I shouted a prayer to Heaven," then called to my wife,"

and she

Tore with new strength at my fetters-God helped her, and I was free;

Then over the burning bulwarks we leaped for one chance of life.

Did they save us? Well, here I am," sir, and yonder's my dear old wife.

We were out in the boat till daylight, when a great ship passing by

Took us on board, and at Melbourne1 landed us by and by.

We've played many parts in dramas since we went on that famous trip,

But ne'er such a scene together as we had on the burning ship!

GEORGE R. SIMS.

THE FADING LEAF.

[Fine word-painting.]

"WE all do fade as a leaf." The sad voice whispers through my soul, and a shiver creeps over from the church-yard. "How does a leaf fade?" It is a deeper, richer, stronger voice, with a ring and an echo in it, and the shiver levels into peace. I go out upon the October hills and question the genii of the woods. "How does a leaf fade?" Grandly, magnificently, imperially, so that

B. P. H. F. 11. H. O. 16. Left H. L. 17. V.

Indicated Gestures. 2. H. O. 2. H. E. 3. H. Sw. 4. H. B. 5. H. L. 6. V. HO. 7. Left H. L. 8. H. Sw. 9. H. F. 10. 12. H. F. 13. H. L. 14. Left H. L. 15. B. D. F. H. O. 18. Hand to head. 19. B. H. O. 20. H. L. 21. Bend in listening attitude. 22. D. O. 23. Turn to P. 24. A. O. 25. Clasp hands. 26. Left H. L. 27. B. Cl. 28. Sp. 29. Cl. D. 30. H. L. 81. Sp. 32. A. O. 38. B. H. O. 34. Sp. 35. A. O. 36. B. V. H. F. 37. B. H. O. 38. B. D. F. 39. H. O. 40. B. H. O. 41. D. O. 42. P. D. O. 43. Hand to head. 44. Listening. 45. A.. 46. D. O. 47. B. Cl. 48. B. Par. D. O. 49. A. O. 50. D. O. 51. Sp. 52 A. O. 53. B. D. O. 54. Look to Left. 55. Left H. O: 56. A. O. 57. H. O. 58. B. Par. H. O. to left. 59. Point to self. 00 Ind. H. O. 61. Left H. O.

the glory of its coming is eclipsed by the glory of its departing; thus the forests make answer to-day. The tender bud of April opens its bosom to the wooing sun. From the soft airs of May and the clear sky of June it gathers greenness and strength. Through all the summer its manifold lips are open to every passing breeze, and great draughts of health course through its delicate veins and meander down to the sturdy bark, the busy sap, the tiny flower and the maturing fruit, bearing life for the present, and treasuring up promise for the future.

Then its work is done, and it goes to its burial—not mournfully, not reluctantly, but joyously, as to a festival. Its grave-clothes wear no funereal look. It robes itself in splendor. Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. First there was a flash of crimson in the lowlands, then a glimmer of yellow on the hill-side, then, rushing on exultant, reckless, rioting in color, grove vies with grove till the woods are all aflame. Here the sunlight streams through the pale gold tresses of the maple, serene and spiritual, like the aureole of a saint; there it lingers in bold dalliance with the dusky orange of the walnut. The fierce heart of the tropics beats in blood-red branches that surge against deep, solemn walls of cypress and juniper. Yonder a sober, but not sombre, russet tones down the flaunting vermilion. The intense glow of scarlet struggles for supremacy with the quiet sedateness of brown, and the numberless tints of yearlong green come in everywhere to enliven and soothe and subdue and harmonize. So the leaf fades-brilliant, gorgeous, gay, rejoicing-as a bride adorned for her hus band, as a king goes to his coronation.

But the frosts come whiter and whiter. The nights grow longer and longer. Ice glitters in the morning light, and the clouds shiver with snow. The forests lose their flush. The hectic dies into sere. The little leaf can no longer breathe the strength-giving air, nor feel juicy life stirring in its veins. Fainter and fainter grows its hold upon the protecting tree. A strong wind comes and loosens its last clasp, and bears it tenderly to earth. A whirl, an eddy, a rustle, and all is over-no, not all; its work is not yet done. It sinks upon the protecting

earth, and, Antæus like, gathers strength from the touch, and begins a new life. It joins hands with myriads of its mates, and takes up again its work of benevolence. No longer sensitive itself to frosts and snows, it wraps in its warm bosom the frail little anemones, and the delicate spring beauties that can scarcely bide the rigors of our pitiless winters, and, nestling close in that fond embrace, they sleep securely till the spring sun wakens them to the smile of the blue skies and the song of dancing brooks. Deeper into the earth go the happy leaves, mingling with the moist soil, drinking the gentle dews, cradling a thousand tender lives in theirs, and springing again in new forms-an eternal cycle of life and death "forever spent, renewed forever."

We all do fade as a leaf. Change, thank God, is the essence of life. "Passing away" is written on all things, and passing away is passing on from strength to strength, from glory to glory. Spring has its growth, summer its fruitage, and autumn its festive in-gathering. The spring of eager preparation waxes into the summer of noble work; mellowing, in its turn, into the serene autumn, the golden-brown haze of October, when the soul may robe itself in jubilant drapery, awaiting the welcome command, "Come up higher," where mortality shall be swallowed up in life. Let him alone fear who does not fade as the leaf-him whose spring is gathering no strength, whose summer is maturing no fruit, and whose autumn shall have no vintage.

66
"GAIL HAMILTON.”

"LIMPY TIM.”

[Dedicated with permission to the Right Honorable, the Earl of Aberdeen, P.C., President of the Ragged School Union.]

ABOUT the big post-office door

Some boys were selling news,

While others earned their slender store

By shining people's shoes.

They were surprised the other day
By seeing "Limpy Tim"
Approach in such a solemn way
That they all stared at him.

Say, boys, I want to sell my kit;
Two brushes, blacking-pot

And good stout box-the whole outfit;
A quarter buys the lot."

"Goin' away?" cried one. "O no,"
Tim answered, "not to-day;

But I do want a quarter so,
And I want it right away."

The kit was sold, the price was paid,
When Tim an office sought

For daily papers; down he laid
The money he had brought.

Of skarlet fever-Litul Ted-
Aged three-gon up to heven-
One brother left to mourn him dead-
Funeral to-morror-eleven."

"Was it your brother?" asked the mar

Who took the notice in;

Tim tried to hide it, but began

To quiver at the chin.

The more he sought himself to brace
The stronger grew his grief;

Big tears came rolling down his face,
To give his heart relief.

"By selling out-my kit-I found-
That quarter" he replied;
"B-but he had his arms around
My neck--when he d-died."

Tim hurried home, but soon the news
Among the boys was spread;
They held short, quiet interviews
Which straight to action led.

He had been home an hour, not more,
When one with naked feet

Laid down Tim's kit outside his door,
With flowers white and sweet.

Each little fellow took a part,
His penny freely gave

To soothe the burdened brother's heart,
And deck the baby's grave.

Those flowers have faded since that day,
The boys are growing men,

But the good God will yet repay
The deed he witnessed then.

The light which blessed poor "Limpy Tim"

Decended from above

A ladder leading back to Him

Whose Christian name is LOVE.

REV. T. HARLEY,

F. R. A. S., London.

A SLEEPY LITTLE SCHOOL.

A FUNNY old Professor kept a school for little boys, And he'd romp with them in play-time, and he wouldn't mind their noise;