The dying worm that, wounded, lay
Beneath the passer's tread,

Heal'd by his pitying touch, crept on
To find its leafy bed.

Where'er there were things beautiful
And lovely to the sight,
They gather'd round his footsteps,
As if their native right.
The very sunbeams seem'd to love
To play amongst his hair,

And bright-wing'd bird and soft gazelle
Follow'd him everywhere.

And strange wild tales were whispered
Of words that he had said,
Too wondrous in their wisdom
For even the hoary head;
Of flashing words of anger,

When wrong was said or done,
And words, whose passing sweetness
Raised up the drooping one.

And so he grew in stature,

That holy, harmless child,

Press'd forward in his Father's work,
All pure and undefiled;

He

grew in grace and wisdom,

Beloved of earth and heaven.

Glory, dominion, conquest, power,
Unto the Lamb be given!

Kingston.

E. P.

TAKE care of your money, and take care of your time. How much good we might do, if we did not waste money! What wise, good persons we might be, if we did not waste time !

LITTLE LUCY'S DREAM.

LUCY AMES was an indolent little girl. At home, if she had any sewing given her to do, she would be sure either to play with her kitten, and lose her needle; or else she would have a story-book beside her, which she would look into from time to time, instead of being diligent at her appointed work.

Lucy's mother often told her of this fault and its consequences, and tried to teach her little daughter lessons of industry and diligence, both by precept and example.

At school, Lucy seldom had perfect lessons when called to recite; her class-mates improved much faster than she did, and sometimes were promoted to higher classes, while Lucy remained far behind them. Her teacher felt grieved at this, and talked with Lucy about her fault, as kindly as her mother had done, but all in vain.

One fine summer morning, Mrs Ames said to her little daughter, "Lucy, your flower-bed needs weeding very much; the flowers are scarcely to be seen, while

the weeds are quite tall. You will have plenty of time to weed it neatly before school, and if you complete it this morning, you shall go with me after school to your uncle Stanley's to spend several hours."

"Oh mother! I shall be so glad to go," said Lucy; and she caught her sun-bonnet, and was soon very busily engaged pulling the weeds. She worked very well while she found only large weeds, but when those were taken away, she found there were many more little ones, which she did not at first see. She soon began to lose patience, and then to think, "What a wearisome task it is to weed flowers!" and instead of working quickly, to finish soon, she fell into her usual habit of yawning, and saying, "Oh dear, I'm tired!" When the bell rang for school, her task was not more than half done.

She went to school, thinking "how hard it is to be obliged to study every day," and instead of studying diligently, as a good child should do, she only turned over the leaves of her book, without looking at her lessons attentively, and, of course, could not recite them when her classes were called. Again her kind teacher spoke to her of her habits of indolence and inattention, and warned her of their bitter consequences-telling her she would never be useful or beloved while she indulged them.

Lucy went home, feeling unhappy and fretful. She thought her mother would let her go to her uncle's that night, if she promised to finish weeding her flowerbed in the morning. She sought her mother in her room, but no mother was there; into the parlour she went, no one was there; up stairs she ran, calling "Mother! mother!" but no one answered her call. She went to her own room, threw herself into her little chair, covered her face with her hands, and cried

my

heartily. "How unhappy I am," thought she, “ mother scolds me at home, my teacher scolds me at school, and no one loves me." A "still small voice" whispered "Because you try to please no one—you try to be useful to no one."

Lucy went down stairs, and on entering the parlour again, she found a little note addressed to herself, which, in her previous hurrying through the room, she had overlooked. She quickly opened the paper, and read

as follows:

"MY DEAR LUCY-I could not take you with me to-day, to visit your little cousins, because you did not try this morning to please me, by being diligent, and completing the easy task I gave you. You must remain at home alone, until we return. Unless you *strive to overcome your present habits of negligence and idleness, and form those of industry and diligence, you will never be happy yourself, nor be loved by others; but will always be a source of grief to all your friends, and especially to "YOUR MOTHER."

Lucy's tears flowed afresh; she could not stay in the house, so lonely it seemed, but sobbing aloud, she wandered into the garden, from thence to the orchard, where a little brook murmured along, and seated herself on the grass in the shade of a wide-spreading apple-tree. She recalled the events of the day, the promise of a pleasant visit, the easy task she might have committed perfectly, and now, this last disappointment—her mother had gone with her little brother and sister, and she was left alone.

The bees were humming busily around her, the butterflies were flitting past on their beautiful coloured wings, caterpillars were crawling noiselessly overhead, and the little brook seemed to be singing a gentle lullaby to them all.

Presently Lucy thought a bee buzzed in her ear, "Why are you idle, little girl?-fine day to workwe all work-no time to lose-be industrious, be diligent❞—and away buzzed the bee, to another flower. Soon, a golden butterfly seemed to fan her with his velvet wings, as he gently alighted on a flower near her. With the softest whisper, he said, "Why are you sad, little girl?-be industrious and useful, then you will be happy."

"You useful?" exclaimed Lucy; "pray what good do you do, pretty butterfly?"

"All that my Creator intended I should-I give pleasure to others. The little child is pleased with my glittering wings, as I flit about in the sunshine, and tries to catch me. Ah! what a merry chorus of happy voices have I heard to-day from little children, as they tried to imprison me in their chubby hands; but my bright wings bore me far above them. Then they would run another useless race, and laugh with delight. Older persons also, have watched my flight with pleasure. I flitted gently and gracefully into the room of an invalid, alighting now on this thing, then on that, and the pleasant thoughts I caused, gave a glow of happiness to the face of the maiden, which otherwise would have been shadowed with pain and sorrow. You are larger than I am, little girl, and should improve every moment in doing good.'

Off flew golden wing, and a caterpillar crawled carefully along a leaf, near Lucy's hand-stretching out its long body, and rearing its head, first this way, then that, as if seeking for something.

"You are of no use, at any rate," thought Lucy, but a sort of spinning sound met her ear, the caterpillar said

"God has made nothing in vain-I am now very