the dove? But, oftener far, findeth not the widow that her orphans are still fed by her own hand, that is filled with good things by Providence, till grown up and able to shift for themselves, away they go-just as the poor dove lamenteth for her mate in the snare of the fowler, yet feedeth her young continually through the whole ́day, till away too go they-alas, in neither case, perhaps, ever more to return!

We dislike all favouritism, and a foolish and capricious partiality for particular bird or beast; but dear, old, sacred associations will tell upon all one thinks or feels towards any place or person in this world of ours, near or remote. God forbid we should criticise the cushat. If ever we mention his name in Blackwood's Magazine, we shall, as usual, avoid all personalities, and speak of him as tenderly as of a friend buried in our early youth. Too true it is, that often and oft, when schoolboys, have we striven to steal upon him in his solitude, and to shoot him to death. In morals, and in religion, it would be heterodox to deny that the will is as the deed. Yet in cases of high and low-way robbery and murder, there does seem, treating the subject not in philosophical but popular style, to be some little difference between the two; at least we hope so, for otherwise we can with difficulty imagine one person not deserving to be ordered for execution, on Wednesday next, between the hours of eight and nine ante-meridian. Happily, however, for our future peace of mind, and not improbably for the whole conformation of our character, our guardian genius(every boy has a guardian genius constantly at his side both during school and play hours, though it must be confessed, sometimes a little remiss in his duty, for the nature even of angelical beings is imperfect)—always so contrived it, that, with all our cunning, we never could kill a cushat. Many a long hour-indeed, whole Saturdays have we lain perdue among broom and whins, the beautiful green and yellow skirting of sweet Scotia's woods, watching his egress or ingress, our gun ready cocked, and finger on trigger, that, on the flapping of his wings, not a moment might be lost in bringing him to the ground.

But couch where we might, no cushat ever

came near our insidious lair. Now and then a magpie,— birds who, by the by, when they suspect you of any intention of shooting them, are as distant in their manners as cushats themselves, otherwise as impudent as Cockneys -would come hopping in continual tail-jerks, with his really beautiful plumage, if one could bring one's-self to think it so, and then sport the pensive within twenty yards of the muzzle of Brown-Bess impatient to let fly. But our soul burned, our heart panted for a cushat; and in that strong fever-fit of passion, could we seek to slake our thirst for that wild blood with the murder of a thievish eavesdropper of a pye? The blackbird, too, often dropt out of the thicket into an open glade in the hazel shaws; and the distinctness of his yellow bill showed he was far within shot-range. Yet, let us do ourselves justice, we never, in our born days, dreamt of shooting a blackbird,-him that scares away sadness from the woodland twilight gloom, at morn or eve; whose anthem, even in those dim days when Nature herself it might be well thought were melancholy, forceth the firmament to ring with joy. Once "the snow-white cony sought its evening meal," unconscious of our dangerous vicinity, issuing with erected ears from the wood-edge. That last was, we confess, such a temptation to touch the trigger, that had we resisted it we must have been either more or less than boy. We fired; and kicking up his heels, doubtless in fear and fright, but as it then seemed to us, during our disappointment, much rather in fun and frolic -nay absolutely derision-away bounced Master Rabbit to his burrow, without one particle of soft silvery wool on sward or bush, to bear witness to our unerring aim. As if the branch on which he had been sitting were broken, away then went the crashing cushat through the intermingling sprays. The free flapping of his wings was soon heard in the air above the tree-tops, and ere we could recover from our almost bitter amazement, the creature was murmuring to his mate on her shallow nest, -a far-off murmur, solitary and profound, to reach unto which, through the tangled mazes of the forest, would have required a separate sense, instinct, or faculty, which we did not possess. So skulking out of our hiding-place,

we made no comment on the remark of a homewardplodding labourer, who had heard the report, and now smelt the powder, "cushats are gayan' kittle birds to kill," but returned with our shooting-bag as empty as our stomach, to the Manse.

