Edmund. A May-fly; I wish I had him to fish with. Alice. Ah! that's what all you boys think of-how to kill something.

Edmund. Why, what else is he good for?

Aunt C. Ah, Edmund! that is a deeper and more puzzling question than you suppose. This creature spends a full year, if not two, in its larva and pupa states, among reeds and mud.

Edmund. Like all insects; of course I know that. Aunt C. Listen. Do you know that after it has become what we call the perfect insect, with wings and three tails, it goes on to a further state of greater beauty?

Edmund. No; what does it turn into?

Aunt C. It does not exactly turn into anything; but, standing on a rough-edged blade of grass, or reed, it takes off its outer skin, like a glove, and comes out refined, more transparent, more beautiful, the three whisks of its tail much longer and more delicate, a more ethereal creature, and with nothing to do but to dance and enjoy itself, for it has not even to eat. Its animal organs are gone with its old body; it has only to dart and float in the sunshine till night, when it drops into the river and perishes.

Alice. How very wonderful! Why, do you suppose it is so ?

Aunt C. I cannot tell, except that I think there must be some deeper reason for its being brought to such perfection than merely to make bait for Edmund, or food for trout.

Alice (in a low voice). Can it be to show us in a sort of way what our resurrection bodies will be? Only it does not last; and, besides, hardly anyone

knows of it.

Aunt C. We cannot guess, my dear, except that we may own it as one of the wonderful emblems of truth

we see in all Nature, like the broken pieces of a mirror.

Edmund. Have you any verses about them?

Aunt C. None equal to the wonderfulness of the insect. These only dwell on its short life.

THE MAY-FLY.

The sun of the eve was warm and bright
When the May-fly burst from his shell,
And he wantoned awhile in that fair light
O'er the river's gentle swell;

And the deepening tints of the crimson sky
Still gleam'd on the wing of the glad May-fly.

The colours of sunset passed away,

The crimson and yellow green,

And the evening star's first twinkling ray
In the waveless stream was seen;
Till the deep repose of the stillest night
Was hushing about his giddy flight.

The noon of the night is nearly come-
There's a crescent in the sky;
The silence still hears the myriad hum
Of the insect revelry ;

The hum has ceased-the quiet wave
Is now the sportive May-fly's grave.

Y