into the water, and appears no more. The Hottentots take a different method. Having found the path by which the animals leave the river, they dig a deep pit, cover it with slender wands, and again cover these with dry leaves, moss, and turf. The first animal that comes that way seldom fails to fall in, where they kill him securely with spears and other weapons.

LITTLE HENRY'S FIRST JOURNEY.
'Twas not on rails with flying speed,

That Henry made his trip;
'Twas not upon a prancing steed;
Nor air-balloon, nor ship.

In nurse's arms, so safe and sure,
(Her arms are stout and strong,)
Has little Henry made his tour,
Two hundred paces long.

Confined from birth by massive walls,

He knew no out-door joy;

So, wrapt and muffled round with shawls,-
A bundle of a boy,-

Away, away, on travel bent,

We sallied out of door;
Beyond the garden-wall we went
Full fifty yards and more!

But what with hood, and cape, and cloak,

And nurse's flowing shawl,

Poor Henry could not see the folk,

Nor anything at all.

And now about the world outside

He nothing knows or cares:

His world's our house, so great and wide;
His Alps a flight of stairs.

The rooms are countries, near and far,
The ceiling is the sky;

And all the people that there are,

Mamma, and nurse, and I.

Beloved babe, if death should spare,

You'll travel forth again,

And prove, although God's world is fair,
How false the world of men!

And when, my child, you've ceased to roam,

And all your journeys end,

May heaven be your lasting home,

And Jesus be your Friend!

T. M.C.

ALONE IN THE LIGHT-HOUSE.

A LONG, narrow point of land, whose shores were washed by the waves of the northern Atlantic, stretched for some distance out into the sea. For miles on either side the beach was smooth and sandy, with scarcely a curve or an angle to break the straight line which divided the land from the water; and had it not been for the light which burned so brightly and faithfully from the lighthouse on the point, many a noble vessel would have gone to pieces on its treacherous shoals. This little strip of land had always been called The Neck,

and, except the tall light-house painted in the strongest white and black, with the tiny stone cottage attached, and two or three fishermen's huts, there was no habitation for many miles around.

Two old people, a grey-haired man and his wife, had for years been the tenants of the little cottage; and every night, as their faithful old clock rung out the hours, they each took their turn in mounting the stone steps, and the steep iron ladder of the tower, to trim the lamp, and keep its light from going out. Besides this old couple, there dwelt in the cottage a child of some eight or nine years; too young to be a daughter of the light-keeper and his wife, and too unlike them in every way for even the relation to exist between them which her loving title of Grandpa" and "Grandma” might have implied.

It was generally known about there, that, six years before, a ship had gone to pieces on the coast, and of all those who floated ashore, only this child was living; she was clasped in the arms of a dead woman, whom the light-keeper buried beneath a clump of water-willows, and only a lock of her long fair hair was preserved, in case she should ever be inquired for. Indeed, there was nothing else to save; for there was no mark on her garments, save that on the child's white dress a delicate thread was woven into the shape of the letter W. She was taken to the light-house; and because the inmates had no children of their own, and because she looked so bright and beautiful in their homely rooms, they adopted her as their own. For a long time they puzzled themselves about her name; the child could