On your journey two clouds will accompany you, bearing one common name of self, inhabitants of this tender air, but unknown in the regions above, where the existence of self is lost in the contemplation of One great All. These clouds are distinguished from each other by the names of Please and Deny; there is a marked difference between them; Please-self is a white cloud, such as is sometimes seen before thunder or intense heat; by gazing steadily into the cloud, the eyes of a serpent may be discovered; the whole appearance of Please-self is attractive, innocent-like, and alluring, but she dazzles the eyes of her votaries and insnares them to the brink of destruction from which few escape. Deny-self is a black cloud with a silver lining; a careful observer will be able to view in the cloud the faint outlines of a cross; Deny-self is dark and lowering, uninviting, and burdensomelike, but she shields her attendants with a thick mist, separating them from folly and vanity, and hiding them from the lust of the flesh and the pride of life; it is only her outward aspect which is discouraging; she finally breaks away, disclosing to her followers the "Sun of Righteousness, with healing on His wings."

Habit continued, "I have some connexion with the clouds, and to whichever of them you steadily attach yourselves, the force of Habit will render a change difficult, though not impossible. The voice of the diamond heart reminds you this is not your rest, she point to the dark cloud of safety and instructs you to walk under the shadow of the cross." Habit vanished from sight, and Obedience became visible; she drew the children under the dark cloud and exclaimed, "Obey, and the blessings of Obedience will be yours."(To be continued.) YETTA.

LITTLE EFFORTS.

"" She hath done what she could."

Ir has often struck me in reading the parable of the talents, that the servant who was slothful and hid his lord's money was not one of the richly endowed, but one who had but one talent. And is it not too often so now. How frequently do we feel and act upon this feeling, that we would do more good were it not that we can do so little? There really seems a peculiar danger to those possessed of but one talent to neglect the exercise of it; and it were well if, whilst excusing ourselves for doing nothing because we cannot do much, we recollected that the slothful servant who buried only one talent was condemned for so doing, and would have been proportionally rewarded, had he, like the others, traded with and increased his lord's money.

Now it is true that little efforts are sometimes very troublesome to make, and we prefer sitting still and thinking what we would do if we were rich, or great, or talented, to doing the little that lies in our power. If we are sincerely desirous to be useful, and so w vling to begin with humble efforts, we need not fear but that larger and more extended spheres of duty will open before us. "All members have not the same office," and it should be an encouraging thought that the small stones of the temple are as useful in their places as the more imposing parts of the building, and that He who commended Mary because she had done 'what she could," will not despise any efforts, however small, to serve and glorify Him.-Extract from "Little Things."

WHAT IS PRAYER?

PRAYER is the soul's sincere desire,

Unered or unexpress'd,

The motion of a hidden fire

That trembles in the breast.

Prayer is the heaving of a sigh,
The falling of a tear,

The upward glancing of the eye

When none but God is near.

Prayer is the simplest form of speech

That infant lips can try;

Prayer the sublimest strains that reach

The Majesty on high.

Prayer is the Christian's vital breath,
The Christian's native air;
His watchword at the gates of death,
He enters Heaven with Prayer.

Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice,
Returning from his ways,

While angels in their songs rejoice,
And cry, Behold he prays!

The Saints in prayer appear as one,
In word, in deed, in mind;
While with the Father and the Son,
Sweet fellowship they find.

Nor prayer is heard on earth alone,
The Holy Spirit pleads,

And Jesus on His heavenly throne,
For mourners intercedes.

Oh Thou by Whom we come to God,

The Life, the Truth, the Way!
The path of prayer Thyself hast trod,

Lord, teach us how to pray.

SHORT TALES FOR LITTLE FOLK.

CHAPTER II.

YORK AND LANCASTER.

Continued from page 23, No. 1.

On the morning of the 5th, they stopped at the door of the cottage, in which lived old Robert and Alice, the father and mother of Roger and Mabel. They were very glad but much surprised to see their son and daughter, and their joy was soon damped by hearing the sad tale of Lord Clifford's death, and that the Lady dared not to keep her children with her or even to stay in her own Castle, lest she should fall into the hands of the foe. Old Robert was a shepherd and used to spend the whole day on the hills, watching his sheep, and when Henry had lived in the cottage a few weeks, Robert would take him with him on the fine bright days, and as they sat on the hill side, the old man talked to the little boy about the trees and flowers, the running streams and the still pools, the sun, the moon, and the stars, and of Him who made them all; Henry loved the old man's quiet talk, and soon learned to know the sheep by their faces and to be very useful to the good shepherd, for from being so much in the fresh moreland air, he grew strong and robust, and could run almost as fast as old Robert's clever dog, Task. Roger went away soon after he had brought his sister and

Henry safe to the shepherd's cottage, but Mabel remained and helped her mother, they were both very kind to Henry, so that he was quite happy in his new home, but sometimes he would talk to Mabel about Skiptʊn, and say, he should like to see his mother's face again.

But years passed on and he never saw her, his kind old friends Robert and Alice died, and Mabel married a young man called John Tyler, he also was a shepherd, and was going to take charge of a large flock of sheep at Barden, a place about eight miles from that which Henry had come from, when Roger and Mabel brought him to their father's cottage. Henry was about twelve years old when he went back to the West country with Mabel and her husband; here too he lived as a shepherd, tended the flocks, and was dressed like John Tyler, so that no one who saw him ever had a thought that he was the young Lord Clifford, to whom all the land around belonged.

The country about Barden consists of high round looking hills, partly covered with heather and fern, and partly with fine soft grass, on which the sheep used to graze. Between many of the hills were deep dells with tiny streams trippling through them, and alder or birch trees growing on their sides so as to make a pleasant shade in summer, here Henry would sit watching the clear water bubble round the large stones that lay in the bed of the stream, and he would often fancy he could hear words or a kind of tune in its murmurs, but on the bright fresh spring mornings, he liked best to be on the hill side to look into the blue sky and to listen to the larks, as they sprang from the turf at his feet, singing, and soaring, and seeming to sing louder and clearer the higher they soared.