CLIQUES.

IN the Editorial' of the first number of our Magazine I noticed the words, 'to prevent cliques,' and I thought that as there decidedly are cliques in the Oxford High School, it might be of use to say something more about them.

But perhaps there may be some who do not think there are any cliques in the school; so I will prove it. I have heard girls say, 'I should like to know So-and-so, but she is always with such and such girls, and I can never get an opportunity of speaking to her.' It is also most disagreeable for girls outside the cliques, who feel very uncomfortable and in the way, if they are obliged to separate or to mingle with these devoted partisans.

Cliques certainly must harm the school, for the members are interested only in themselves and in the failings of those outside their circle, and if any leave, the rest lose a great part of their love for the school. If the nice girls club together, then the bad girls whom we despise' (if there are any) must follow their example; but I expect that both, if they thought over it, would see that it is a mere matter of gratitude to the school and those belonging to it, to do what we can for the institution, and also that it is a mere matter of sisterly love.

Our late Head Mistress, in her letter to us, said, 'Remember the influence that every one of you has upon her companions.' Are we remembering it when we only trouble ourselves about our great friends, and hardly deign to speak a word to the other girls?

Is it not one of the nice feelings of being at school that you are, as it were, one great family, drawn closer together by undergoing the same experiences and trials, and that, as members of that family, you are equally interested in one another.

It is a fearful responsibility to think that by your example and influence you may lead a schoolfellow down the bad path,

as well as up the good; but that is no excuse for shrinking from the inevitable task of your whole life; so let us try to remember that it is in our power to make—

Footprints that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.'

MARGARET EVETTS.

NATURE AND ART.

WHEN We look at the respective meanings of these two words we trace between them a connecting link which should render their consideration one of comparison rather than of contrast. Both seek to illuminate and to interpret-Art to illustrate Nature, Nature to show forth that which is higher still. To a great number of people Nature is no typical word, but simply conveys the idea of a glorious view, or a lovely sunset; to them it has only external beauty, and forms a lifeless, soulless, but magnificent spectacle, on which it is good to look for its beauty alone. That it has an inspiring power, a living and pervading influence, they do not appear in the least to conceive. In the same manner Art is to them a landscape upon paper, a painted photograph taken from Nature. They are, however, more ready to perceive in Art that mind and spirit which they utterly ignore in Nature, forgetting that according to their own theory, Art being merely an imitation, cannot possess that which is lacking in the original.

The mistake of this idea lies in the fact that Art is really not an imitation at all; call it an exquisite rendering-a true interpretation, if you will; but to think of Nature as a lifeless and soulless whole, or of Art as a mere outward representation

of parts of that whole, is equally and terribly wrong. It is a modified form of the first of these errors, the lack of perception of the spirit of Nature, which causes sometimes a strange indifference to Nature in comparison with Art. These two great powers, which are in reality working to one and the selfsame end, they mistake for rivals; then, contrasting them, and losing sight of the First Cause of both, they declare that Nature is surpassed by Art, and say, for instance, that the amount of moral force which goes to produce an exquisite painting, and the soul which may be shadowed forth in it, together raise it to a height above that of the power which it represents, and that thus the painting, to which mind and thought and soul have contributed, is grander than its original. They cannot see that what they call the soul of the painting is indeed the true interpretation of that spirit of Nature which they ignore, which has been caught at and dimly shadowed forth by one of their own kind; nor do they understand that the picture is only noble in proportion as it rightly renders and illustrates that spirit. There is in Art a kind of realization, an embodiment of the subtle forces which lie hidden in Nature; such a realization is easier of comprehension for us than the essence from which it was formed. That essence is as it were the thought which true Art puts into words; and for many the words are the plainer.

But for those who thus embody their conceptions for their fellows, and communicate to them, by means of Art, an ideal of perfection, surely real reverence should be entertained. They cast a light on the path of life; holding high their lamps, heights upon heights are disclosed which struggling humanity may scale; degrees of perfection are unfolded for toiling men to reach. This is what Art teaches to us; this is how she stretches a helping hand, or points the way on the rugged ascent of life. This is how she makes plain to us the perfect order and beauty of a faultless Nature, and exhorts us to bring reflections of these into our tangled lives. And we, following the lights she brings to us, turn back again to study Nature

afresh, and to feel our whole being stirred with undefinable desire, with intangible longing after the perfection we begin to perceive. Art has been our guide to bring us back to Nature; not our own, but the genius of another has unfolded to us glories which we shall never lose sight of again. Gazing at the external beauty of Nature, we shall insensibly drink in the spirit which pervades the whole, and draw from it our lessons of harmony and peace; true children of Nature, we shall strive to make our lives as beautiful and as consistent, as stable and as harmonious as the ways of our great mother would teach us, till at last our souls attain to the perfection we have striven after so earnestly, till our ideal is at last fulfilled, and we are satisfied with it.

MARY MAPLETON.

RAIN DROPS.

Once there fell on a sunny day
A shower,

On a sunny day in the month of May,
It lasted an hour.

Two little drops came down from the sky,
Together;

They couldn't see the reason why

'Twas stormy weather.

One little drop he kissed the other,
One, two, three;

Called him his dearest little brother

Tenderly.

Little brother, where will you go

When we get down?

Into the country, midst the heather,

Or into the town?'

'Into the country,' said the other,
'Into the hay.'

And speaking thus he kissed his brother
And passed away.

Five little rabbits went out to play,
Frisky and fleet;

To toddle about amid the hay,

Which smelt so sweet.

One little fellow sniffed the fresh air
With his dear nose.

And the other cried out, 'O Bunny take care."
Rain I suppose.'

A wee drop settled on Bunny's pink nose,
He squeaked;

He bent and buried it in his toes,

To his hole he sneaked.

In a small back yard in a dirty street,
Lay a sprouting grain;

Unknown, uncared for, choked by the heat,
Panting for rain.

One little drop fell soft from the sky,
Water indeed;

Like a tear which some one had shed up on high,
Pitying its need.

ALICE E. LEWIS.

THE CHILDREN'S PAGE.

DO NOT JUDGE BY APPEARANCES.

АH! mother, how much I should like to be Dorothy Campbell; she is so clever, and so pretty, and lives in that large beautiful house, and drives out every day, and'-but