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Cam-el, thou dost turn thine eye
On him kind-ly,,
As if thou wouldst, cheer-ing, say,

Jour-ney on for this one day-
Do not let thy heart des-pond!
There is wa-ter yet be-yond !
I can scent it in the air
Do not let thy heart des-pair!"
And thou guid'st the trav-el-ler there.

Cam-el, thou art good and mild,
Do-cile as a little child ;
Thou wast made for use-ful-ness,
Man to com-fort and to bless.
And the des-ert wastes must be
Un-tracked re-gi-ons but for thee !

Mrs. Howitt.


Sug-ar is the juice of a cane cul-ti-va-ted in the West In-dies. It is very tall; grow-ing from ten to twen-ty feet high, with a knot-ted stem. The canes are cut down, and the juice is squeezed out and boiled with a little lime in it. As it boils, the scum which ri-ses to the top is care-ful-ly ta-ken off, and as soon as the liq-uid is clear, it is poured into shallow pans, to cool and hard-en. When the sug-ar has cooled into grains or crys-tals, it is put into large casks. The mo-las-ses, or moist part re-main-ing, is drained off, and the sug-ar is then ready for ex-por-ta-tion.

Sug-ar grows in very hot coun-tries, where Eng-lish peo-ple could not work in the fields. The heat would soon kill them, if they were ex-posed to it. Sug-ar is made by ne-groes, who first came from Af-ri-ca. Shall I tell you how they used to get the ne-groes? It is a sad story of cru-el-ty and in-jus-tice. Ships went to Af-ri-ca, and the poor Af-ri-cans were caught, torn away from their coun-try, crowd-ed into the ships, and carried away to the West In-dies, where they were sold --by the bad men who had sto-len them—to the sug-ar plant-ers. The mas-ters who bought them, made them work all day be-neath the burn-ing sun, and often cru-el-ly flogged them, if their tasks were not fin-ished. This dread-ful traf-fic was called the slave-trade. A few years ago, Eng-lish-men be-gan to feel how wick-ed it was to keep men as slaves, and a law was passed, ma-king all the slaves free. Oh, what joy for them! The is-lands, which were so full of suf-fer-ing and sor-row, are now filled with a hap-py, in-dus-tri-ous peo-ple. Good men have gone to teach the ne-groes a-bout God, and a-bout Je-sus Christ who died to save them, and many of them have be-come true Chris-tians. In some coun-tries the


Af-ri-cans are still bought and sold. Do you not hope that the day will soon come when they shall all be set free, and there shall be no more slaves ? “For God hath made of one blood all na-tions of men."


Swartz was a mis-sion-a-ry, that is, one who left his own coun-try to preach the Gospel to the hea-then. He died at the age of sev-en-ty-two, having been a mission-a-ry for-ty-eight years in In-dia. He had such a high cha-rac-ter among the hea-then, that he was suffered to pass through sav-age and law-less tribes un-molest-ed. They said, “ Let him a-lone,- let him pass,

he is a man of God!” A ty-rant, named Hy-der Al-ly, while he re-fused to en-ter into a trea-ty with oth-ers, said, “Send me Swartz ;-send me the Christian mission-a-ry to treat with me, for him on-ly can I trust." The peo-ple had been so cru-el-ly used, that they left their lands and re-fused to raise any-thing. All they had raised had been seized and ta-ken away. The whole coun-try would soon have been in a fam-ine. The hea-then ru-ler prom-ised jus-tice, and tried to in-duce them to go back to their farms; but all in vain. They would not be-lieve him. Swartz then wrote to them, ma-king the same prom-ises. Seven thou-sand men re-turned to their land in one day.

When he came to die, he lay for a time ap-pa-rent-ly life-less. Ge-ricke, a worthy fel-low la-bour-er from the same coun-try, sup-pos-ing he was ac-tu-al-ly dead, be-gan to chant over his re-mains a of the fa-vour-ite hymn which they used to sing to-geth-er, to soothe each oth-er in his life-time. The verses were sung through, with-out a mo-tion or a sign of life from the still form be-fore him; but when the last clause was o-ver, voice which was sup-posed to be hushed in death took up the second stan-za of the same hymn,-com-ple-ted it with a dis-tinct and sweet ut-ter-ance, and then was hushed,—and was heard no more. The soul rose with the last strain.

How sweet-ly death comes to a good man, who has faith-ful-ly served Je-sus Christ !-Todd.




There are many high hills in Scot-land, which are called Ben. The high-est of all is Ben Nev-is. On the taps of these Bens ea-gles build their nests. What nests

they are! flat like a floor, and very strong; the great sticks are of-ten placed be-tween two high rocks that hang over a deep place.

The ea-gles of-ten car-ry off the hares and rab-bits to their nests, and some-times


lambs. It is said that once, while peo-ple were ma-king hay in a field, a great ea-gle saw a babe ly-ing a-sleep on a bun-dle of hay, and dart-ing down from a-bove, seized it with its great claws, and flew away. All the peo-ple, in a-larm, hur-ried off to-wards the moun-tains, where they knew this ea-gle had built its nest, and there they could just see the two old birds on the ledge of the rock.

Many cried, and wrung their hands in sorrow for the dear babe, but who would try to save it? There was a sail-or, who was used to climb the tall masts of the ships, and he be-gan to climb the steep sides of the moun-tain. But he had on-ly gone a few steps, when the moth-er start-ed up from the rough stone where she had been sit-ting, looked up at the ea-gle's nest, and be-gan to mount the rock her-self. Though only a poor weak wom-an, she soon got before the sail-or, and

sprang from rock to rock, and when she could find no place for her feet, she held fast by the roots and the plants growing on the moun-tain. It was won-der-ful to see how she made her way. Her love to her babe strength-ened her limbs, and God kept her feet from slip-ping. Every one looked ea-ger-ly at her, as she reached the top; they feared lest the fierce birds should hurt her,—but nowhen she came into their nest, they screamed, and flew away. There the moth-er found her babe ly-ing a-mong the bones of an-i-mals, and stained with their blood; but the ea-gles had not be-gun to eat it, nor had they hurt a hair of its head. The moth-er bound it with her

shawl tight round her waist, and then be-gan quick-ly to de-scend, and this was far more dif-fi-cult than it had been to get up.

But where was the sail or all this while ? He had on-ly got up a lit-tle way, and then his head had grown gid-dy, and he had been forced to re-turn.

See the fond moth-er, with her babe in her bo-som, sliding down the rock, hold-ing now by the yel-low broom, and now by the prick-lý bri-ar, änd get-ting safe-ly down pla-ces as steep as the sides of a house. When she had got half way down, she saw a goat lead-ing its two kids into the valley; she knew that it would take its little ones along the ea-si-est path, and she fol-lowed the creature, till she met her friends com-ing up the mountain to meet her. How glad they were to see her a-gain amongst them! Many a mother wished to hold the babe in her arms. How inuch they won-dered to find the en-gle's claws had not torií its ten-der flesh !

What will not a moth-er do to save lier child! I hope this little babe, when it grew old-et, loved the kind moth-er who had climbed up the steep rock, to save it from the ea-gle's cru-el claws and blood-ý beak.-"Near Home."

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Look at that lit-tle crea-ture. Is it a hare? No, it is much stout-er than a hare; be-sides, it has not long ears like a hare. Is it a squir-rel ? No, it is much big-ger than a squir-rel, and it has not a long tail like a squirrel. Yet it is very much like a squir-rel in its way eat-ing. See, it is now sit-ting up, and hold-ing an ap-ple be-tween its fore-paws. Here, lit-tle fel-low, is a



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