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lie under the thick shade of a spreading beech tree,-let me walk with her in the early morning, when the dew is yet upon the grass,-let me wander with her in the soft twilight, when the shepherd shuts his fold and the star of evening appears. Who is she that cometh from the south? Youths and maidens, tell me, if you know, who is she, and what is her name?

Who is he that cometh with sober pace, stealing upon us unawares? His garments are red with the blood of the grape, and his temples are bound with a sheaf of ripe wheat. His hair is thin and begins to fall, and the auburn is mixed with mournful gray. He shakes the brown nuts from the tree. He winds the horn, and calls the hunters to their sport. The gun sounds. The trembling partridge and the beautiful pheasant flutter, bleeding in the air, and fall dead at the sportsman's feet. Who is he that is crowned with the wheatsheaf? Youths and maidens, tell me, if ye know, who is he, and what is his name?

Who is he that cometh from the north, clothed in furs and warm wool? He wraps his cloak close about him. His head is bald; his beard is made of sharp icicles. He loves the

blazing fire high piled upon the hearth, and the wine sparkling in the glass. He binds skates to his feet, and skims over the frozen lakes. His breath is piercing and cold, and no little flower dares to peep above the surface of the ground, when he is by. Whatever he touches turns to ice. If he were to stroke you with his cold hand, you would be quite stiff and dead, like a piece of marble. Youths and maidens, do you see him? He is coming fast upon us, and soon he will be here. Tell me, if you know, who is he, and what is his name?

Fifth Evening.

ON THE MARTIN.

Look up, my dear (said his papa to little William), at those bird nests above the chamber windows, beneath the eaves of tie house. Some, you see, are just begun,-nothing but a little clay stuck against the wall. Others are half finished; and others are quite built-close and tight-leaving nothing but a small hole for the birds to come in and go out at. What nests are they? said William.

They are Martins' nests, replied his father: and there you

see the owners. How busily they fly backwards and forwards, bringing clay and dirt in their bills, and laying it upon their work, forming it into shape with their bills and feet! The nests are built very strong and thick, like a mud wall, and are lined with feathers to make a soft bed for the young. Martins are a kind of swallows. They feed on flies, gnats, and other insects; and always build in towns and villages about the houses. People do not molest them, for they do good rather than harm, and it is very amusing to view their manners and actions. See how swiftly they skim through the air in pursuit of their prey! In the morning they are up by day-break, and twitter about your window while you are asleep in bed; and all day long they are upon the wing, getting food for themselves and their young. As soon as they have caught a few flies, they hasten to their nests, pop into the hole and feed their little ones. I'll tell you a story about the great care they take of their young. A pair of martins once built their nests in a porch; and when they had young ones, it happened that one of them climbing up to the hole before he was fledged, fell out, and, lighting upon the stones, was killed. The old birds, perceiving this accident, went and got short bits of strong straw, and stuck them with mud, like palisades, all round the hole of the nest, in order to keep the other little ones from tumbling after their poor brother.

How cunning that was! cried William.

Yes, said his father; and I can tell you another story of their sagacity, and also of their disposition to help one another. A saucy cock-sparrow (you know what impudent rogues they are!) had got into a martin's nest whilst the owner was abroad; and when he returned, the sparrow put his head out of the hole, and pecked at the martin with open bill as he attempted to enter his own house. The poor martin was sadly provoked at this injustice, but was unable by his own strength to right himself. So he flew away and gathered a number of his companions, who all came with a bit of clay in their bills, with which they plastered up the hole of the nest, and kept the sparrow in prison, who died miserably for want of food and air.

He was rightly served, said William. So he was, rejoined papa. Well I have more to say about the sagacity of these birds. In autumn, when it begins to be cold weather, the martins and other swallows assemble

in great numbers upon the roofs of high buildings, and prepare for their departure to a warmer country; for as all the insects here die in the winter, they would have nothing to live on if they were to stay. They take several short flights in flocks round and round, in order to try their strength, and then, on some fine calm day, they set out together for a long journey southwards, over sea and land, to a very distant country.

But how do they find their way? said William.

