THERE is good metal in the boy; the best ore cannot look like gold till it is fused. It is so difficult for us women, who have to watch from our quiet homes afar, to distinguish the glow of the smelting furnace from the glare of a conflagration.

Chronicles of the Schonberg Cotta Family.

What the Father said to the School-boy.

"AND now, Tom, my boy," said the Squire, "remember you are going, at your own earnest request, to be chucked into this great school, like a young bear, with all your troubles before you. If schools are what they were in my time, you'll see a great many cruel blackguard things done, and hear a deal of foul bad talk. But never fear. You tell the truth, keep a brave and kind heart, and never listen to, or say anything you would not have your mother or sister hear, and you'll never feel ashamed to come home, or we to see you."

Tom Brown at Rugby.

What the Father said to his Daughter.

NEVER for one moment forget that you are a gentlewoman;

let all your words and actions mark you gentle.

Lord Collingwood.

What the Poet said to the Young Maiden.

BE good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;
Do noble things, not dream them, all day long,
And so make life, death, and that vast Forever

One grand, sweet song.

Charles Kingsley.

What the Poet might say to the Young Maiden's Mother.

TIS all in vain to hurry so,

They're roses and they'll surely blow.

Goethe.

THE boy whose love you cannot feed by daily nourishment, will find pride, self-indulgence, and an iron purpose coming n to furnish other supply for the soul that is in him. If he cannot shoot his branches into the sunshine, he will become acclimated to the shadow.

D. G. Mitchell.

THAT domestic discipline of children may not end in disappointment, three things, with God's help, are needed; firmness of purpose, gentleness of manner, and consistency of example.

E. S. Gannett.

IN

N the man whose childhood has known caresses, there is always a fibre of memory which can be touched to gentle issues.

Marian Evans.

HAPPY is he whose friends were born before him.

Old Proverb.

Happy he

With such a mother! faith in womankind

Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high
Comes easy to him, and though he trip and fall,
He shall not blind his soul with clay.

Alfred Tennyson.

HE

BOY LOST.

E had black eyes with long lashes, red cheeks, and hair almost black and almost curly. He wore a crimson plaid jacket, with full trowsers, buttoned on; had a habit of whistling, and liked to ask questions; was accompanied by a small, black dog. It is a long while now since he disappeared. I have a very pleasant house and much company. My guests say, "Ah! it is pleasant here! Everything has such an orderly, put-away look-nothing about under foot, no dirt!"

But my eyes are aching for the sight of whittlings and cut paper upon the floor, of tumble-down card-houses, of wooden sheep and cattle, of pop-guns, bows and arrows, whips, tops, go-carts, blocks, and trumpery. I want to see boats a rigging, and kites a making, crumbles on the carpet, and paste spilt on the kitchen table. I want to see the chairs and tables turned the wrong way about. I want to see candy-making and cornpopping, and to find jack-knives and fish-hooks among my muslins. Yet these things used to fret me once.

They say, "How quiet you are here! Ah! one here may settle his brains, and be at peace." But my ears are aching for the pattering of little feet, for a hearty shout, a shrill whistle, a gay tra la la, for the crack of little whips, for the noise of drums, fifes, and tin trumpets; yet these things made

me nervous once.

They say, "Ah! you have leisure-nothing to disturb you; what heaps of sewing you have time for!" But I long to be asked for a bit of string or an old newspaper, for a cent to buy a slate pencil or pea-nuts. I want to be coaxed for a piece of new cloth for jibs or main-sails, and then to hem the same. I want to make little flags, and bags to hold marbles. I want to be followed by little feet all over the house, teasing for a bit

of dough for a little cake, or to bake a pie in a saucer. Yet these things used to fidget me once.

They say, Ah! you are not tied at home. How delightful to be always at liberty to go to concerts, lectures, and parties! No confinement for you."

But I want confinement. I want to listen for the schoolbell mornings, to give the last hasty wash and brush, and then to watch from the window nimble feet bounding to school. I want frequent rents to mend, and to replace lost buttons. I want to obliterate mud-stains, fruit-stains, molasses-stains, and paints of all colors. I want to be sitting by a little crib of evenings, when weary feet are at rest, and prattling voices are hushed that mothers may sing their lullabies, and tell over the oft-repeated stories. They don't know their happiness then— those mothers. I didn't. All these things I called confinement once.

A manly figure stands before me now. He is taller than I; has thick, black whiskers, and wears a frock-coat, bosomed shirt, and cravat. He has just come from college. He brings Latin and Greek in his countenance, and busts of the old philosophers for the sitting-room. He calls me mother, but I am rather unwilling to own him.

He stoutly declares that he is my boy, and says that he will prove it. He brings me a small pair of white trowsers, with gay stripes at the sides, and asks if I didn't make them for him when he joined the boys' militia. He says he is the very boy, too, that made the bonfire near the barn, so that we came very near having a fire in earnest. He brings his little boat, to show the red stripe on the sail (it was the end of the piece,) and the name on the stern-" Lucy Low". —a little girl of our neighborhood, who, because of her long curls and pretty round face, was the chosen favorite of my little boy. Her curls were long since cut off, and she has grown to be a tall, handsome girl. How the red comes to his face when he shows me the

name on the boat! Oh! I see it all, as plain as if it were written in a book. My little boy is lost, and my big boy will soon be. Oh! I wish he were a little tired boy in a long white night-gown, lying in his crib, with me sitting by, holding his hand in mine, pushing the curls back from his forehead, watching his eyelids droop, and listening to his deep breathing.

If I only had my little boy again, how patient I would be! How much I would bear, and how little I would fret and scold! I can never have him back again; but there are still many mothers who haven't yet lost their little boys. I wonder if they know they are living their very best days—that now is the time to really enjoy their children, I think if I had been more to my little boy, I might now be more to my grownup one.

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