steps of his mother and grandmother. A young man, when about to be ordained as a Christian minister, stated that at one period of his life, he had been nearly betrayed into the principles of infidelity; "But," he added, "there was one argument in favour of Christianity, which I could never forget, and that was the consistent conduct of my own father! Through that I was at length won to the Saviour." And when Lord Peterborough stayed for a season with Archbishop Fénélon, he exclaimed at parting, "If I stay here any longer, I shall become a Christian in spite of myself.' Is your path, dear reader, radiant and lovely enough to allure others to enter upon it? Are you walking in the light?

It will be a sure path. There is no dubiousness about its tendency or termination. He that walketh in darkness, knoweth not whither he goeth. When he is, as he imagines, nearly at his journey's end, he may find out that he has been altogether in a wrong track, and be obliged to retrace his steps. He may take first one turning and then another, and yet, after all, miss the right one. But you can see your road. It lies plainly outstretched before you. And you know where it leads you. It is sure to end well; sure to bring you to your happy and longed-for home. Thousands who traverse the broad road and walk in darkness, aim at happiness and dream of heaven, but they never find the one, nor reach the other. The Christian's hope is the only hope, which shall never be disappointed; his path the only one which is certain to issue in perfected joy and everlasting life. And therefore he goes on his way rejoicing; for though his course is sometimes difficult and often wearisome, he is freed from all doubt as to its final result. Simply rusting as a little child in God's omniscient and loving guidance; and imploring Him who keepeth the feet of His saints, to preserve his from going astray, he hastens forward with a brave and cheerful spirit, and

as he presses on he sometimes sings, in an exulting strain,

"More happy, but not more secure,

Are the glorified spirits in heaven."

Dear young reader, as you peruse this imperfect delineation of the Christian's path, does there rise within your heart, the earnest wish to become a heaven-bound traveller? Are you willing to "walk in the light,” and yet uncertain exactly how to begin? Listen! The Saviour Himself speaks to you, and offers to direct you. These are His own words, "He that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life," John viii. 12. Then, begin with Christ. Make His Cross your starting-point. Confide in His love. Follow in His steps. And your path shall be the path of the just, which shineth more and more unto the perfect day.

THE LITTLE HEART'S-EASE.

A GARDENER went one sunshiny day

To look at his gay parterre,

To admire his flowers, in their handsome array,

As with fragrance they scented the air;

And to walk in the shade of his stately trees,

That were waving their boughs in the morning breeze.

But alas, alas! when he reached his ground

What a scene of disorder and sadness he found!

Each beautiful flower was drooping its head,

And rapidly fading away;

And unnumbered fair leaves on the pathway were shed
From the trees in their early decay ;-

And our Gardener hastily sought for the reason
Why this should have happened in spring's lovely season.

So he walked up first to his favourite Oak,
All withering, and asked it, "Why?"

And the noble old tree thus mournfully spoke,
-"I thought I as well might die ;

For I bear no fruit, nor with flowerets bloom;
And my awkward branches want so much room;
I'm a clumsy and useless thing;

If I were a rose-tree, like that within reach,
Or if I had fruit, like the soft round peach,
Some profit I then might bring;

But as I have nothing but leaves to give,
What motive have I for wishing to live?”

"Well, Lady Rose, with your sweet open face,

And cheeks of a delicate hue,

I had hoped that for months you my garden would grace ;Tell me, what is the matter with you?"

And the pretty Rose said, as she shook on her stem; "Just look at your oak-trees-if I were like them

How happy and proud I should be!

I should rear my tall head in your well-cultured ground, An ornament there, which for many miles round

Admiring people might see;

But a poor little flower, unproductive as I,

What use is it to you! I'd much rather die.”

"Oh, beautiful Vine, which I trained with such care,

To climb up the sheltering wall;

Say, why are you trailing so dolefully there?

And what has occasioned your fall?"

And the Vine faintly murmured, "As I had not strength My own weight to sustain, I determined at length

Not to trouble my friends any longer;

Could I yield a shade like the wide-spreading trees,
Or if, like the flowers, I had gifts that could please,
Why then I might try to grow stronger;
But a poor, feeble creature, requiring a stay,
Had better make haste to get out of the way."

Quite saddened with looks and with words of gloom,
The Gardener with joy espied

A dear little Heart's-ease in full rich bloom,

As fresh as a fair young bride.

It turned up its bright little face towards him

With a smile which none of its neighbours could dim;
And he said, with surprise, "How is it

That you so contented and healthful appear?
And that yours is the only countenance here,
That welcomes me in my visit?"

And the Heart's-ease replied, in a quick cheerful tone, "Dear master, I felt that I was not my own.

"And it seemed to my simple perception clear,

That you certainly wanted me ;

For you would have planted an acorn here,
Had you wished for a stately tree;
Or had you desired sweet grapes to find,
A vine-plant would in my place have twined ;-
And therefore my obvious duty

Was to thrive and grow with untiring zest;
Since the hearty endeavour to do one's best
Is the truest worth and beauty;

And I saw that the work which you gave me to do,
Was to grow up a fine little Heart's-ease for you."

Dear readers! let this modest Heart's-ease teach
The moral which I wish it to impart:

Sigh not for stations placed beyond thy reach,
But strive to serve thy Maker where thou art.
The gardener soweth only tiny seeds

Where he desires to raise but simple flowers;
If God required from thee an angel's deeds,

He would have given thee an angel's powers;
But all He asks from each of us while here,
Is, that with calm contentment we should rest
In our appointed, and appropriate sphere;

And there, with loving spirit, do our best.

H. M. W.

A GOSSIP ABOUT COLOURS.

WHEN we were younger than we now are, our good mother scolded us finely for perforating a round hole in the parlour-window shutter. Against this hole we placed a prism. We had learned enough of "primaries" and "secondaries," to be aware that we could thus throw a coloured "spectrum"-the shutters, of course, being entirely closed-upon a sheet of paper hung up at a convenient distance from our prism. On this paper we had drawn pictures of flowers, animals, and trees, so contrived as to coincide with the prismatic colours, and as the sun was shining strongly at the time, our drawings were tinted by a sort of sunpainting, which neither Daguerre, Talbot, nor the Photographic Society, has yet permanently equalled.

Thus we learned-the scolding impressing the opti cal lesson more firmly upon our memory-that there are three primary colours, red, yellow and blue, that the secondary colours are also three, and are obtained by mixing the "primaries," for, as our colour-box had taught us long before, red and yellow make orange, red and blue produce violet, and yellow and blue give green.

But there was one thing our colour-box did not teach us. It, of course, according to optical theory, ought to have taught us, but it would not do it. The philosophers said that when the three primaries were combined, white light was the result; and this seemed natural enough, inasmuch as the prism in our window shutter, had, to our very great satisfaction-if not to our mother's-shown that a ray of white light was separable into red, blue, and yellow. So we went to our colour-box to combine the primaries, expecting a sort of miracle to take place. Our optical theory was rudely overturned! We mixed and mixed, in various proportions, with untiring zeal; but the only colour