you, that I cannot keep you much longer at school, as my fortune will not permit it."

This news was like a thunderbolt to Henry. He shed a torrent of tears, wrung his hands, and read over his mother's letter a hundred times; but when he came to the last words of his father, he was always obliged to stop. Night came, and he retired to bed; but he could not close his eyes for thinking of his father and the pain which his indolence had given him.

He also often thought of his mother, and the sorrow she would experience when he returned to her, "When," said he to himself, "when she sees my bad writing, when she gives me an account to cast up, which I cannot reckon, or when she examines me in my geography which I have not learned; when, in short, she finds my books unused, what grief and wretchedness will she experience on my account!"

Thus, tossing in his bed, he passed the night, without being able to sleep a single moment. Early next morning, he arose, went to the head-teacher, fell on his knees, and confessed that he had been hitherto a very idle boy: that he now felt the sad consequences of his negligence and want of application. He said he

sincerely repented of his faults, and wished most earnestly to amend them. "Tell me sir," said he, "pray tell me how I may do so; I will submit to everything."

The teacher touched by this frank confession, and the real distress of poor Henry, addressed him in a very tender and affectionate manner. "My dear boy," said he, "the time you have lost cannot be recovered; yet by close application, and diligent improvement of the time to come, you may regain a portion of what you have lost.

"Begin this very day to amend. Pay attention to whatever is said to you. Apply yourself diligently to your lessons; do not sleep over your duty, but employ for the future, a part of your holydays and time for play, in the study of what you have neglected. You may, in this way, repair, in some measure, the great loss of time which you lament."

Henry thanked the good teacher for his advice, and began from that day to follow it. He did not allow himself any amusement until he had diligently applied himself to his studies; nor would he then spend

any more time than was absolutely necessary for exercise.

If any fit of idleness overtook him, he immediately opened his mother's letter, and in reading the last words of his father, he felt his courage revive, and his good resolutions strengthened. It was by such conduct, maintained for a considerable length of time, that he acquired the habit of labor and application; and when he returned to his mother, so great had been his progress, and the alteration in his habits, that she received in him the greatest joy and consolation.

THE CHILD'S MEDITATION.

OW bright are the beams of the heart-cheering

How

sun,

As he daily pursues his bright journey above,—
But brighter, far brighter, the life of a child,
Who employs every hour in the duties of love.

How sweet is the breath of a morning in May,
When the flowers are so fresh, and the air is so mild;
But sweeter, far sweeter the gentle soft words,
That flow from the lips of a kind-hearted child.

When the motherly hen calls her feathery brood,
'Tis pleasant to see how they hasten away;
More pleasant it is to behold a dear child,
When its parents command, in a moment obey.

What a beautiful sight is a garden of plants,

That, arranged in fine order, all flourish and thrive,—

More beautiful still is a family group,

Where brothers and sisters in harmony live.

Thou best of all beings, who madest the world,
Every creature that lives, every object I see;
Oh, grant in thy mercy, that all I behold,
May instruct me each day in my duty to thee.