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must be tempered, and this is done by rolling them backwards and forwards on a hot metal plate. The polishing still remains to be done, and to see this we must go back to the mill. On a very coarse cloth, which lies upon another coarse cloth, needles are spread to the number of 40,000 or 50,000. Emery dust is strewed over them, oil is sprinkled and soft soap daubed by spoonsful over the cloth; the cloth is then rolled hard up, and with several others of the same kind, thrown into a sort of wash-pot to roll to and fro for twelve hours or more. They come out dirty enough, but after a rinsing in clean hot water, and a tossing in sawdust, they look as bright as can be, and are ready to be sent to the manufactory, where they are sorted and put up for sale. But the sorting and the doing up in papers, you may imagine, is quite a work by itself.

Enough has been told you to see how various are the branches of industry, and that even to furnish so handy and common a little instrument as the needle, how much labour is necessary, and how many workmen are employed. It should make us humble also, to see how dependent we are upon one another. While the bird, the cat, and all inferior animals are supplied with ready-made clothing, and need no help from each other, we cannot live comfortably a day without being ministered to by hundreds whom we have never seen. This great law of mutual dependence should help to impress upon us those precious lessons of brotherly love taught us in the Gospel, as it makes wonderfully significant the whole-hearted rule of the apostle,“ Do good to all men, as ye have opportunity.”

THE DYING GERMAN GIRL. A woman to whom I gave the tract, “'Tis all for the best," after looking at the title, asked me if it was for the best that her child had died. I endeavoured to present the truth to her, and to comfort her, as two more of her children were seriously sick. As I left I gave her a few children's tracts. A week after, as I was passing, I heard some one calling me. I went to the house, and the woman met me in tears, telling me that another child had died.

During her sickness she often spoke of me, and would not suffer the tracts to be taken from the bed. A short time before she died her countenance was lighted up with jop She took the tract, “Life and Death of John Hands, (German), and turned over the leaves until she came to the plate in connection with the passage "Suffer little children to come unto me,” when she pressed it to her bosom and requested her mother to read the passage After she had read it, the child said, “The dear Saviour also calls me, and I soon shall be with my little brother; 0 mother, pray, pray." She then stretched out her little arms towards the tract, kissed it, and exclaimed, “O dear Saviour, come, come and take me to thyself,” and so eipired. A powerful impression was made on the mother's mind. I gave her“ Baxter's Saint's Rest,” to instruct and comfort her.

And who is he that's seeking,

With look and language mild,
To heal the heart that's breaking,

And glad'n tlie vagrant child ?
He searches lane and alley,

The mean and dark abode,
From Satan's host to rally

The conscripts due to God.
He wins from vicious mothers,

The children of neglect-
The sisters and the brothers

From households sadly wreck'd.
And these, the truth impressing,

Beneath his gentle rule,
Have callid on him a blessing,

Who form’d the Ragged School.


Little Willie was a gentle, fair-haired boy, and the child of Christian Parents, though born in a heathen land. He had been taught with his earliest lisping to repeat nigbtly, on retiring to rest, that beautiful child's


“Now, I lay me down to sleep." When he was a little more than three years old, God called him away from earth, but the closivg scene of his life was beautiful. As the shadows of death gathered round him, he supposed it the darkness of night, and clasping his tiny hands he commenced,

"Now, I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep;

If I should die"and here his lips faltered, his pulse ceased, and his spirit returned to God who gave it.



Come, Memory, come !
I'd muse with thee a while,
I'd wander with thee down the long, long aisle

Of by-gone years.
Retired to where the world's deep hum

Sounds faintly in unwilling ears,
Let us converse of buried hopes and fears,-

Of smiles and tears.

The smile,-the tear;
Not happy smile alone,
Ah, no! but tears,—those blossoms, fully blown,

Dropt from the flower
Of feeling. Every passing year, -

Of times each passing day, each hour,
Has seen these blossoms, stirred by sorrow's power,

Fall in a shower.

The tear,--the smile;
Not gloomy tears alone
Have gemmed my cheek, but smiles have had a throne

And dwelling there :
Not smiles that play but to beguile

The looker on, and say that care
Is filed; but smiles that mark me as the heir

Of blessings rare.

The smile,-the tear ;
The tear,—the smile; What more?
Come, Memory, tell; or, is our musing o'er,-

Our converse done?
Has Time been toiling to uprear

No monument, not even one,-
With Smile or Tear unwritten on the stone;

Yea, even none.

The tear,--the smile ;
The smile,- the tear ;-no more ;
Such is life's sum and substance; all the love

Of years gone by
Is writ in such laconic style,

The mighty ages as they fly;
Weep oceans, shake the world with laughter's cry,

Then sink and die.

The smile,—the tear!
Is such a history mine?
Yes, or I were not man. These twain combine

Life's tale to write,
E'en my life's tale. Now grief is here ;

Now sunny joy ; now gloomy night
And darkness reign ; now sheds the sun his light,

And all is bright.

The tear,—the smile!
All-gracious Father, praise ;
Praise to Thy name, that Thou hast marked my days

With tears so few,
And smiles so many! For a while

pause, and calling up to view Joys of the past, Thy praises I renew

Hearty and true.

The smile,-the tear;
The tear,-the smile! My life!
Such is thy history past. But when the strife

of earth is o'er,
What then? To Him I would be near

Who dries all tears. While up I'd soar,
From smile-clad lips His praises forth I'd pour

For evermore.

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FALLS OF NIAGARA. TAE waterfall is rather of the beautiful than the wonderful. Its elements, such as towering rocks, deep gorges, green valleys, and the sheets of foam which the descending flood produces, are all things rather of beauty than wonder, and as materials in the landscape, eminently, picturesque. There are some few waterfalls, however, which, from the mass of descending water, the breadth and depth of the current, or the height and rapidity of the fall itself, deserve to be classed in the catalogue of the wonderful.

First in the list of wonderful waterfalls is that of

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