always be taught ; Catholic in respect of all graces, which shall in it be practised; and Catholic in respect of that catholic war it is to wage against all its ghostly enemies, for which it is called Militant. O, preserve me always a true member of Thy Catholic Church, that I may always inseparably adhere to Thee, that I may always devoutly praise and love Thee.

Glory be to Thee, O Lord my God, who hast made me a member of the particular Church of England, whose faith and government, and worship, are Holy, and Catholic, and Apostolic, and free from the extremes of irreverence or superstition; and which I firmly believe to be a sound part of Thy Church Universal, and which teaches me charity to those who disssent from me; and therefore all love, all glory, be to Thee.

O my God, give me grace to continue stedfast in Her bosom, to improve all those helps to true piety, all those means of grace, all those incentives of Thy love, Thou hast mercifully indulged me in her Communion, that I may, with primitive affections and fervour, praise and love Thee.

THE OAK TREE.

LONG ago in changeful Autumn,

BISHOP KEN.

When the leaves were turning brown,
From the tall oak's topmost branches
Fell a little acorn down.

And it tumbled by the pathway,

And a chance foot trod it deep

In the ground, where the winter
In its shell it lay asleep.

With the white snow lying over,

And the frost to hold it fast,

Till there came the mild spring weather, When it burst its shell at last.

First shot up a sapling tender,

Scarcely seen above the ground;

Then a mimic little oak tree,
Spread its tiny arms around.

Many years the night dews nursed it,
Summers hot, and winters long,

The sweet sun looked bright upon it,
While it grew up tall and strong.

Now it standeth like a giant,

Casting shadows broad and high,
With huge trunk and leafy branches,
Spreading up into the sky.

There the squirrel loves to frolic,
There the wild birds rest at night,
There the cattle come for shelter

In the noontime hot and bright.

Child, when haply thou art resting 'Neath the great oak's monster shade,

Think how little was the acorn,

Whence that mighty tree was made.

Think how simple things and lowly,
Have a part in nature's plan,
How the great hath small beginnings,
And the child will be a man.

Little efforts work great actions,
Lessons in our childhood taught

Mould the spirit of that temper,

Whereby noblest deeds are wrought.

;

Cherish then the gifts of childhood,
Use them gently, guard them well
For their future growth and greatness
Who can measure, who can tell?

Moral Songs.

THOUGHTS AND INCIDENTS,-No. I.

Some keen frosty nights had

It was about this time last year, or it might be a little earlier, for the sharp blasts which winter sends before him to warn autumn of his approach, had not yet stripped the trees of their summer robes of beauty. indeed sufficed to change its tints of varied green into a particoloured mixture of yellow, and red, and brown, while the number of scattered leaves upon the walks, augmented by every breath of wind that sighed among the branches, foretold too plainly, that the period of nakedness and dissolution was near at hand. Still the sun shone brilliantly, perhaps, more brilliantly than during the full glory of summer, for there was a clearness in the atmosphere, which lent to his beams a sparkling brightness and tinged them with a rich colouring of gold. I had escaped from the close dusky streets of the town, and was taking a stroll with the friend whom I was visiting among the sequestered lanes which lay near the house. The day was bright and lovely as I have already described, the air bracing and keen, the whole landscape, vale, and upland, variegated coppice and open field, wore an expression of quiet autumnal beauty, but it betrayed also un

mistakable signs that the year was in its decay, and that ere long the stern relentless band of winter would sweep away its remaining glories.

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Such a season has its own thoughts,-thoughts of seriousness, perhaps of sadness. For the tokens of decay and death which we see every where around, remind us of that fastcoming time when we too must be unclothed of this earthy tabernacle and see corruption." The thought of our past lives, as of the summer that is ended, is one of pleasures for ever gone, of opportunities neglected, of good gifts abused, of seeds of evil sown, the fruits of which will live, though we, and all else that is ours perish; while the future, stripped of the false colours with which, in the gay opening of the year, we are so ready to invest it, looms up dark and shadowy before us, revealing nothing to our anxious gaze but death and eternity. Such, I say, are the thoughts which would generally suggest themselves to a reflective mind at this season, for it is one of the sad consequences of sin, that whatever brings forcibly before us the certainty of our being shortly called upon to quit this world, is sure of producing fear and anxiety. It ought not to be so, it is not so, to the earnest Christian, who ardently loves his Saviour, and longs to be more fully united to Him. He looks upon death as the happy moment which is to consumate all his desires.

Pausing in our walk, my friend turned to me and said, “Will you call with me to see a sick boy who lives just here ?’’ Of course I assented, and we directed our steps to a cottage, a little removed from the road side. Upon entering, we found the boy sitting by the fire, while his sister, a girl some years older, who had left her place to come home and nurse him,

was preparing something for his dinner. The boy was about fourteen, his sunken cheeks were red with fever, and his large dark eyes shone with the unnatural brightness of disease. He was evidently in an advanced stage of consumption, and it went to one's heart to behold his poor emaciated frame, and to hear the words come thick and husky, and with evident difficulty from his parched throat. For he had been a handsome boy, and, but a short time before, had no doubt, rioted in the full enjoyment of life and health. When asked how he was, he said, better, and spoke of some medicine which he had begun to take, which was to make him well. He complained of great weakness and of want of appetite; there were but few things he could eat, and they were not always to be had. Mrs. M. was very kind to him, and frequently sent him things she thought he would like. His cough too was very troublesome, he could get no sleep at night, and he was dried up with thirst; still he hoped to get better. I looked at the boy while my friend was conversing with him, with deep attention. There was a restless, appealing movement in the eye, and a painfully anxious expression in the whole countenance, which showed, whatever might be the sufferings of the body, that the mind had its own grief. The Bible lay open before him, and he listened with breathless eagerness, when my friend, turning from the subject of his bodily wants, proceeded to speak to him of matters concerning his soul's welfare. Poor boy sickness and suffering were rapidly tearing away the veil which had hitherto hid eternity from his view, and he shrank back appalled at the sight.

Upon leaving the cottage, I learned from my friend that