him if I hadn't got up a talk with Master George about the make of the new boots, and whether they had better have buttons or lace-up in front.

All the lamps were alight when we came back, and Willie pretended that he was going to throw a stone at one of them as we passed, 'Just for the fun of the thing, to see how it would look.'

'Put the stone out of your hand, Master Willie,' said I, giving him a shake, ' or I'll tell your mamma of you, that I will!'

The boy only held the stone tighter, and made believe he was going to throw it at the very next lamp.

'You shall walk along with me all the way home, you tiresome child,' said I, half crying; but before I could get hold of his arm, Willie ran round to the other side of Master George, and then, seeing I was after him, fairly darted across the street, under the very wheels of the cabs and carts.

I was always afraid of crossings, and now when I remembered how Kate had been knocked down and hurt, my heart seemed to stop beating with fear lest Master Willie should come to harm. I bade Master George to hold Bertie, and both of them to stand under a lamp and not move while I went across. Getting behind one cab, stooping under a horse's head, and running right in front of one of Pickford's heavy vans, I got over at last, and stood quite breathless on the pavement.

This way and that I looked, up and down, but I could not see Willie, and I trembled so with the crossing and the fright, that I could hardly stand. There were two or three children standing at a corner near, and I went towards them to ask them if they could tell me whether 2 little boy had run past that way. Oh, how glad I was as I got nearer to see Master Willie's plaid tunic and knickerbockers! The child was standing with his back towards me and his hands in his pockets, listening to a girl who was singing in a shrill loud voice. I could see the girl's face, and though her eyes were open I felt sure that she was blind; a very little child had

hold of her dress as if to lead her, and she had the sad, wistful, wanting look that one often sees on blind faces.

Willie didn't run away when I came up, so I took his hand in mine. "Tis time we were going,' said I, 'Bertie is getting so tired.' Master Willie was very fond of his little brother, but he didn't seem to notice what I said; he was looking so at the blind girl, who held as I saw now I was near-a basket of flowers in her hand.

'She says she is hungry for some bread, Mary,' he whispered to me; 'I wish I had some bread to give her; don't you think she sings very nicely?'

'I haven't so much as a crumb of bread,' I answered, and then a thought came into my mind. 'I have a penny,' I said, 'and you shall buy one of the bunches of flowers and take home to your mamma. The poor girl will buy some bread with the penny.'

I had been keeping the penny to buy an orange with for Kate, for she suffered so with cough in the night and with heat, and nothing eased her, she told me, like an orange; but I knew how gladly she would give it to this poor, half-starved girl.

Willie was busy looking at all the bunches which were left in the basket. 'Which would you have, Mary ?' he asked, as I came up.

'You haven't any snowdrops now, I suppose?' said I to the blind girl.

I didn't know much about flowers, but I remembered the bunch that the lady gave me in the hospital, and thought I should like to see the pure white bells again. But the girl only laughed.

'Snowdrops is over two months and more ago, miss,' she said; "tis mostly wall-flowers now, and jonquils and tulips. I like the wallflowers best, they smell so sweet.'

Willie and I got safely across with the flowers, to where Master George and Bertie stood under the lamp. We had been away a long time, they said, and they were very tired.

Willie was as good as gold now, and walked on hand in hand with George, while I carried

little sleepy Bertie, only every two or three minutes the boy would turn round, that he might press his bunch of flowers into his little brother's face and ask if it did not smell sweet.

'Mary,' said Willie, as I put the boys to bed that night, 'may I put something into my prayers about the poor blind girl?'

'Of course you may, Master Willie dear,' said I.

'What shall I say, Mary?'

'Pray God bless the poor blind girl and give her some bread,' I whispered, and Willie said it after me.

'I shall say that every night, Mary,' he announced; and so it was that the child began to say his prayers.

(To be continued.)

Pictures in Print.

NUREMBERG.

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song,

Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng!

'Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of art;

Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart;

'Here when art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart,

Lived and laboured Albrecht Dürer, the evangelist of art;

'Hence, in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand,

Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the better land.'

LONGFELLOW.

HAT an example is Nuremberg of the poetry that may be interwoven with every-day common life. As one wanders about the streets, one sees at every turn a poem or a picture. Here, in the midst of one of the quaint,

steep streets, is a fountain; a woman is filling a copper vessel with water, and a tiny child (with a leathern pinafore !) has brought its tiny can to fill too no sooner is it filled than it pours the contents on the stones, then hands it up again with solemn perseverance that the process may be repeated. The sun is gleaming on the fountain, on the child's little head, on the tiny stream of sparkling drops that pour from the miniature can; another woman comes out with another baby in wonderful attire, and we pass on and leave them.

Certainly they understand making the most of things on the Continent better than we do in England. Look at those windows, overarched with ivy; the houses are poor enough, but they look so inviting with their green wreaths. After all, it is only a pot of ivy on either side of the sill, trained up round the window-frame. Here is another balcony, bright with flowers, and clean white curtains behind it.

