that they were to come at once to the master. They came down hastily, not knowing what was the matter, and Margaret called them into her room, saying,

6

Well, Anthony, I suppose you will like to see Seppeli die,' and compelling him and his companion to enter the chamber. They stood motionless at sight of the dying boy, and could not conceal their horror.

'It is all over,' said the master. Then suddenly the dying boy opened his eyes, and looked around him, as if seeking something. His glance fell on Margaret.

"Thank you,' he said, in a faint voice, smiling at her.

"Peace-Jesus-heaven,' he whispered, and a bright smile parted his lips. Then his eyes rested on Anthony, and the sight seemed to give him new strength. With a last exertion of his dying powers, he raised himself and stretched out his hand to him.

'I have forgiven you from my heart,' he gasped out. Oh, Jesus will forgive you too. Pray-pray, and do not swear any

more.'

His strength was spent, he sank back, and a few minutes afterwards his spirit fled away from the frail little body.

It was half-past five in the morning. Margaret sat by the bed sobbing aloud, The master, deeply moved, went out of the room to conceal his grief. The men, too, went out, pale and trembling, without speaking a word.

A few days afterwards Anthony gave up his place, and went off, no one knew whither. The other man was never afterwards heard to utter an oath.

Margaret, who followed the little body to its resting-place, never lost all her life long the feelings she had learned from Seppeli, and the master too, led a different life from that time on. Seppeli's memory was long a blessing to the farm; and perhaps you too, dear children, who read his story, may, through God's grace, be moved by it to pray that you, too, may from this time on, love your Saviour above everything, and be faithful to Him even unto death.

TOO LATE.

oo late to rise, too late for school,
Too late to keep by each good rule,
The sluggard soon becomes a fool;
Oh, never be 'too late.'

Oh, use the precious hours to-day,
To gather knowledge while you may,
For quickly hasteth time away;

Then never be too late.'

And grateful to your parents be,
For tenderly they 've cared for thee,
And soon on earth we may them see

No more and mourn-' too late.
And to thy suffering brother man,
Give aid and comfort while you can,
Ay, like the good Samaritan,

Ere yet it be 'too late.'

For time now hasteth on apace;
Then seek the Heavenly Father's face,
Through life to guide thee by His grace,
Ere yet it be too late.'

C. C.

THE STORY OF MY SQUIRREL.

to

SHOULD like to tell you a story of a squirrel that once belonged me. Some years ago a little boy who lived near my home caught it when it was quite, quite young, and so tiny, that he used to keep it inside a warm glove, and let it sleep in his bed at night. When it grew stronger and older he gave it to me, and my mother bought me a proper cage for it, made with wires going round and round, instead of straight up like a bird's cage, which we called the wheel, and a box at one end, full of hay, for it to sleep in. In summer the cage always stood on a stand in the porch, just outside the hall-door, where it was sheltered from wind and rain, and on winter nights we carried it into a large spare room to keep him from the cold. sister took upon herself the care of "Twirry,' as we called him, because she was always so fond of pets, and she used to feed him

My

two or three times a-day with nuts, biscuits, white sugar, and milk. She always put on a particular tone of voice when she spoke to him, and made a sound which I cannot very well put into words, as I do not exactly know how to spell it, but it sounded more like 'Poor de den' than anything else. Twirry knew her voice perfectly, and even if he was in his box of hay, sleeping, he would spring out the instant she came near the cage, and begin to rush round and round the wheel as if to show his delight, or else hold out his paw to take the food she brought him.

Not long after he came my sister and I went away from home on a visit, and soon we had a letter from our mother to say that for some days she had been quite unhappy about poor Twirry; he would not. eat anything, or play in the wheel, and sat all day in his nest of hay, quite sulky; and when she went up to the cage, and tried to coax him to eat, she only heard a little cross, angry grunt, as if he was scolding her, and telling her to go away; and she began to be quite afraid he would die of hunger. At last, after many efforts, she succeeded in making a sound something like my sister's voice, and poor little hungry Twirry was persuaded then to creep out of his nest, and be fed once more. He was the merriest little fellow, and the way in which he used to fly round and round the wheel was the most ridiculous thing I ever saw, and would have made you laugh as much as it did me. I used to think sometimes that his having been taken from the nest so early was the reason that he never seemed to pine for the woods and trees, and seemed to be always so happy.

One very wet day, when we had carried his cage into the large spare room, by some means or other the door opened, and he got out. What a chase we had! for we were terribly frightened lest he should get out of the house, and be lost. At last my sister came into the room, and in a few moments Twirry made a rush at her, and ran up her dress, and into her arms, and then closing them round him, she carried him to his cage, and laid him down in the hay. The only

thing that really troubled us about poor Twirry was the cold, for he felt the cold very much, and one day we bought him a piece of flannel, and put it into his box; and to our surprise and amusement, he took it and put it on like a shawl, and seemed to know quite well that it was meant to keep him warm.

Well, I have not much more to tell you about Twirry. One cold afternoon in the early spring, as I was sitting alone upstairs, my sister came into the room crying. She had in her arms a large thick shawl, and something wrapped in it, and presently she unfolded it, and held up Twirry. His little body was cold and stiff, and his eyes fast shut, and he was quite dead! She held him close to her, and kissed him over and over again, but there was no use trying to bring back the merry life that was gone for ever, and we knew as we looked at the still form of our pretty darling, that we should never see him play in his wheel

any more.

The next day we took him to a man who stuffed animals; we would not have Twirry put to climb up a twig, because, for one reason, he had never known what it was to climb, but he was put to lie on a bed of moss, with his head resting on his paw, and his tail curled round him and his eyes closed, as if asleep; and a bell-glass over him; and the little stand was placed on a table in our bedroom. And in my bedroom it is still, for though we moved to another house some years afterwards, Twirry followed us, and I can see him now while I am writing. His table stands near my bed, and sometimes in the summer, when the curtain is drawn quite back because of the heat, the first thing I see when I open my eyes in the bright early morning is Twirry in his mossy nest.

We are soon going to leave this house, but wherever we may go, I think we shall never part with Twirry, because he reminds us of the merry days of our childhood, and of the pleasures that we knew in our dear old home.

M. H. F. D.