A FRIEND of mine, seeking for objects of charity, got into the upper room of a very old house. It was vacant. He saw a ladder pushed through the ceiling. Thinking that perhaps some poor creature had crept up there, he climbed the ladder, drew himself through the hole, and found himself under the rafters. As the garret into which he had thus entered, though cold and empty, was not without light, he soon saw a heap of chips and shavings, and on them a boy about ten years old. He was asleep, but hearing a noise he awoke. "Boy, what are you doing here?" "Hush! don't tell anybody, please, sir." "What are you doing here 1"

"Hush! please don't tell anybody, sir, — I'm a-hiding."

"What are you hiding from?"

"Don't tell anybody, please, sir."

'Where's your mother }"

"Please, sir, mother's dead."

'- Where's your father?"

"Hush! don't tell him, don't tell him! but look here!"

He turned himself on his face, and through the rags of his jacket and shirt my friend saw that the boy's flesh was bruised and his skin was broken.

"Why, my boy, who beat you like that?"

"Father did, sir!"

"What did he beat you like that for 1"

To

"Father got drunk, sir, and beat me 'cause I wouldn't steal."

"Did you ever steal 1"

"Yes, sir; I was a street thief once!"

"And why don't you steal any more 1"

"Please, sir, I went to the missionschool, and they told me there of God, and of heaven, and of Jesus; and they taught me 'Thou shalt not steal;' and I'll never steal again if my father kills me for it. But please, sir, don't tell him."

"My boy, you must not stay here; you'll die. Now, you wait patiently here for a little time. I'm going away to see a lady. We will get a better place for you than this."

"Thank you, sir; but please, sir, would you like to hear me sing a little hymn 1"

Bruised, battered, forlorn, friendless, motherless, hiding away from an infuriated father, he had a little hymn to sing!

"Yes, I will hear you sing your little hymn."

He raised himself on his elbow and sang—

"Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,
Look upon a little child;
Pity my simplicity,
Surfer me to come to thee.
Fain I would to thee be brought,
Gracious Lord, forbid it not:
In the kingdom of thy grace
Give a little child a place."

"That's the little hymn, sir; good-bye." The gentleman went away, came back again in less than two hours, and climbed the ladder. There were the chips, and there were the shavings; and there was the boy, with one hand by his side and the other tucked in his bosom underneath the little ragged shirt—dead.

SUSAN TAYLOR AND THE ROSE.

SUSAN TAYLOR was a very discontented girl; she was never pleased with anything—always looking out for what was

disagreeable, and not for what was pleasant in anything. She was going away from home, and her grandmother asked her if she would have a rose to put in her dress; so, being fond of flowers, she told her that she would like one. Away went her grandmother, with her staff in her hand, into her little garden, and gathered the finest rose that grew there. There were two buds growing on the same stem with the rose, and the leaves were as fresh and as green as the leaves of a rose-bush could be. You may suppose that Susan was not a little surprised when her grandmother snipped off the rose, the two buds, and the green leaves with her scissors, and offered Susan Taylor the stem alone, all covered with thorns!

"O grandmother, this is not a rose. Do you think that I will stick that ugly stem in my dress, without a single flower or leaf upon it? No; that I never will. You do not deserve to have roses growing in your garden if you spoil them in this way."

"Perhaps not," mildly replied her grandmother; "but there are other people in the world besides me who spoil their roses."

"Then," said Susan, " they must be very silly people."

"I think so too," replied her grandmother. "And now I will tell you the name of one of them. It is Susan Taylor!"

Susan reddened to her very ears while her grandmother said: "It has pleased God, Susan, to mark your life with many blessings, mingled with a few cares; and you are continually neglecting your blessings and remembering your cares. If, then, you thus wilfully despise your comforts, and repine over your troubles, what is this but throwing away the flowers and green leaves of your life, and sticking the thorns in your bosom?"

Who is like Susan Taylor i

THE HAPPY LITTLE GIRL.

