THE BEREAVED MOTHER.

THE following affecting story was related in America, not long since, with touching simplicity, by the bereaved mother herself, an emigrant from the old world. During the recital, the expression of her fine intellectual face, her fast-flowing tears, attested a truth we all admit-that warm hearts and tender sympathies may exist where the refinements of polished life are wanting:

"The steerage of our ship was crowded with pas sengers of all ages, and before we had been long at sea, a malignant disease broke out among the children on board. One after another sickened and died, and each was in its turn wrapped in its narrow shroud, and committed to the deep, with no requiem but the bursting sigh of a fond mother, and no obsequies but the tears of fathers and brothers and pitying spectators. As they suddenly plunged into the sea, and the blue

waves closed over them, I clasped my own babe more strongly to my bosom, and prayed that heaven might spare my only child. But this was not to be. It sickened, and day by day I saw that its life was ebbing, and the work of death begun. On Friday night it died, and to avoid the necessity of seeing what was once so beautiful, and still so dear, given to gorge the monsters of the deep, I concealed its death from all around me. To lull suspicion, I gave evasive answers to those who inquired after it, and folded it in my arms, and sang to it, as if my babe was only sleeping for an hour, when the cold long sleep of death was on it. A weary day and night had passed away, and the sabbath came. Like others, I wore my neatest dress, and put on a smiling face—but no! it was a heavy task, for I felt that my heart was breaking. On Monday, the death of the child could no longer be concealed, but, from regard to my feelings, the captain had it enclosed in a rude coffin, and promised to keep it two days for burial, if in that time we should make land. The coffin was placed in the boat which floated at the ship's stern, and through the long hours of night I watched it—a dark speck on the waves, which might shut it from my sight for ever. It was then I thought of my dear cottage home, and my native land, and the kind friends I had left behind me, and longed to mingle my tears with theirs. By night I watched the coffin of my babe, and by day looked for the land-raising my heart in prayer to Him who holds the winds in his hand, that they might waft us swiftly onward. On the third morning, just as the sun had risen, the fog lifted and showed us the green shores of New Brunswick. The ship was laid to; and then the captain, with a few men, left, taking the coffin with them. I was not permitted to go, but from the deck of the vessel I could see them as they dug the grave, under thick shades of the forest trees, on the edge of a sweet glade, which sloped down to

THE LITTLE ORPHAN'S HYMN.

the water-and in my heart I blessed them, and prayed that God would reward their kindness to the living and the dead. When they returned on board, the captain came to me and said, 'My good woman, the place where your son is buried is Greenville, on the coast of New Brunswick. I will write it on a piece of paper, that you may know where his remains lie.' I thanked him for his care, but told him that the record was already written on my heart, and would remain there till my blessed boy and I should meet in a brighter and a happier world."

Mother's Magazine.

THE LITTLE ORPHAN'S HYMN.

My father and mother are dead;
No friend nor relation have I;

And now the cold earth is their bed,
And daises grow thick where they lie.

I cast my eyes into their tomb-
The sight made me bitterly cry—
I said, "and is this the dark room
Where my father and mother must lie."

I cast my eyes round me again,
In hope a protector to see;
Alas! for the search was in vain-
No one had compassion on me.

I cast my eyes up to the sky;
I groaned though I said not a word;
But God was not deaf to my cry-
The Friend of the Fatherless heard.

Oh yes, and he graciously smiled,
And bid me on him to depend;
And whispered, "Fear not little child,
I will be thy father and friend."

THE SPARROW-HAWK.

The SPARROW-Hawk abounds throughout Europe. It is in length about one foot, and across the wings nearly two: the legs are slender, and the tail long; its bill is black. Above, it is of a deep grey colour; beneath, white, with a reddish tinge and streaks of brown on the throat and other parts. The female is considerably larger than the male; builds in trees or old ruins, and lays three to six eggs of a dirty white colour, with reddish spots. It eagerly pursues small birds, and frequently commits sad havoc among the inhabitants of the dove-cot and poultry-yard; but it is more easily tamed than most of the rapacious tribes, and is not unsusceptible of affection for its keeper.

The KITE, a large and handsome, but cowardly bird, is spread over Europe, Asia, and Africa. It measures nearly three feet from the end of its yellow bill to the tip of the tail, which is dark coloured and forked: the feathers above are deep brown, with pale edges; the under parts are of a rusty-iron colour, with dark stripes. It breeds on trees, and forms its nest of sticks, lined with wool, laying two or three eggs, white, spotted with dirty yellow. It is known by its flight, which resembles a sailing or gliding through the air, without the least apparent motion of its wings. He lives chiefly on carnage: when he falls in with a

WHOLESOME ADVICE.

bird that has been previously wounded, or some unfortunate chicken or duckling that has strayed too far from the maternal wing; though sometimes, when pressed by hunger, it assumes an unusual boldness, and making a sudden clutch, will carry off one of a brood even under the eye of the mother, whose agitation and anguish is most strikingly displayed as she screams after her unresisting offspring, carried away in the talons of the rascally thief. He is known in Scotland by the name of the Gled.

The COMMON HAWK is another of this class of birds, seldom extends beyond twenty-one inches in length, or fifty across the expanse of its wings. Its bill is bluish, above, the plumage is deep brown, with pale margins, below, it is of a greyish tinge, with darker spots, and sometimes cross-bars of white, especially on the breast, belly, and vent; the tail feathers, which are a little longer than the wings, are of a dusky colour, with pale tips and brown bars. It builds in large woods, usually seizing the old nest of a crow, which it enlarges, and lines with wool and other soft materials: the female lays two or three eggs the size of a hen's, white, with rusty spots at the larger end. It is of an indolent, sluggish nature, often remaining perched on the same bough for the greatest part of the day. It feeds on mice, rabbits, frogs, and birds, pouncing on its prey on the ground.