Untouched by his breath, see the candle shines

bright,

And burns with a clear and steady light;

Books have we to read-hush! that half-stifled knell,
Methinks, 'tis the sound of the eight o'clock bell.

Come, now we'll to bed, and when we are there
He may
work his own will, and what shall we care?
He may knock at the door-we'll not let him in,
May drive at the windows-we'll laugh at his din:
Let him seek his own home, wherever it be ;
Here's a cozie warm house for Edward and me.

SPEECH OF THE SCYTHIANS, TO ALEXANDER THE GREAT.

IF your person were as vast as your desires, the whole world would not contain you.-Your right hand would touch the east, and your left the west, at the same time. You grasp at more than you are equal to. From Europe you reach Asia; from Asia you lay hold on Europe. And if you should conquer all mankind, you seem disposed to wage war with woods and snows, with rivers and wild beasts, and subdue nature.

But, have you considered the usual course of things? Have you reflected that great trees are many years a growing to their height, but are cut down in an hour? It is foolish to think of the fruit only, without considering the height you have to climb, to come at it. Take care, lest, while you strive to reach the top, you fall to the ground, with the branches you have already laid hold on.

The Lion, when dead, is devoured by ravens; and rust consumes the hardness of iron. There is nothing so strong, but it is in danger from what is weak. It will, therefore, be your wisdom to take care how you venture beyond your reach.

Besides, what have you to do with the Scythians; or the Scythians with you? We have never invaded Macedonia; why should you attack Scythia? We inhabit vast deserts, and pathless woods, where we do not want to hear the name of Alexander. We are not disposed to submit to slavery, and we have no ambition to tyrannize over any nation.

That you may understand the genius of the Scythians, we present you with a yoke of oxen, an arrow, and a goblet. We use these respectively, in our commerce with friends, and with foes. We give to our friends, the corn, which we raise by the labour of our oxen. With the goblet we join in pouring out drink offerings to the gods; and with the arrows, we attack our enemies.

You, pretend to be the punisher of robbers, and are yourself the greatest robber the world ever saw. You have taken Lydia; you have seized Syria; you are master of Persia; you have subdued the Bactrians and attacked India. All this will not satisfy you, unless you lay your greedy and insatiable hands upon our flocks and herds.

How imprudent is your conduct! you grasp at riches, the possession of which only increases your avarice. You increase your hunger, by that which should produce satiety; so that the more you have, the more you desire.

THE HOLIDAY.

DAY of pleasure, come at last!
All my irksome lessons past!
Now I shall have time to play,
And enjoy my holiday.

Not a book shall meet my view,
Nor one stitch of work I'll do ;

I

may stroll about at ease,
Play, or do just as I please.

But is this what I desire?
Will not so much leisure tire?
Shall I, when the day is o'er,
Feel more happy than before?

No; 'tis said that days employed
Always are the most enjoyed;
And the truth I must confess-
Pleasure is not idleness.

THE SNOW STORM.

IN the month of December, 1821, a Mr. Blake, with his wife and an infant, were passing over the Green Mountain, near the town of Arlington, Vermont, in a sleigh with one horse. The drifting snow rendered it impossible for the horse to proceed. Mr. Blake set off on foot in search of assistance, and perished in the storm, before he could reach a human dwelling. The mother, alarmed (as is supposed) at

his long absence, went in quest of him with the infant in her arms. She was found, in the morning, dead, a short distance from the sleigh. The child was wrapped in her cloak, and survived the perils of the cold and the storm.

The cold winds swept the mountain's height,
And pathless was the dreary wild,
And, 'mid the cheerless hours of night,

A mother wandered with her child.
As through the drifted snows she pressed,
The babe was sleeping on her breast.

And colder still the winds did blow,

And darker hours of night came on,
And deeper grew the drifts of snow-

Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone--
"O God," she cried, in accents wild,

"If I must perish, save my child!"

She stripped her mantle from her breast,
And bared her bosom to the storm,
And round the child she wrapped the vest,
And smiled, to think her babe was warm.
With one cold kiss, one tear she shed,
And sunk upon a snowy bed.

At dawn, a traveller passed by:
She lay beneath a snowy veil;

The frost of death was in her eye;

Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale :

He moved the robe from off the child;

The babe looked up, and sweetly smiled.

THE SNAIL.

THE snail, how he creeps slowly over the wall,
He seems not to make any progress at all,
Almost where you leave him you find him;

His long shining body he stretches out well,
And drags along with him his round hollow shell,
And leaves a bright path-way behind him.
Do look, said young Tom, at that lazy old snail,
He's almost an hour crawling over a pale,
Enough all one's patience to worry;
Now, if I were he, I would gallop away,
Half over the world-twenty miles in a day,
And turn business off in a hurry.

Well Tom, said his father, but as I'm afraid
That into a snail you can never be made,
But still must remain a young master;
As such sort of wishes can nothing avail,
Take a hint for yourself from your jokes on the snail
And do your own work rather faster.

DIALOGUE.

Edward. Papa, will you decide which of us two is right? Charles says that we are Americans, and I think that we are English.

Father. What makes you think so,

child?

Edward. Because we speak English, and I know that we are not Americans, because I saw in my new picture-book that Americans look like Indians, and that they wear nothing but skins and blankets, and live in wigwams.

Charles. And I know we are not Englishmen, because we do not live in England. I know by the map that England is a great way off, and that we live in America.

Father. You are both partly right and partly wrong.