to a countryman', and rode

on.

Some other boys joined him. The countryman bore it for some time', patiently`; but at last he grew tired of carrying them', and, partly to frighten them', struck his whip, with a large knot at the end of it, among them. The knot went exactly into the eye of one of them', and put it out. This was ten years ago. Four years ago he could not see the smallest thing with it. I have not seen him since', but I presume he is blind yet', and always will be.

I do not pretend to justify the wagoner, in striking with his whip, but he did it'; and other wagoners may possibly do the same. Therefore I warn my young readers, as they value an eye', or even both eyes', to keep away and avoid the danger. An eye is not so easily put in, as put out.

But it is not only dangerous to cling to carriages', in this way'; it is uncivil, and unkind. How it looks', to be jumping on the carriage of an entire stranger as he passes along! And what will he think of you'? Will he not think that either you were never taught good manners', or that you have very poor memories'?

It is unkind to conduct in this way, on half a dozen accounts. A gentleman of delicate feelings does not like to stop in a public street to reason with boys', or order them away'; nor does he like very well to be seen loaded down in this manner. What can he do'? What would you do in the same circumstances'? Perhaps he has a large load without you, or has traveled a long distance', and his horses are tired. In this case you are unkind and ungenerous', both to him and his horses'. It is a poor recreation to you, at best-not half so good as running is. And it is a dear bought one', when you purchase it at the expense of the poor horses', or one of your eyes.

I beg, once more, that you will remember our Saviour's golden rule, and always endeavor to do as

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you would wish to be done by', if you were in similar circumstances.

LESSON LXVII.

Sister.

A BROTHER AND SISTER.

WHY not go with me, Thomas'?

Brother. Because I can't'; that is reason enough. S. I am sure you coûld go, if you would. Pa said you might go`; you are well'; the walking is fine'; and now when you say you cannot go', I am inclined to think you mean that you will not. But there is one thing can be done. I can go alone', but I would rather not.

B. It won't hurt you to walk alone in the evening', ', any more than in the day time.

S. It may be so, but you know, Thomas', that I don't think so. You know that I always think it unsafe to walk so far alone', in the night. And whatever you may suppose, or whatever I ought to do, I cannot, at once, get rid of this feeling. But if you are determined not to go, there's an end of it. We will not spend time in talking about it. I only beg you to consider what you would wish to have me do', in the same circumstances. That is, suppose you were a female'; fourteen years of age', and Sarah Collins had sent for you, (as she has for me,) to come and watch with her. Would you like to go a mile and a half, through the woods alone', in the night'?

B. Perhaps not. But Mrs. Collins might have sent somebody to accompany you.

S. She has nobody'-poor woman'-to send. When Sarah is sick, she is without help, except her dog Jowler'; and he cannot go of errands.

B. But she sent for you, you say'.

S. Yes, but she sent by Mr. Cartwright', who happened to be coming this way.

B. I wish to get my lesson to-night. It will take me two hours to study it thoroughly. It is true, it might be done in the morning, before school', but I had rather attend to it to-night, and then I shall not have it to think of.

S. I have told you, already, that we will not spend time in talking about it'; for it is of no use. I see that you are determined not to oblige me. It is always So. Neither father nor I have yet been able to reason you out of it. You are always ready with some excuse for staying at home', when I wish you to go any where with me. Your excuse, now, is as good an one as you ever have`; and yet you say yourself that you could get your lesson to-morrow morning. Ah! Thomas I am afraid you are too selfish. I am afraid that you think very little of making other people happy. Well, Thomas' go on in this course a few years', and you will be a man'`;-but what sort of a man, do you think' ?—A selfish boy always, or almost always', makes a selfish, unsocial',-often a miserly` But good-night', for I must go.

man.

B. Stop, a moment', till I can find my hat. I must go with you,' I suppose.

S. Go cheerfully', if you go at all. Go', because you think you ought to go, not because you suppose you must'.

B. No', no'; I go because I am convinced, on the whole', that I should like to have you do the same by mē, if I were in the same circumstances. I go, too, because I pity poor Mrs. Collins. Who knows but she may want medicine for Sarah', and in that case', perhaps I could run over to Mr. Smith's, the druggist, and get it for her.

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LESSON XLVIII.

WHISPERING AND SHUFFLING IN SCHOOL.

SCHOLARS are not apt to think enough of the evils of whispering in school, and how much they may aid the teacher by avoiding this bad habit. They probably think, if they think at all', that one little whisper cannot do much harm. But let us talk the matter over a little while, and perhaps they will see their mistake.

One whisper, you think then, is not likely to do much harm in school. But do you not know, perfectly well, that if you' whisper, others will be apt to follow your example'? And have not they as good a right as you? Why not?

Suppose every one should think that one whisper in a long hour could do no harm', and should act accordingly. This, in a school of sixty boys and girls', would be sixty whispers an hour, or 360 a day', reckoning a day in school at only six hours. Is not this an evil' ? If you were put in the teacher's place for only one hour', I believe that you would think so. Perhaps you think that he does not hear you. You are mistaken; he can hear you almost as well as the teacher of a choir of singers can; and you know how quick he can discover it, if there is whispering in the room. It is true that neither the music master, nor the school master', can âlways tell who makes the noise', but he knows that somebody' does, and it is very painful to him', and greatly hinders him'; besides, he has the trouble of keeping the evil in check by reasoning, threats, or punishment.

Shuffling the feet is another evil in school which boys and girls'-especially boys'-are apt to think is