was seen, and a cry heard from the passengers. An exclamation was heard from some of them, "Who can swim?" and at the same time, "Stop her!" and another plunge was seen. It was the man at the wheel. 66 one 'They must both be killed!" said the captain; "for I know he (meaning the man at the wheel) cannot swim." It was a moment of horror I can never forget; but what were our feelings, on seeing the boy dashed off from under the paddle, by the strong arm of his preserver! The latter was, for a few seconds, in danger, exhausted by his struggle to follow, and the mud in which he was sinking; but he was dragged on board, panting and nearly exhausted. Cries of praise for his humanity met him on all sides. At last, when recovered enough to speak, he said, in his blunt manner, and while he ungracefully enough waved his hand upwards, "No thanks to me; for I could not see a fellow-creature perish, and stand still. Praise Him only who preserved us both!" was now again by the side of the female group, who, in their youthful ardour, were intently moved by the scene. I heard the elder say, as she addressed the younger ones, "My dears, let this be a lesson to you all; and to you in particular, Fanny: let it teach you, through life, to cease to judge by the outward looks of man or woman. Judge them by their actions only." I, at least, learnt a lesson that day which 1 have never forgotten. F. A. THE SUMMONS. COME! said the breezes whose joyous play Come to the meadows and hills away, Frolic with us 'mid the heath flowers wild! Come! cried the lambs from the pasture land, Under the blossoms and leaves of spring, She heard the bleat of the frisking lamb, And the fall of the stream down the broad mill-dam ; She knew their voices, and knew how fair Was life in the fresh and breezy air, And she look'd in my face with her piteous eyes, And falter'd "Mother," yet did not rise. His cheek all glowing, his eye all bright, With health, and gladness, and childhood's bloom, Bearing blue violets and daisies white, Her brother came to the darken'd room; Come with me, Emily, forth and see!" Ꮮ And fasten'd on him a dreamy gaze, We pray, we pray; our sorrowing love But He spake truly whose piercing eye Marked the stern truth frowning 'neath hope's bright mask, Alas for the answer of 'terrible things,' That young boy knelt, and his lisping prayer And angel children that never sin, And babes that never may grieve nor weep, Joyfully wander those fields within, Or safe in those bowers of amaranth sleep. And deeper, fonder than tongue can tell, Or even thy mother's love may be, Is the love that reigns where their spirits dwell, Softly, softly the angel sang, But the ear of my darling had caught the lay, With a babe in his arms that had stolen from mine. Ah! we may cling to our cherish'd things, And our love and its cares are fruitless all, H. F. THE PATCHWORK SOFA. WE often feel less reasonable, I think, and more wedded to a few ideas and prejudices, after an illness than after any misfortune or any other event which throws us out of our ordinary course. I know not why it is, but most of us have proved the truth of this. I do not want, however, to please or try to prove any fancies of my own, but only to relate a circumstance connected with my youth, and bearing upon this subject. As a very young man, (I was not more than nineteen at the time of which I am speaking,) I was of a remarkably cheerful and buoyant disposition, and had never known what illness, or nervousness, or languor meant, till in the summer of 18- a fever reduced me to the doors of the grave. I had been visiting at a friend's house, and was to pay my respects to an elderly relative, who lived between my friend's place and London, in the village of Y -. As the coach stopped at Y late at night, I determined not to intrude upon her till the next morning, and slept in the inn. I recollect having a miserable night, and was so weak that I could not walk, and was obliged the next morning to order a gig to convey me to this lady's house. No sooner had I dismounted than I fell insensible on the door-step, and recollect nothing more till I found myself in bed, in a cheerful room, one July morning, surrounded by every comfort, and wondering how I came there. I had not to wonder long, for presently the door opened, and an elderly lady, in a quaint, old-fashioned cap, and bearing in her hand a little tray, with some dry toast and some barleywater, entered the room. She approached the bedside without taking any particular notice of me, and was preparing to feed me with a spoon, when I smiled, and said, deprecating such attention: "My dear madam, I am quite able to feed myselfwhat has been the matter with me?" "You have had a fever," was the answer, in a peculiarly quiet, composed voice, "and been delirious, or something like it, for this three weeks; but I am glad you have taken a turn.” She did not tell me till long afterwards that the room in which I had slept at the inn was infected, some one having died there, not long before, of the fever from which I was now suffering. 66 "You are my aunt, then," I said; "I did not know your hair was so grey." I then laid me down again, |