The sun that shines in nature's strength,
To us by God was given;

The silvery moon and twinkling stars,
Are each the gifts of heaven.

But not the waters, nor the trees,
Nor grass, nor flowers that grow;
Nor sun,
nor moon, nor twinkling stars,
Doth half his glory show.

There is a world above the sky,

Where saints and angels fair,

Are dress'd in robes of spotless white,
And crowns of gold they wear.

JESUS who sits amidst that throng,
Upon his great white throne,
Scatters his brilliant beams around,
And makes his glory known.

My reader, and if you and I,
Meet in that happy throng,

We'll try to swell our notes of praise,
In one immortal song.

E. C.

SUMMER APPROACHING.

WE hail thy approach thou delightful harbinger of exquisite beauties! The feathered tribe, with joy at thy coming, warble forth their most melodious strains, and gladden the heart of man with their sweet songs; we behold the lovely flowers, which just sprang up in the spring, now in the height of their glory and magnificence, perfuming the air with their fragrant odours; and never may we forget that all these are the gifts of the only Wise and Good Being who is continually shedding down blessings upon us. Thank Him, my dear young friends, thank Him for all you enjoy, and remember that though you are now in the spring-time of life, soon, very soon, will your summer pass away, and the autumn and winter of age will come gradually and surely upon you, as they have upon thousands. Remember now your Creator-Forget not now the Saviour, the Lord Jesus Christ-seek now the wisdom the Holy Spirit imparts and thus you will be prepared for spending, not a few transient years, but an endless duration of existence, where

everlasting spring abides, And never-withering flowers.

M. D. W.

A SABBATH DAY IN AMERICA. (From the Note Book of an Elderly Gentleman.)

BY MRS. HARRIET B. STOWE.

Ir was near the close of a pleasant Saturday afternoon, that I drew up my weary horse in front of a neat little dwelling in the village of N- This, as near as I could gather from description, was the house of my cousin, William Fletcher, the identical rogue of a Bill Fletcher of whom we have aforetime spoken. Bill had always been a thriving, push-a-head sort of a character, and during the course of my rambling life I had improved every occasional opportunity of keeping up our early acquaintance. The last time that I returned to my native country, after some years of absence, I heard of him as married and settled in the village of N-, where he was conducting a very prosperous course of business, and shortly after received a pressing invitation to visit him at his own home. Now as I had gathered from experience the fact that it is of very little use to rap one's knuckles off on the front door of a country house without any

knocker, I therefore made the best of my way along a little path, bordered with marigolds and balsams, that led to the back part of the dwelling. The sound of a number of childish voices made me stop, and looking through the bushes I saw the very image of my cousin Bill Fletcher, as he used to be twenty years ago-the same bold forehead, the same dark eyes, the same smart, saucy mouth, and the same "who cares for that" toss of his head. "There now," exclaimed the boy, setting down a pair of shoes that he had been blacking, and arranging them at the head of a long row of all sizes and sorts, from those which might have fitted a two year old foot and upward, "there, I've blacked every single one of them, and made them shine too, and done it all in twenty minutes-if any body thinks they can do it quicker than that, I'd just like to have them try—that's all."

"I know they couldn't, though,” said a fair haired little girl, who stood admiring the sight, evidently impressed with the utmost reverence for her brother's ability, "and Bill, I've been putting up all the playthings in the big chest, and I want you to come and turn the lock, the key hurts my fingers."

"Puh! I can turn it easier than that;" said Bill, snapping his fingers, "have you got them all in ?"

"Yes, all-only I left out a few things, and the string of red beads, and the great rag baby, for little Fanny.

"Oh, to be sure," said Bill, very considerately, "babies can't read, you know, as we can, nor hear bible stories, nor look at pictures." At this moment I stepped forward, for the spell of former times was so powerfully on me, that I was on the very point of springing forward with a "halloo there, Bill," as I used to meet Bill's father in old times, but the look of surprise that greeted my appearance brought me to myself.

A SABBATH DAY IN AMERICA..

"Is your father at home?" said I.

"Father and mother are both gone out; but I guess, sir, they will be home in a few moments, won't you walk in ?"

I accepted the invitation, and the little girl showed me into a small and very prettily furnished parlour. There was a piano with music books on one side of the room, some fine pictures hung about the walls, and a little neat centre table was plentifully strewn with books. Besides this, the two recesses on each side of the fire-place contained each a book-case, with a glass locked door.

The little girl offered me a chair, and then lingered a moment as if she felt some disposition to entertain me if she could only think of something to say, and at last looking up in my face, she said in a confidential tone, “Mother says she left Bill and me to keep house this afternoon, while she was gone, and we are putting up all the things for Sunday, so as to get everything done before she comes home. Bill has gone to put away the playthings, and I'm going to put up the books." So saying she opened the doors of one of the book cases, and began busily carrying the books from the centre table to deposit them on the shelves, in which employment she was soon assisted by Bill, who took the matter in hand in a very masterly manner, showing his sister what were and what were not "Sunday books," with the air of a person entirely at home in the business. Robinson Crusoe and the many volumed Peter Parley were put by without hesitation-there was, however, a short demurring over a North American Review-because Bill said he was sure his father read something one Sunday out of one of them, while Susan averred that he did not commonly read in it, and only read in it then because the piece was something about the bible; but as nothing could be settled definitely on the point, the Review was laid "6 on the table," like knotty questions in