THE STORMY PETREL.

THIS Bird is about the size of a swallow, and is met with in almost every quarter of the world, but most frequently on the northern and Atlantic oceans. They are called by the sailors, "Mother Carey's Chickens."

"Here run the stormy Petrels on the waves,

As though they were the shadows of themselves." They follow the ships in great numbers, picking up the greasy substances in the wake, and their appearance is generally the sign of a storm. In the most tempestuous weather, they are often observed skimming with incredible volocity the summits of the billows, and sometimes in the hollows between the surges.

"Outflying the blasts and the driving rain,

The Petrel skims o'er the stormy main;

So fleet that it scarcely e'en sprinkles its breast,
On the wave as it passes its curling crest."

The plumage of the Petrel is sooty black, excepting the coverts of the tail, the tail itself, and the vent feathers, which are white; it has long and slender legs. It nestles in holes in the rocks, or in the earth, and lays two white eggs. It makes a low purring noise when breeding, but at other times is a clamorous bird,

particularly during the night. Dr. Fleming mentions, that an individual bird which Mr. Scarth kept for some time in a cage, was supported by smearing the feathers of its breast with train oil, which the bird afterwards sucked with its bill. When the oil was placed in a saucer in the cage, the bird dipped its breast-feathers in it, and then sucked them.

The most remarkable circumstance in the history of this bird is, that it has been frequently observed following in the wake of ships hundreds of miles from the land.

The following beautiful lines, by Frances E. Browne, of Montreal, were written during a late passage of the writer from Ireland to Quebec :

Bird of existence brief,
Man is like thee,

Launching he knows not
where,

O'er a wide sea.

Toss'd on the billows

Of Life's stormy wave, Restless as thou

Till he sinks in the grave.

But not like thee, poor bird,

Never to rise

Soon on the wings

Of the spirit he flies.

Soars through eternal space
Ransom'd and blest,

Mounts to heaven's utmost
height;

There is his rest.

A GREAT SIN!

THERE is one great sin in the world which little folks at present do not know anything about. It is an awful and horrible sin; and this you will understand when we tell you that it takes away a man's senses and makes him so silly that he knows not what he says or does! Oh that men should be so foolish as to put an enemy into their mouths to steal away their brains! But so, alas! it is. You see now what we mean-we mean the sin of drunkenness-one of the greatest sins in the world, for it not only makes men silly, but it is, in the sight of God, a wicked and abominable thing, which he must abhor. But this is not all; it is the cause of many other evils, and is as a root from whence innumerable vices spring. We do not like to tell you all the mischief it has done. This would not be proper or even decent, but now and then we may mention a few sad facts, as warnings for

you.

For although now you know nothing of this sin, yet as, when you grow older, you may be tempted, it is right now to caution you against it. On the next

page will be found an ingenious device, which we advise you to commit to memory. It may be remembered in future days, and prove a preservative for your soul from this hateful sin.

THE

SIN OF

DRUNKENNESS

Expels Reason, drowns Memory, Distempers the body, defaces Beauty, Diminishes Strength, corrupts the Blood, Inflames the Liver, weakens the Brain, Turns Men into walking Hospitals, causes Internal, External, and incurable wounds; is a Witch to the senses, A Devil to the Soul, a Thief to the Purse, the Beggar's Companion, a Wife's Woe, & Children's Sorrow; makes Man become a Beast and

A Self-murderer, who drinks to other's
Good Health, and robs himself of
His own; nor is this all-

It exposes to the

THE SHERWOOD GIPSY.

[This is the title of a neat little book, written by Mr. Hervey, of Nottingham, from which we make the following extracts. It is sold by Mr. Preston, of Nottingham, and published in London by Aylott and Jones, and therefore may be had of any bookseller. We need hardly advise our young readers to buy it, for after reading these extracts, they will doubtless desire to possess a copy for themselves.] VERY early on Sunday morning, June 9, 1844, I rose with a desire to inhale the fresh air from the hills of Sherwood, previous to entering on my engagements at my Sunday-school. The morning was exceedingly lovely, and ten thousand charming monitors at once inviting to a feast "of fragrance," renewed to my mind those beautiful lines of Milton

"Awake! the morning shines, and the fresh field
Calls you; ye lose the prime, to mark how spring
The tender plants, how blows the citron grove;
What drops the myrrh, and how the balmy reed:
How nature paints her colours; how the bee
Sits on the bloom extracting liquid sweet."

I felt my mind a little harrassed, and clinging to

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