THE CURLY-HAIRED LITTLE BOY.

IN coming down the North river, in the magnificent steamer, Isaac Newton, as the passengers were retiring to rest, I noticed a fine-looking, curly-haired little boy, about six years old, undressing himself, while his father arranged his bed. Soon his father tied a handkerchief around his head, to protect his curls, which looked as if the sun-light from his young happy heart always rested there. This done, I looked for him to seek his resting-place; but, instead of this, he quietly kneeled down on the floor, put up his little hands together, so beautifully childlike and simple, and resting his arms on the lower berth, against which he knelt, he began his evening prayer.

The father sat down by his side, and waited the conclusion. It was, for a child, a long prayer, but well understood. I could hear the murmuring of his sweet voice, but could not distinguish the words he spoke. But what a scene! There were men around him-Christian men-retiring to rest without prayer; or, if praying at all, a kind of mental desire for protection, without sufficient courage or piety to kneel down in a steam-boat's cabin, and, before strangers, acknowledge the goodness of God, or ask his protecting love.

This was the training of some pious mother. Where was she now? How many times had her kind hand been laid on those sunny locks, as she had taught him to lisp his prayers!

A beautiful sight it was-that child at prayer in the midst of the busy, thoughtless throng. He alone, of the worldly multitude, bowed his knees to heaven. I thank the parental love that taught him to lisp his evening prayer, whether dead or living, whether far off or nigh.

It did me good; it made me better. I could scarce refrain from weeping then, nor can I now, as I see again that sweet child, in the crowded tumult of a steam-boat's cabin, bending in devotion before his Maker.

When the little boy had finished his evening devotion,

he arose and kissed his father most affectionately, who put him into his berth to rest for the night.

If ever I meet that boy in his happy youth, in his anxious manhood, in his declining years, I'll thank him for the influence and example of that night's devotion, and bless the name of the mother that taught him to pray. Scarcely any passing incident of my life ever made a deeper impression on my mind.

I went to my room, and thanked God that I had witnessed it, for its influence on my heart.

American Messenger.

THE DRUNKARD'S SON.

"MOTHER, this bread is very hard; why don't we have cake and nice things, as we used to have when we lived in the great house? Oh, that was such a pretty house, mamma, and I did love to live there so. You made sweet music there, mamma, with your fingers, when Pa would sing. Pa used to laugh, then, and take me on his knee, and say I was his own dear boy. What makes Pa sick, ma? I wish he was not sick, for it makes me afraid when he stamps on the floor, and says, George, go off to bed!' Say, when will he get well, and take me on his knee, and love me, as he used to? But, Ma, there is a tear in your eye; let me wipe it. There another comes; oh-another! Did I make you cry these tears, mamma?"

6

"Hush! little innocent; you cannot stop your mother's tears, for they are the overflowings of a fountain, filled with blighted hopes, anguish, and misery. She cannot tell you when your father will love you, for, alas! he is a drunkard!"

I heard a beautiful boy, scarce four years old, lisping this to his mother, and I pitied him from my inmost soul. His name was George Elwyn. His father was once rich and happy, and nearly idolized his little son; but in an evil hour he began to sip the intoxicating cup-the habit had grown upon him, until the peace of his family was

destroyed, and he a tyrant. The beautiful house in which they had lived was now exchanged for a miserable cottage in the suburbs of the city, and little George doomed to be the companion of the idle and vicious.

Temperance Review.

HOW TO DESTROY AN ENEMY.

NANGFEE, Emperor of China, being told that his enemies had raised an insurrection in one of the distant provinces, said, "Come, then, my friends, follow me, and I promise you that we shall quickly destroy them." He marched forward, and the rebels submitted upon his approach. All now thought that he would take the most signal revenge, but were surprised to see the captives treated with mildness and humanity. "How!" cries his first minister, "is this the manner in which you fulfil your promise? your royal word was given that your enemies should be destroyed, and, behold, you have pardoned all, and have caressed some!" "I promised,” replied the emperor, with a generous air, "to destroy my enemies. I have fulfilled my word; for see, they are enemies no longer-I have made friends of them."-Goldsmith's Citizen of the World.

