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JUNE, 1858.

JUNE.

BY ANN GILBERT.
SUMMER, thou of the seasons three

Must surely be the Queen;
Hard-working Spring has raised for thee

A throne so bright and green.
And first comes June of thy merry band,

With skies so warm and blue,
And fresh green leaves on every hand,

And flowers of every hue.
Sweet is the scent she spreads around,

From fields of new-mown hay;
And pleasant to hear the ringing sound

Of the scythe at break of day!
And, as if to hail her steps, along

The flowery way she goes,
In Summer woods a ceaseless song

From morn to evening flows.
-A Child's Walk through the Year.

JUINS OF THE AUGUSTINE MONASTERY,

CANTERBURY, Turs monastery is famed as having been the urial-place of Augustine the Monk,- not the great Augustine, who lived earlier, and was an African Bishop. The beautiful remains stand on the north side of the Dover road.

Ethelbert is said to have given the ground; and the building rose, and long flourished, in a style worthy of royal patronage. But the history of such places is anything but creditable to the name of Christ's holy religion. They were generally broken up, or (as is commonly said) dissolved," at the time of the happy and blessed Reformation. Henry VIII. chose to like this Augustine monastery, and made it one of his palaces. Queen Mary afterwards granted it to Cardinal Pole ; but on her death it came back to the Crown, and in the year 1573 Queen Elizabeth held her court here.

THE THREE HANDFULS OF GRAIN. It was one day in the early spring of the year that Gerard Steimer called his three sons, Adolpbus, Henry, and the little Bernard, to his side. In his hand he held an open letter. The tears were in his eyes, and his voice was very sad, as he addressed them :

“You have often heard me speak, my children, of my brother Bernard, who left home many years ago to enter into business in a distant country."

“Yes,” they replied; and they gazed wonderingly at their father.

“Well, my sons,” he continued, "your unele Bernard, having at last amassed a considerable for tune, had determined to return to bis native village, bis abode with me; for we are the only ain of a happy family of seven brothers

rs."

incle coming soon ?” inquired Henry, ed tone. ld have been here by this time, my

his father; “but an all-wise Provirdered it otherwise. And now," he ir that you will never see him ; for this i me that he is very ill in a distant city, es me to come to him, that he may

more, and that I may assist him in | affairs."

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, my child. And during my absence Reimmer and his wife will come and

the house ; for I shall probably not the autumn, as I shall have to travel e; and, in case of your uncle's death,

a great deal for me to attend to." he will get well; and then you will me with you." Bernard, that that may not be; for he ord that the doctors say his case is isten now attentively, my children, to ping to tell you; for it is a message to from your dying uncle. He says, 'Give grain to each of your three children Ive them, to do with it what they think your absence; and, when you return, ide who has made the best use of it,

and you will reward that one according as I shall

tell you.””

It is autumn. The little Bernard stood watching at the open window, when a carriage drove hastily up to the door, and the aged Gerard stepped from it, holding in his hand a small tin box.

“O, there is father! There is father!” he exclaimed.

Then the three children rushed from the room, and threw their arms around him, saying,

“O, we are so glad to see you, father! You have been so long away!”

“And I am glad to see you too, my children, and all looking so well,” replied the aged man, as he bent forward and gave them each a kiss.

Cousin Jacob Reimmer and his wife now approached to welcome him; and he inquired of each of them how the children had behaved during his absence. “O! they have been very good boys,” both replied.

They all now entered the house. Gerard Steimer then placed the tin box that he held in his hand upon the table, and, taking a small key from his pocket, opened it, and drew from thence the last will and testament of his brother, Bernard Steimer.

All gazed sadly upon the old man, as with trembling hands he unrolled it and said,

“I had the sad pleasure of closing my brother's eyes in peace, and of laying his remains in their last resting-place. In this will he bequeaths the whole

his property to the one that I shall decide has ade the best use of the bandful of grain that I ve each of you before I left home. Let me now ar, my children,” he added, "what you have ne with it." "I,” said Adolphus," have saved mine. I put it a small wooden box, in a dry place; and it is just fresh as the day that you gave it to me." “My son,” said the father, in earnest accents, you have laid by the grain, and what hath it profited u? Nothing! So it is with wealth. Hoard it, d it yieldeth neither profit nor comfort.-And u, Henry," he continued, “what have you done th your handful?" "I ground it to flour, father, and had a nice eet cake made of it, which I have eaten." Foolish boy!” he replied ; "and it is gone, ving given you but a moment's comfort and pport. So it is with money. Spend it upon your asures, they also are but for a moment.” The d Gerard now turned towards his youngest son, 1, drawing him towards him, said, “What use has my little Bernard made of the ndful of grain that I gave him?" Che child smiled, and, clasping his father's hand ween his own, said,

Come with me, father, and I will show you." They all followed the boy, as he led the way tords a field that belonged to his father, but which s situated at some distance from the house.

See, father!” exclaimed the happy child; "see at has become of my handful of grain !" And

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