We say, answered his father, that they are taught by instinct; that is, God has implanted in their minds a desire of travelling at the season which he knows to be proper, and has also given them an impulse to take the right road. They steer their course through the wide air, directly to the proper spot. Sometimes, however, storms and contrary winds meet them, and drive the poor birds about till they are quite spent and fall into the sea, unless they happen to meet with a ship, on which they can light and rest themselves. The swallows from this country are supposed to go as far as the middle of Africa to spend the winter, where the weather is always warm, and insects are to be met with all the year. In spring they take another long journey back again to these northern countries. Sometimes, when we have fine weather very early, a few of them come too soon; for when it changes to frost and snow again, the poor creatures are starved for want of food, or perish from the cold. Hence arises the proverb,

One swallow does not make a summer.

But when a great many of them are come, we may be sure that winter is over, so that we are always very glad to see them again. The martins find their way back over such a length of sea and land to the very same villages and houses where they were bred. This has been discovered by catching some of them, and marking them. They repair their old nests, or build new ones, and then set about laying eggs and hatching their young. Pretty things! I hope you will never knock down their nests, or take their eggs or young ones! for as they come such a long way to visit us, and lodge in our houses without fear, we ought to use them kindly.

THE SHIP.

CHARLES OSBORN, when at home in the holidays, had a visit from a schoolfellow who was just entered as a midshipman on board of a man-of-war. Tom Hardy (that was his name) was a free-hearted spirited lad, and a favourite among his companions; but he never liked his book, and had left school ignorant of almost everything he came there to learn. What was worse, he had got a contempt for learning of all kinds, and was fond of shewing it. "What does your father mean," says he to Charles, "to keep you moping and studying over things of no use in the world but to plague folks? -Why can't you go into his majesty's service like me, and be made a gentleman of? You are old enough, and I know you are a lad of spirit." This kind of talk made some impression upon young Osborn. He became less attentive to the lessons his father set him, and less willing to enter into instructive conversation. This change gave his father much concern; but as he knew the cause, he thought it best, instead of employing direct authority, to attempt to give a new impression to his son's mind, which might counteract the effects of his companion's suggestions.

Being acquainted with an East-India captain who was on the point of sailing, he went with his son to pay him a farewell visit on board his ship. They were shewn all about the vessel, and viewed all the preparations for so long a voyage. They saw her weigh anchor and unfurl her sails; and they took leave of their friend amid the shouts of the seamen and all the bustle of departure.

Charles was highly delighted with this scene; and as they were returning, could think and talk of nothing else. It was easy therefore for his father to lead him into the following train of discourse.

After Charles had been warmly expressing his admiration of the grand sight of a large ship completely fitted out and getting under sail;-I do not wonder (said his father) that you are so much struck with it:-it is, in reality, one of the finest spectacles created by human skill, and the noblest triumph of art over untaught nature. Near two thousand years ago, when Julius Cæsar came over to this island, he found the natives in possession of no other kind of vessel than a sort of canoe, formed of wicker-work covered with hides, and no bigger than a man or two could carry. But

the largest ship in Cæsar's fleet was not more superior to these, than the Indiaman you have been seeing is to what that was. Our savage ancestors ventured only to paddle along the rivers and coasts, or cross small arms of the sea in calm weather; and Cæsar himself would have been alarmed to be a few days out of sight of land. But the ship we have just left is going by itself to the opposite side of the globe, prepared to encounter the tempestuous winds and mountainous waves of the vast southern ocean, and to find its way to its destined port, though many weeks must pass with nothing in view but sea and sky. Now what do you think can be the cause of this prodigious difference in the powers of man at one period and another?

Charles was silent.

Is it not (said his father) that there is a great deal more knowledge in one than in the other?

To be sure it is, said Charles.

Father. Would it not, think you, be as impossible for any number of men, untaught, by their utmost efforts, to build and navigate such a ship as we have seen, as to fly through the air?

Charles. I suppose it would.

Fa. That we may be the more sensible of this, let us consider how many arts and professions are necessary for this purpose. Come-you shall begin to name them, and if you forget any, I will put you in mind. What is the first? Ch. The ship-carpenter, I think.

Fa. True-What does he do?
Ch. He builds the ship.

Fa. How is that done?

Ch. By fastening the planks and beams together.

Fa. But do you suppose he can do this as a common carpenter makes a box or set of shelves?

Ch. I do not know.

Fa. Do you not think that such a vast bulk requires a good deal of contrivance to bring it into shape, and fit it for all its purposes?

Ch. Yes.

Fa. Some ships, you have heard, sail quicker than others -some bear storms better-some carry more lading-some draw less water-and so on. You do not suppose all these things are left to chance?

Ch. No.

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