THE happiest child I ever saw," says an English clergyman, "was a little girl I once met with when travelling in a railway carriage. We were both going up to London, and we travelled a good many miles together. She was only ten years old, and was quite blind—had never been able to see at all. She had never once beheld the bright sun, the twinkling stars,

the trees, the birds, or any of those pleasant things we see every day of our lives; but still she was quite happy. "She was all by herself, poor little thing. There was neither father nor mother, relation nor friend to be with her and take care of her on the journey; and yet she was contented and happy.

"' Tell me,' she said, on getting into the carriage, 'how many people are in this carriage; for I am blind, and can't see anything.' A gentleman asked her if she was not afraid. 'No,' she said; 'I am not afraid. I have travelled before. I trust in God, and know that he will take care of me.'

"But I soon found out why she was so happy. It was because she loved Jesus. I began to talk with her about the Bible, and I was surprised to find how much she knew about it. She talked to me about sin— how it first came into the world, when Adam and Eve ate the forbidden fruit, but how it was to be seen everywhere now.

"Then she talked about Jesus. She told me of the agony in the garden of Gethsemane—of his sweating great drops of blood; of the soldiers nailing him to the cross; of the spear piercing his side, and the blood and water coming out. 'Oh,' she said, ' how very good it was of him to die for us, and such a cruel death!'

"I asked her what part of the Bible she

liked best. She said she liked all the history of the Lord Jesus, but the chapters she most loved to hear were the last two chapters of the Book of Revelation. I had a pocket Bible with me, so I took it out and read those chapters to her as we went along.

"When I had done she began to talk about heaven. 'Only think,' she said, 'how nice it will be to be there! There will be no more sorrow nor tears. And then the Lord Jesus will be there: for it says, The Lamb is the light thereof; and we shall be with him. There will be no night there. But, best of all, there will be no blind people in heaven. I shall see Jesus there, and all the beautiful things in heaven. Won't that be glorious V"

Now, think of this poor little blind girl. Think of her taking such pleasure in talking about Jesus. Think of the joy she felt in hearing the account of heaven, where there is no more sorrow or night. If belonging to Jesus could make a poor blind child like this so happy, then the family made up of those who know and love him must be a happy family.

"GIRLS, HELP FATHER."

MY hands are so stiff I can hardly hold a pen," said Farmer Wilber as he sat down to "figure out" some accounts that were getting behindhand.

"Can I help you, father?" said Lucy, laying down her bright crochet-work. "I shall be glad to do so if you will explain what you want."

"Well, I shouldn't wonder if you can, Lucy," he said. "Pretty good at figures, are you?"

"I would be ashamed if I did not know something of them after going twice

through the arithmetic," said Lucy laughing.

"Well, I can show you in five minutes what I have to do, and it'll be a wonderful help if you can do it for me. I never was a master-hand at accounts in my best days, and it does not grow any easier since I have put on spectacles."

Very patiently did the helpful daughter plod through the long lines of figures, leaving the gay worsted to lie idle all the evening, though she was in such haste to finish her scarf. It was reward enough to see her tired father, who had been toiling all day for herself and the other dear ones, sitting so cosily in his easy-chair enjoying his weekly paper.

The clock struck nine before her task was over, but the hearty "Thank you, daughter, a thousand times !" took away all sense of weariness that Lucy might have felt.

"It's rather looking up when a man can have a clerk," said the father. "It's not every farmer that can afford it."

"Not every farmer's daughter is capable of making one," said the mother with a little pardonable maternal pride.

"Nor every one that would be willing if able," said Mr. Wilber; which last was a sad truth. How many daughters might be of use to their fathers in this and many other ways who never think of lightening a care or labour! If asked to perform some little service, it is done at best with a reluctant step and unwilling air, that robs it of all sunshine or claim to gratitude.

Girls, help your father. Give him a cheerful home to rest in when evening comes, and do not worry his life away by fretting because he cannot afford you all the luxuries you covet. Children perhaps exert, as great an influence on their parents as parents do on their children.