all Europe the spirits of the olden ime whisper in the wind, laugh in the rivers, and mutter in the storm; the wrath of Olympian Jove roars in the thunderbolt; and the coruscations of the Aurora Borealis are the flashing armor of the Falkyrias as they ride from the fields of the glorious dead, bearing the souls of dead heroes to the halls of Walhalla.

To the skeptical and matter-of-fact American, the wild legends of the gloomy and rugged North, or the poetic and beautiful lore of Greece and Rome, are but wild superstitions, and are forgotten in that essence of self-interest which permeates our social system. Some condemn such reading as a waste of time; but the classical allusions in our literature call for it if nothing else does. Some one says: "One who does not love plants, animals, children and poetry, has no soul." I would not read from Young's Night Thoughts, or Pope's Essay on Man, but from those poets "whose songs gush from the heart:" Longfellow, Lowell, Whittier, Tennyson, Jamieson, Read, Bret Harte, or the Lake poets, such as reveal to us with their exquisite pen pictures, the hidden beauty, and mystery of nature; as does Lowell's Vision of Sir Launfal.

And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;

Then heaven tries the earth, if it be in tune,

And over softly her warm ear lays;

Whither we look, or whether we listen,

We hear life murmur or hear it glisten.

Every slod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within it that reaches and towers,

And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers.
The flush of life may well be seen,

Thrilling back over hill and valley;
The cowslip starts in meadows green,

The butter-cup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf or blade too mean
To be some happy creature's palace.
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'er run
With the deluge of summer it receives.
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast

Flutters and sings.

He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest;

In the nice ear of nature, which song is the best.

As children love animals, and as most of the cruelty in man's nature is vented on the helpless brute creation, that early love should be cultivated. Children appreciate Jamieson's, "My Dog."

"Dead and my heart died with him

Buried what love lies there!

Something that always loved me!

Something that I could trust!

Something that cheered and soothed me,

Is mouldering here to dust!

Blue hunting grounds of the red man

Cannot I dream the dream?

Surely my old companion

But waits till I cross the stream?

Waits with a faithful yearning

Almost akin to pain

Till in some lesser heaven

He bounds to my feet again'

Also, Bret Harte's "Battle Bunny" is a favorite:

"Who believes but equal grace

God extends to every place

Little difference he scans.

'Twixt a rabbit's God, and man's.'

"Of sweetest Shakespeare Fancy's child

Warbling his nature word-notes wild."

Teachers as well as pupils would do well to adopt, as a rule of conduct, his wise counsels. I would read striking passages; such as

"Give thy thoughts no tongue

Nor any unproportioned thought his act.
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.
The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatched unfledged comrade.
Beware of entrance to a quarrel; but being in
Bear't that the opposed may beware of thee.
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice;
Take each man's, but reserve thy judgment:
This above all, to thine own self be true;
And it must follow as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man."

There have been many objections to the introduction of fiction into our libraries; but what exercise is to the body, fiction is to the mind; so I would have the standard authors in my library. By standard authors, I do not mean such writers as Mrs. Southworth, or Mrs Holmes; but Dickens, Scott, Kingsley, Cooper, Stow, Thackeray, Trollope, Alcott, Whitney and Phelps should have a place in my library. I

would read choice selections from Bulwer. In "Last Days of Pompeii" we find so many word pictures of the Romans, and early Christians, their manners and customs, the villas and temples on the blue Sarnus murmuring through the orchards aud vineyards of Campania, all the horrors of that awful day when the earthquake rolled his car through the carvens of the earth, and the "Hill of the Parched Fields" awoke from sleep of centuries bringing woe and desolation to the "Cities of the Plain"

As few people read novels for anything but the sentiment which centers round the plot, it should be the teacher's work to bring to the pupil's notice to the underlying evils or principles which the author designs to expose or teach. Superficial readers do not appreciate deep novels because they cannot penetrate into the depth of the author's design, his skillful delineations of character, and cutting satires on manners and men. This lack of appreciation is not always caused by lack of mental acumen, but because the perceptive faculties have not been sufficiently cultivated. If one have a well-stored library at hand, it is a good plan to require the pupil to read at least one book a week, to give an oral criticism, or to make the book the subject of a written essay. This is a good exercise for higher classes, and the teacher would better select the book. The exercise exercise may be varied by the teacher reading aloud and requiring each pupil to criticise. I have known pupils to seize upon points which I had failed to notice. Try it, fellow teachers, and you will be surprised at the result. There will be timidity at first to encounter, but kindly commendation from the teacher, with judicious assistance, will grad

ually overcome difficulties, and make the exercise such a
source of amusement to both pupil and teacher that
"The cares which infest the day

Will fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away."