Up and down the streets we pass, catching glimpses ever and anon, now bright, now dark. Here is a woman at her wash-tub, the dark archway behind her frames the figure into a picture; in the foreground some geese are picking up what they can. The light falls on them, and the group is complete.

Here is another dim, inviting archway. We catch a glimpse of a wondrous carved balcony beyond. We will ask permission to enter and explore. It is a tobacco-manufactory. Great rough, wooden casks are strewn about, men are at work, of whom one bids us kindly welcome. Over the archway as we enter are written the words from 2 Chron. vi. 20: Lass deine Augen wachen über dies Haus Tag und Nacht,' ('Let Thine eyes be upon this house, day and night.') The balcony justifies our curiosity; some of its rich

stone and wood carving is Gothic, some Renaissance. Somebody's arms are carved into the winding tracery. Perhaps it once adorned the house of a Nuremberg 'Patrizier,' or some wealthy merchant citizen; now it graces the abode of homely people, whom we see passing in and out. There are blankets and mattresses here and there hanging out to air, and they look none the worse for being supported by all that rich magnificence. What can be more picturesque than such mingling of beauty and homeliness? On the wall, above one of the balconies, hang a number of large wreaths, tied with streamers of many colours. What story do they tell we wonder?

Here is a quaint garden, too, railed in as though it were something most precious, and so no doubt it is, being full of flowers, rich purple twining convolvuluses, gay asters, and many others. Such things are worth gold in a busy, toiling town like Nuremberg.

But we will go back into the street now, though a meek-looking cat, evidently an old inhabitant of the place, seems to be coming forth to invite us to remain. The inscription on this side of the archway is, 'Lass der Herr uns segnen und unsern Kindern auch!' ('May God bless us and our children also.') And the words make sweet music in our hearts as we go back to the world without.

Up and down the streets we pass again. Here are smart modern shops, there is an open market, or a congregation of old Jew stalls. Here, again, is one of the toy shops for which Nuremberg is famous. Toiling up another street, we stop opposite Albert Dürer's house. There the great painter lived and worked, and his wife scolded, and he painted all the harder for that. Out of those curious old windows he must have looked in

the intervals of his toil. Truly his path was not always strewn with roses, but now there is a carpet of flowers in front of the ancient door-sill, first a grounding of greenery, then bright, blooming dahlias and green leaves laid gently upon it. The effect is pretty. We wonder if it is always there, or if it is in honour of some special day? There is a boy in a grey suit leaning against the doorway; perhaps he will tell us, but when he sees us advancing towards him, he retreats in alarm.

Never mind, we will go and look at that old gateway further on, that used to guard the city walls, and then we will go down and see the church of St. Sebald, with its wondrous shrine. One of the things that pleases one most in this monument is the little statue of Peter Vischer himself, placed in one of its niches, immediately opposite the altar. There he stands, so homely, burly, and purposelike, with his leathern apron on, hammer and chisel in hand. He looks the very incarnation of noble, honest, successful work. His five sons, who loyally helped him to cast the monument, don't seem to be anywhere. where. There must always be some humble instruments to help the great ones of the earth with their schemes and leave no mark behind.

The St. Sebald's Church is quite a little world of art and antiquity, of gorgeous richness and severe simplicity, both inside and out. But what strikes one most in all the statues and carvings at Nuremberg is the earnest, simple devotion that they express. Let the figures be never so rude, there is a reverent love, living and breathing, still beneath their quaint, often uncouth. forms which might read a deep and impressive lesson to the shallowness of this our nineteenth century. And not only in religious

Chapters on Plants.

BY FREDERICK TOWNSEND, M.A., F.L.S.

CHAPTER XIV.-LEAVES (continued).

膠

EAVES present some very curious

forms. I should like to describe a

few of the most remarkable ones, as

I am sure they will interest you.

The leaves of the common teasel, Dipsacus sylvestris, are lobed at the base, and these lobes grow together at their edges, forming a cup with the stem passing through the middle. This cup in rainy weather collects a large quantity of water. A good draught of pure water may often be collected from the cups of a single plant of teasel.

The leaves of the sundew, Drosera rotundifolia, a plant which is common in boggy ground, are provided with long hairs, each hair bearing a gland at its tip. This gland secretes a sticky fluid, which adheres to the legs of small flies which unwarily settle upon the leaf. The more the fly struggles to escape, the more he becomes entangled and glued by the hairs; alas! he is held a prisoner till death puts an end to his struggles. The hairs also secrete a fluid which dissolves the soft parts of the fly's body, which are absorbed

VENUS'S FLY-TRAP (Dionaa Muscipula).

fly-trap. (See illustration.) The leaf of this plant has two lobes connected together by a kind of hinge. The upper surface of each lobe is provided with three irritable hairs, and when an unwary insect settles upon the