til the return of the Jews from the Bab- In later times the books of Moses were ylonish captivity, during which period thus read in the synagogue every sabbath they had almost lost the language in day. which the Pentateuch (that is, the five books of Moses) were written, that it became necessary to explain, as well as to read, the scriptures to them; a practice adopted by Ezra, and since followed. To this custom our Savior conformed; and, in the synagogue at Nazareth, read a passage from the phophet Isaiah; then closing the book, returned it the priest, and preached from the text. Young Harry climbed the church-yard wall, From spot to spot he idly roved O'er relics of the dead, And, pausing oft, with anxious eye, Their little tablets read. At length, as low he stooped to trace A sound, as of a spade at work, Then instantly upon his feet And round the church-yard, searchingly, And soon, upon a spot remote, A grave-digger he spied, Who stood, with spade and pickaxe both, To him the boy did soon approach His massy spade did lift. And "Pray," said Harry, when his voice But scarcely had he spoke the words, The deep-toned funeral bell. Then opened wide the church-yard gate, First moved the minister of God In long and flowing gown, The book of prayer was in his hand, His eyelids drooping down. Next walked the bearers, two and two, The handkerchief they pressed. And, lastly in that funeral train, The once-loved playmates of the dead, Thus onward, through the church-yard green, O'er many a mound, until it reached And now the little coffin here Was rested on the ground, The minister then opened wide He read of Jesus, who blest hopes And promises had given, That those who die with faith in Him He spoke of death, that long, long sleep, "How careful then," said this good man, To mind God's holy will and word, "For soon, how soon they cannot know, To take their dreamless rest." He ceased; the little coffin then Young Harry gazed upon the lid, And saw, with rolling tears, They laid him in his narrow bed, The earth was shovelled o'er, With many a tear, then, one by one, And when, at length, the grave was closed; He sat upon that little mound To meditate alone. "Not half so many years," thought he, "And soon, the minister has said, How soon I cannot know, God may be pleased to call me hence, "And then he said, that God would take * To live with him in heaven.' "Perhaps he will be pleased to call On me this very night, And then my eyes may never greet Another morning's light. "And, O, I do remember now Full many a secret sin! It makes me tremble when I think How naughty I have been. "How can I then expect to see God's great and glorious face? And will He take my soul to heaven, "And yet although (that good man said) We disobey him thus, He sent his only Son on earth To bleed and die for us. "How good our heavenly Father is "To this kind Father I will kneel, To take my sins away.' And then, upon the little mound Within that church-yard still and lone, "Thou, who art great and good,” said he, "O, wilt thou condescend To teach me always what is right, "And wilt thou, for my Savior's sake, "And, if thou please to call me hence, Then, O my Father, take me home To dwell in heaven with thee !" When Harry rose, his heart was filled A good and gentle boy. No more from school he wandered far, Or played the rebel there; His place was punctually filled, His tasks were conned with care. THE THE VILLAGE FLORIST. BY MRS. HOFLAND. HE author of Elia's Essays says, in the metropolis (which was Mr. Lamb's the children of the poor do not field of observation) and all large towns; prattle; they think and talk-not of holi- but in the country, though early care and days and games, but of the price of pota- depressing poverty may occasionally visit toes and starch.' Perhaps this is the case young hearts, they generally participate In with the lambs, birds, and butterflies, modest appeal, and patient plodding which surround them, those buoyant through frost and snow, mire and rain, spirits and simple enjoyments, which be- won his pity, and excited in his own aflong to the spring-time of existence. fectionate girl the warmest interest. summer he gathered, from his own wellcultivated garden, flowers, which Rose delighted to tie up into tasteful bouquets for Gatty's basket; and often, when placing them there, he would tell the child to call on her return for a little cold meat, or bottle of beer, so welcome to her infirm relative, or her own hungry, but uncomplaining self. This, at least, was the case with Gertrude Price, commonly called in her own village, Gatty, the flower-girl.' Yet het lot in life was very lowly, and her comforts very scanty: she lived with her mother's aunt, an aged infirm woman, who, with difficulty, procured a bare subsistence for herself and orphan relative, by uniting the labours of a charwoman (when able to undertake them), a baker of crumpets, and the seller of the produce of a small garden, in which she cultivated herbs and flowers. As soon as Gatty could thread her way through the lanes and over the meadows, in the vicinity of her grand-aunt's cottage, she became in winter the retailer of cakes, and in summer of nosegays and little bunches of herbs, through a rather extensive circuit; and, being a pretty, black-eyed little girl, with a thankful smile and a sweet voice, there were few persons who had received her humble courtesy for the pence they laid out, who were not willing to deal with her again. But Gatty's most constant customers, and best friends, were Mr. Stepney and his daughter Rose. This gentleman had taken a cottage in the village, for the sake of its pure air, and its vicinity to the vicarage, which was inhabited by the companion of his boyhood. Gatty's cakes had tempted his weak appetite, as seen in her neat basket; and her grateful looks, And when, in the declining year, Gatty's stock was all gone, and her aunt's cakes preparing for the afternoon's sale, Rose received her every morning an hour before her poor father was stirring, and taught her to read and write, to knit garters and net night-caps for sale. There was indeed nothing which a girl in her fourteenth year could communicate to a child in her ninth, that Rose omitted to teach to Gatty, which could benefit one in her humble station; and, confined as she now was by the declining health of her beloved and only parent, her contrivances to help the poor child, either by renovating her scanty wardrobe, replenishing her basket, or exciting her to learning, formed her only solace and amusement. Beneath her fostering care, the hitherto-stunted plant became like a flower in the sunshine; she grew taller and stronger-was no longer the patient. drudge, but the cheerful laborer. Gatty could now run with the swiftest, laugh with the gayest; and many a titled girl |