But often-often did we visit, without thought of cushat, lint white, or goldfinch, the fragrant solitude of those hazel shaws. There stood, embowered in birch trees, within a glade and garden cleared into a beautiful circle from the wood-edge, a cottage, that many came to visit, less for its own exceeding loveliness, than for the sake of the inmates who sat beside its hearth. Dear to the schoolboy is the stated or unexpected holiday, when away he goes with a beating heart to the angling in the burn flowing among its broomy braes with many a fairy waterfall-or in the moorland loch with its one isle of pines and old castle ruin. Such-sometimes in passion, sometimes in pensiveness-was the sole pastime of our youth. But often-even in holiday-did we use to steal away from our gleesome comrades, and sit till evening in that sylvan shieling. How hushed and humble in their simplicity were all the ongoings of that lonesome household! The husband at work in the wood, changing the almost valueless hazel coppice, intertwined with briarroses, into pretty patches of pasturage, sheltered places for the new-dropped lambs-or felling, ere the sap had mounted into the branches, the ringing forest tree. The sound of his ceaseless axe was heard within-and his wife's face smiled as the clock gave warning of the hour of one or six-for in five minutes he was sure to enter the door. He was a labourer-not a slave. Ten hours was his spring and summer day's darg, in winter eightfor his mind deserved the time his body won for it, and he had likewise a heart and a soul to be fed. Had there been nothing for him to be proud of in his wife but her beauty, he might well have held up his head with her by his side at church or market. But he felt his happiness to be in her gentleness, her industry, her sense, and her faith that through the week kept his house clean, calm, cheerful, ordered,—and on Sabbath serene with a holy rest.

But how-oh how shall I speak of her-the lovely May -that all day long was wandering about her nest on little acts and errands of love, for which alone she seemed to have been born, so ready ever were her blue eyes to fill either with smiles or with tears! Gazing on her forehead, one might indeed easily have thought of the glistering of the threads of fine-beaten gold-or of the gossamer floating in the dew-drop in the morning sun-or of flowerrays dancing in the light to sudden breezes amid the woodlands dim-or some one star looking out in its brightness when all others were in mist. Yet when that fair child was alive-and a daily sight of her beauty given to my fraternal eyes-never once did such images gather round her head. There it was in the beauty of its own ringlets—the loveliness of those lips-the innocence of those eyes! When she spoke, it was her own voice alone that I heard-for it was unlike any other sound on this earth. Often as in her hearing her exceeding beauty had been praised-nor could delighted admiration, even by the thoughtful, be well repressed-she knew not that she was beautiful-but felt that she was happy, and hoped that she was good. Yet when in the Bible she read of sin and sinners, and of Him who died that they might be saved, rueful were the tears she shed, even as if her conscience had been disturbed, and trembled before her Maker. Early and deep in her soul were sown the seeds of Faith-that immortal flower which shall be perfected in heaven. Fair blossoms and precious fruits it bore in her-watered sometimes-but not too often, by solitary tears!-But these were her Sabbath hours, or her hours of week-day prayers. Her life was cheerful-joyful in its blessedness-and all the grief, all the sorrow, all the shame, all the contrition she ever suffered what were they all to the agony that, had she lived, might have been crowded into the raving darkness of one single day?

We have all read of children-touched by a light from heaven-meditating with a power seemingly far beyond their infant years, upon a world to come. Thoughts and feelings of which we can know not the full holy virtue -change them into saints, and make them sigh for

heaven. How sweetly have their little voices been heard in hymns, when they knew that they were lying on their deathbeds! They have told their parents not to weep for them-and having kissed their brothers and sisters with such smiles as pass between those who love one another, when one of them is about to go away on a visit from which in a few weeks he is to return—they have laid down their heads, never to be lifted again till the judgment-day. Oh! scoff not at the wonderful piety you may not understand! Look into the eyes of your own daughter of seven years as she is saying her prayers— and disbelieve not the truth told of creatures young and innocent as she-whom God took unto himself—and ere he stretched out his hand to waft them from earth, showed them a glimpse of heaven!

The skies of ten summers only were seen by her, whom in those days I used to call my sister; but whose image, even as the image of a daughter whom I myself had lost, is now sometimes witnessed kneeling along with our children at their prayers. Such is the more than memory-the clear-returning presence of her deathbed. It never could be said that she sickened before she died. Dying she was-that was visible to all-nor did her parents seek to conceal it either from her or themselves. To lose her-never after one certain day to see or hear her more that was a sentence that, had it been pronounced of a sudden all in one word, would have killed them both. But what do the souls of us mortal beings know of what is in them, till He who made them reveals it all by a dreadful, but a holy light, held close to them in the hand of sorrow? Week followed week-Sabbath followed Sabbath-and all the while she was dying before their eyes. Those eyes could not cease to weepno, no,-nature issued, in their affliction, no such decree. But there was at last little or no bitterness in their tears -there was no more sobbing-no more bursting of the heart as far as beings like us, who see God's judgments dimly, can be resigned-they were resigned—and so said both the father and the mother, when, left alone in the house of death, they closed their Lucy's eyes, and took