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mitted as a playfellow of his, and called him from the throng.

“ Jack," --said he—“ how do you like school ?" “O-pretty well, my lord.” What-have you a good deal of play ??

“O no! We have only from twelve till two for playing and eating our dinners; and then an hour before supper.”

“ That is very little, indeed!”

“ But we play heartily when we do play, and work when we work. Good by, my lord! It is my turn to go in at trap.”

So saying, Jack ran off.

" I wish I were a school-boy!"-cried the little lord to himself.

PASSING AWAY.

I asked the stars in the pomp of night,
Gilding its blackness with crowns of light,
Bright with beauty, and girt with power,
Whether eternity were not their dower ;
And dirge-like music stole from their spheres,
Bearing this message to mortal ears :-

“ We have no light that hath not been given,
We have no strength but shall soon be riven,
We have no power wherein man may trust,
Like him, we are things of time and dust ;

And the legend we blazon with beam and ray,
And the song of our silence, is—Passing away.

“ We shall fade in our beauty, the fair and bright, Like lamps that have served for a festal night ; We shall fall from our spheres, the old and strong, Like rose-leaves swept by the breeze along; 'Tho' worshipped as gods in the olden day, We shall be like a vain dream-Passing away."

From the stars of heaven, and the flowers of earth,
From the pageant of power, and the voice of mirth,
From the mists of morn on the mountain's brow,
From childhood's song, and affection's vow,
From all, save that o'er which soul bears sway,
Breathes only one record-Passing away.

Passing away, sing the breeze and rill,
As they sweep on their course by vale and hill ;—
Through the varying scenes of each earthly clime,
'Tis the lesson of nature the voice of time-
And man at last, like his fathers grey,
Writes in his own dust-Passing away.

SECTION V.

THE CROW AND THE PITCHER.

ONE sultry day in August, when the ponds and streams were all dried up, and there was scarcely any water to be found, a crow, quite distressed with thirst, flew to a well in the hopes of getting some water.

There was plenty of water in the well, but he could not get at it. He looked about, and saw a pitcher, which had been left by somebody, standing close by.

In the pitcher there was some water, and the thirsty crow tried to reach it with his bill. But the pitcher was deep, and the water so low in it, that he could not manage to get a drop.

Poor crow! the sun was shining very bright, the ground was quite parched with the heat, and he was dying with thirst.

A little boy would soon have contrived to reach the water; for he would have been able to tilt the pitcher, and lift it to his mouth by means of his hands.

But the crow had no hands, and what was he to

do ? He thought he would endeavour to upset the pitcher, and then sip up some of the water as it ran out.

This was not a bad scheme for a crow, although it would have been wasteful for a boy.

So the crow began with all his strength to try to upset the pitcher. He flew quickly against it, first on one side, and then on the other; but the pitcher did not move. Next, he hopped heavily on one side of the brim; and then he tried to push it over, by leaning against the lower part of it. All his efforts were of no use. The pitcher stood firm.

Poor crow! what now could he do? his strength was not sufficient to overturn the pitcher, and therefore in that way he could not reach the water.

Tired with his endeavours to upset the pitcher, he stood mournfully on the ground, his head drooping on his breast, and his wings hanging listlessly at his side. His thirst was greater than ever. Should he give up trying to get the water ?

He stood musing what he should do. At length he thought that if he could not reach down to the water, he might make the water come up to him. What was there to prevent his raising the water in the pitcher by dropping stones in till he had nearly filled the pitcher ?

Clever crow ! your thirst will now be satisfied; for you have hit upon the right way.

No sooner had he thought of this, than he began to work. He laboured hard. He picked up, now

a pebble, now a stone, as large as his beak would carry; and dropped them in, one by one, into the pitcher. He was overjoyed to see that the water gradually rose in the pitcher, as the stones fell in. On he worked, therefore, until he had made the water rise so high that lie could drink by putting his beak into the pitcher.

Happy crow! what a sweet draught he had I the water was well worth the labour by which he had earned it.

THÉ SQUIRREL.

The pretty, red Squirrel lives up in a tree,
A little blithe creature as ever can be ;
He dwells on the boughs where the Stock-dove

- broods,
Far in the shades of the green summer woods ;
His food is the young juicy cones of the Pine,
And the milky beech-nut is his bread and his wine.
In the joy of his nature he frisks with a bound
To the topmost twigs, and then down to the ground,
Then, he leaps up again, like a winged thing.
And from tree to tree with a vaulting spring ;
Then he sits up aloft and looks waggish and queer,
As if he would say, “ Ay, follow me here !"
And then he grows pettish, and stamps his foot; .
And then independently cracks his nut;
And thus he lives the long summer thorough
Without a care nr a thought of sorrow.

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