amusement to slide or skate. If you are fond of those sports, you should be careful to find out that the ice is quite strong before you go upon it, as many persons have lost their lives by the ice breaking-they have fallen into the water, and have been drowned.

In winter, it is very common to have snowstorms. Do you know what snow is? It is mist, frozen before it is formed into drops. Sometimes such a quantity of snow falls, that the roads are blocked up, and no coaches can pass.

The shortest day in the year is the 21st of December. After this the days grow longer by degrees, till spring comes again; and everything, which seemed dead in winter, is raised to life.

How pleasant it is to look forward to spring, after the long dreary winter! And is it not also a happy thing to know that, after the long dark winter of death, the bright morning of the resurrection shall come like a glorious spring, and those who lie in the graves shall arise from the dust? It is, indeed, a happy thought for those who love the Saviour; for they shall be like him, and be with him for ever. But though winter is a cold and cheerless time, there is one part of it which is always thought very joyful. I am sure you can guess what part I mean. It is Christmas. Everybody seems to think that Christmas is a happy time, and that they ought to be glad. But why should we be glad at Christmas? Is it to get a good dinner, or to have a holiday, or to see our friends? These are very nice things to be sure; but there is another reason, far better than this, why we should rejoice at Christmas. We are then re

minded that our Lord Jesus Christ was born into the world. He came to save us; and every blessing comes to us through him. Should we not, then, be glad to think of Him who came down from heaven to die for our sins, that he might at last take us to live with him in his glory? But if this is the reason of our joy, it must be a calm and holy joy. We must not be foolish and trifling, but seriously glad. We must also remember that we have no reason to be glad that Jesus came, unless we pray to him to wash away our sins with his precious blood, and to help us to follow him. Then we shall be happy at Christmas, and all the year round, and happy for ever; for then we shall know that God is our Father and our Friend, who takes care of us at all times. He is a never-changing Friend. He will bless us when we are children, and when we are grown up, and when we are old also. O pray to God to be your Friend, for Jesus Christ's sake.

WHICH months do we call autumn?

What does equinox mean?-Equal night; night equal to the day.

When is the equinox in autumn ?

What is ripe in autumn?

What is corn cut with?

What else is put by for food in winter?

How do the leaves fall in autumn?

What trees do not lose their leaves ?

Do they change them at all?

What happens to the water in frosty weather?
What is snow?

Which is the shortest day in the year ?

What is winter a sign of?

What will follow death, as spring follows winter?

N

What joyful time comes in winter ?
Why should we be glad at Christmas?
Who is our best Friend?

What should we ask God to do for us?

WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER?

WHAT is that, mother?

The lark, my child.

The morn hath but just looked out and smiled,
When he starts from his humble grassy nest,
And is up and away, with the dew on his breast,
And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.

Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays

Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise.

What is that, mother?

The dove, my son;

And that low sweet voice, like a widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure from her native nest,
As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return.
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove;

In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.

What is that, mother?

The eagle, my boy,

Proudly careering his course of joy;

Firm in his own mountain vigour relying,
Breasting the storm, the red bolt defying :
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward and upward, true to the line.

What is that, mother?

The swan, my love:
He is floating down from his native grove.
No loved one now, no nestling nigh,
He is floating down by himself to die :
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings.
Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swanlike and sweet, it may waft thee home.

DOANE.

SHOULD you

MISSIONARY VERSES.

wish to be told the best use of a penny; I'll tell you a way that is better than any.

Not on apples, or cakes, or on playthings to spend it;
But over the seas to the heathen to send it.
Come listen to me, and I'll tell, if you please,
Of some poor little children far over the seas.

Their skins are quite black, for our God made them thus ;

But he made them with bodies and feelings like us :
A soul, too, that never will die, has been given,
And there's room for black children with Jesus in
heaven.

But few there's to tell of such good things as these,
To the poor little heathen far over the seas.

Poor children in this land are well off indeed;
They have schools every day, where they sing, sew,
and read:

Their church, too, on Sunday, and pastor to teach;
And the true way to heaven through Jesus to reach.
Yet sad to remember there's so few of these
For the poor little heathen far over the seas.

Poor blacks have few schools to learn reading and

singing;

No Sunday for them with its cheerful bells ringing. And most little blacks have no Bibles to read ;

Poor little black children, you're ill off indeed!

But one penny each week would procure some with

ease,

For the poor little heathen far over the seas.

Oh, think then of this when a penny is given,

"I can help a poor black on his way home to hea

ven ;

Then give it to Jesus, and he will approve,

Nor scorn e'en a mite, if 'tis offered in love.

And oh, when in prayer you to him bend your knees, Remember your brethren far over the seas.

LADY WRIOTHESLEY RUSSELL.

MY MOTHER.

WHO fed me from her gentle breast,
And hushed me in her arms to rest,
And on my cheek sweet kisses press'd ?

My Mother.

Who sat and watched my infant head,
When sleeping in my cradle bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed?

My Mother.

When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye,
And wept, for fear that I should die?
My Mother.