A DAUGHTER'S REGRETS.

WHEN I see mothers toiling for their children, and yet perhaps their toils are repaid by unkind looks or unbecoming words, it makes my heart sink within me; for I remember the hours of my childhood when I had a mother who watched over me with unremitting diligence, but now she sleeps in yonder graveyard. Oh, could I recall even for a moment the spirit that has fled, that I might obtain forgiveness for childish ingratitude, my joy would be great. Yes, her kind and gentle reproof even now falls heavily on my ears; and it seems as though she is yet present with me, speaking in gentle tones, and I think to beg pardon for past offences.

But she is gone-yes, to the realms of bliss-and although nearly ten years have passed since her spirit took its flight, yet the scenes of those days are as fresh in my mind as though they were but yesterday's; so are her parting words, when at eleven years of age, I, with my two younger sisters, left home, not in the least expecting that we should never hear that voice again. But so it was—when we returned she was a corpse! Oh, the anguish which then pierced my very soul! Every unkind word which had ever escaped my lips in the wild hilarity of youth, or rather of childhood, or in the passion of a moment; every unbecoming act towards her I so much loved, rushed to my memory like so many arrows from the quiver of the Almighty. But it was now too late: the grim messenger had taken her away; her tongue was silent; yes, for ever silent; her eyes were closed; and I must weep unseen, and unheard.

And now in hope that it may cheer a drooping spirit, I will say a few words to despairing mothers. Cease not to labour with untiring interest for the spiritual welfare of your children, for in due time you shall reap the reward of your labours. Yes, although you may not live to see your children improve by your instruction, yet their minds treasure up much which to you may appear to pass by unheeded, but nevertheless, it will serve as monitors and guides to the pathway of duty. I have enjoyed Sabbathschool privileges; have listened to sermon after sermon, and have read books of different kinds; but among all the blessings, both temporal and spiritual that I ever enjoyed, a mother's admonitions, a mother's advice, are kept longest in remembrance.

I cannot close without saying a few words to those children who have a mother to watch over them and guide them in the way they should go. Be obedient to her while you have an opportunity; for by so doing you may save yourself many hours of sorrow and regret. You will not always enjoy the society of that friend. No, the time may come when like myself you may earnestly desire to hear the mild accents of that voice speaking forgiveness; but alas! it will be silent in death. Mother's Journal.

THE TRUE HEROES.

"IT is an honour to be able to mould iron,

to be skilful at working in cloth, wood, clay and leather. It is man's vocation to raise corn, to subdue the fibre of the cotton and convert it into beautiful robes, full of comfort for the body. They are the heroes of the race who abridge the time of human toil and multiply its results. But the glory which comes of epaulets and feathers-that strutting glory which is dyed in blood-what shall we say of it? In this day it is not heroism, it is an imitation of barbarism long ago passed by."

A COCK-FIGHTER'S CURSE.

A PERSON who lived in the parish of Sedgley, near Wolverhampton, having lost a considerable sum by a match at cockfighting, to which practice he was notoriously addicted, swore in the most horrid manner, that he would never fight another cock as long as he lived; he frequently called upon God to damn his soul, to all eternity if he did, and with dreadful imprecations, wished the devil might fetch him if he ever made another bet. We need not wonder that resolutions so impiously formed should be broken; for a while, however, they were observed; but he continued to indulge himself in every other abomination to which his depraved heart inclined him. About two years afterwards, Satan, whose willing servant he was, inspired him with a violent desire to attend a cock-fight at Wolverhampton; and he complied with the temptation. When he reached the place, he stood up, as in defiance of heaven, and cried, "I hold four to three on such a cock." "Four what?" said one of his companions in iniquity. "Four shillings," replied he. "I'll lay," said the other. Upon which they confirmed the wager; and, as his custom was, he threw down his hat, and put his hand in his pocket for the money; when, awful