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MARCH, 1856.

WHERE shall the child of sorrow find

A place for calm repose ?
Tbou Father of the fatherless,

Pity the orphan's woes !
What friend have I in heaven or earth?

What friend to trust but Thee?
My father's dead, my mother's dead :

My God, remember me !

Thy gracious promise now fulfil,

And bid my troubles, cease ;
In Thee the fatherless shall find

Both mercy, grace, and peace.

I've not a secret care or pain,

But He that secret knows :
Thou Father of the fatherless,

Pity an orphan's woes !

KENILWORTH CASTLE. KENILWORTH (near Warwick) seems to have derived its name from a fortress which stood, so long ago as the Saxon times, upon a place called Hom, or Holme Hill; and which, it is supposed, was built by one of the Saxon Kings of Mercia, named Kenulph, and his son Kenelm. The last syllable -worth-means, in the Saxon, mansion," or “dwelling-place :" hence every one will see how the word “Kenilworth" was formed. Some writers, however, say that the history of this place is far more ancient, and incline to connect it with the name of the great British Sovereign, Arthur.

In the reign of Henry I. the present castle was commenced. It soon came to be reckoned “the glory of all these parts,” and to take rank among the most stately castles in England.

Queen Elizabeth's famous visit to Kenilworth was paid in July, 1575. After not a few changes, following that date, Cromwell divided the castle and lands among his captains and counsellors; and from that time all went to ruin. The fine natural lake is now almost dried up. All parts of the sumptuous edifice are utterly desolate : but still, as our authority says,* the ruins are such as, “ by their extensiveness, and beauty, and romantic associations, leave eye, heart, and fancy content to desire nothing more than there lies before them.”



LITTLE CLARA. In a little book, which I am told is out of print, 1 have read some particulars about a baby, that may

• Old England.

please my young readers. The account was written several years ago by her mother, who probably died soon afterwards, as she was then in a consumption. I shall give you mostly her own words:

I had a dear little girl, fifteen months old, named Clara. Bertie (who died some time before) was very fond of his sister, and often said to her, “ I love you, baby; and Jesus loves you, and died for you. You do not know about Him yet; but we will teach you all about Him, when you can understand.” Taking her up in my arms one day, carrying her to the window, and pointing upwards to the deep blue sky, I said, ““ A good Pa lives up there; and He loves Clara so much, and is looking at the baby now.” She listened attentively, peeped up into the sky, looked again at me, smiled, and seemed interested in her first introduction to the Good One. “Here a little, and there a little,” thought I, as I set her down; and she ran away to her merry gambols on the carpet. In the course of an hour or two afterward, I again lifted the baby to the window, repeating the lesson before given; and then I added, “ Look at these nice little hands. That good Pa made them for Clara.” She looked at them, turned them about, and then showed them to me. I now told her to say Ta to that dear kind Pa in the sky. Looking upwards, and raising her little arms towards heaven, she cried, " Ta." After this lesson, whenever she was asked who made her hands, and blue eyes, and rosy cheeks, she always pointed upwards, answering “Pa ky.” Before Clara either walked or talked, she was taken to the house of God. She was always tolert quiet: but after her nurse found that Clara k about God, she talked to her on the way; tel her whose house we were going to, wby we w and who it was we heard about when there; urg her to be very still. Alice tells with tears how fixed her expressive eyes upon her, “as if understood every word;" but that when the gregation began to sing, nothing could restrain from carolling, in a shrill clear voice, “My Pak

We were one day walking on the lawn, which spangled over with daisies, and Clara was soon busy in gathering her handful. She then si looking at them closely; and, holding them up me, said, “Ni !" meaning nice. I told her that good Pa in ky had made them for her, and bade thank Him. She immediately held up the dat as high as she could reach, and, waving her ha cried, “ Ta, ni !"

Clara soon learned to understand very well t all her mercies came from God-fruit, every kin which she called barberries, the clothes which k her warm, the kind friends who loved and took of her. And thus she learned before her meals, when any new thing was given her, to bow her li head, and say, “Ta, Pa ky!"

The goodness and kindness of God to her tau Clara to be good and kind to others, so she often gave away the last crumb of a nice ca or the whole portion of fruit she had received, pi after piece. If her brother or sister were in trout and weeping, she would say, so tenderly, “ Dont

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Ernie!" When much vexed and teazed, she sometimes lifted her little hands to strike, saying, “Me bip ou, bad boy;" but the instant I said, “We should love: Pa in ky loves ;” she would tenderly embrace them, striving to atone for the unkindness.

It was when she was about twenty months old that she began to kneel, without being reminded, beside the bed or chair, before she left my room in the mornings, and, reverently folding her little hands, and bowing her head, to pray without help. Her simple prayer was expressive of but one desire, and ran thus :-—"Pa ky!--me ky!-ma ky!-Ernie ky! -Emmie ky!-papa ky!” meaning grandpapa. Perhaps the youngest readers of this Chapter ought to be told that Clara meant, “ Father in heaven, take me, and mamma, &c., to heaven." Then she would spring on her feet so joyously, and go away to breakfast. But if her nurse led her to the door without prayer, she loosed her hand, and, running back to a chair, said, in a tone of gentle reproach, " Pa ky!" Indeed, at whatever hour of the day she was with me in my room, and I led her towards the door without first kneeling down, she almost always pulled me gently to the bed, knelt down, placed my hand upon her head, and looking at me said, as if reminding me, "Pa ky!” During family-prayer it was litle Clara's frequent practice to creep to any one she thought was not paying proper attention : shaking her head in token of displeasure, and pointing her fore-finger at the person, she gently threatened, in a whisper, “No barberries!" When Ernie or I have been away from home, Clara always

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