those recollections of his youth had summoned into his eye, he sat thoughtful and motionless for a considerable time. At length he cheerfully resumed, "I hope you kneel down when you pray, Bessy; because some thoughtless children, and I doubt, grown up people too, say their prayers as they lie in bed."

"Oh, Tommy! that cannot do any good at all. Almighty God will not listen to such idle prayers.-But shall I sing you the new song, Tommy ?"

The tailor nodded assent, and the little girl sung the following very sweetly :

"Very little things are we,
Oh, how mild we all should be;
Never quarrel, never fight,-
This would be a shocking sight,
And would break a happy rule
Of our much lov'd Infant School.

Just like little pretty lambs,
Softly skipping by their dams;
We'll be gentle all the day,
Love to work as well as play,
And attend to ev'ry rule

Of our much lov'd Infant School.

In the winter, when 'tis mild,

We may run, but not be wild;

But in summer, we must walk,

And improve the time by talk;

Then we shall come nice and cool

To our much lov'd Infant School."

"Very nice, indeed," said the admiring tailor, "But do

you understand it all? What is the meaning of that part

about their dams?'"

"I know; I know;" cried the little girl, clapping her hands with glee; "Teacher told us their dams, means their mothers: for you know, Tommy, that those old sheeps are little lamb's mothers"

At this moment, a terrific scream from below, broke upon the stillness of the Summer's evening, which caused the poor, good-natured tailor to leap from the shop-board on which he was sitting, and a cold sweat burst from his forehead. His first impulse was to rush down stairs, and he advanced hastily towards the door, when he checked himself, saying, "I must not go; I suppose it is only play again." The screams were repeated more violently than before, and the tailor in an agony of sweat and alarm, appeared to be uncertain how to act, for he was afraid of the jeering tongue of the woman down-stairs. 'Oh, Tommy!" cried the child, "it is Annie Nelson; I'm sure she has happened something."

66

usually dark staircase was brightly illuminated by flames, which [completely enveloped the head and dress of little Annie Nelson, who still screaming with excessive pain from the fierce fire, had opened the door, and was flying down the stairs toward the street.

The kind-hearted man descended the stairs with more haste and noise than he had ever done before, and overtook the child on the next landing. To seize, throw her down, and wrap round about her a large rug, which fortunately, (or to speak more properly, providentially,) was hanging ove the hand-rail, was the work of a moment; though not accomplished without burning his own hands severely, and scorching his face. By this time the neighbours had been attracted to the spot by the continued screaming and the noise, the tailor had made in descending the stairs; so there was plenty of assistance to bear the poor little sufferer back to her mother's room, while others ran for the nearest doctor. Mrs. Nelson, who had gone out soon after she called her little girl from the street, now returned, and on learning the dreadful state of her child from the first group of people she met on the stairs, uttered a piercing scream, and fainted.

It is needless to enter further into particulars ;-let it suffice, that the child was found to be very dangerously burnt, and that for many days her life was despaired of; but that at length, more favourable symptoms presented themselves, and she began slowly to recover. When after many weary weeks, she could once more get down into the street, what a change the neighbours perceived in her! The beautiful countenance and flowing ringlets which had

been the pride of her mother's heart, were now gone, and all that was left, was a seared face and short frizzly hair. Annie Nelson is now a woman; but she will carry the marks of that evening's work to her grave with her. Had she never screamed, except when really in danger, the good tailor, acting on the first impulse of humanity and good nature, would have been in time to avert any very serious mischief. Her mother was, also, justly punished for her incivility.

Children may learn two lessons from this story:-Never to scream in sport, and, never to play with fire.

PAX.

THE CHILD'S FUNERAL.

Ir was on a bright afternoon, in the beginning of April, that a funeral entered the gateway of the Churchyard of the the little village of Staley. It was the funeral of a child; the coffin was a small one, and the young women who bore it had white handkerchiefs over their heads. The chief mourner was a poor woman in a widow's dress, and behind her walked a little boy and girl looking sad and awe-struck, though they were almost too young fully to understand what was going on.

Among those who joined in the mournful procession, some from curiosity, some perhaps from a wish to see committed to the earth the mortal remains of one whom they had well known, were several children, and it was remarked by several standers-by that some of these children, who, sad to say, were often to be seen looking at funerals with thoughtless and sometimes boisterous curiosity, now seemed saddened and serious, and listened with attention and reverence

to the solemn words uttered by the clergyman in the Burial Service. Well might they be thoughtful, these little ones! for she whom they now saw borne to the grave had been one of themselves, she had sat with them in the School, she had knelt with them in Church, she had walked with them in the fields and lanes, and played with them on the village-green. She had been strong and healthy, and merry as the strongest and merriest of those who now stood by and saw her laid in the cold earth. When the service was over and most of the people had left the Churchyard, three or four little girls stil lingered by the grave. One was crying bitterly, for she had been very fond of her who was gone, and the others looked serious and sorrowful.

"Poor Annie," said one of them at length, "how strange it will seem never to see her at School again."

"Was she long ill," asked another who did not seem to have known her as well as most of them, "Tell me all about it will you, Sally?"

"She was only ill a few days," replied Sally.

"She went

out last Saturday but one, with me, and Emily and a lot more of us to gather daffodils in the copse, and we gathered such beauties! and she was so pleased to bring home a large bunch to her mother; but as we came home it began to rain very hard and some of us ran home as fast as we could, but Annie had to lead her little brother, and so she could not come on very quick, and perhaps she caught cold then' though I don't know about that, but she was taken ill very soon after, with inflammation, I think the doctor called it, and she got worse and worse, and on Thursday she died."

Just then, Mr. Alton, the clergyman, who had been saying