GOOD NEWS FROM A FAR

COUNTRY.

"MOTHER, may I go down to the shore, and sail my boat?" said little Dan Paulet. "Mother, do let me; the tide is in quite full, and I won't go near the rocks."

"Oh, granny," he cried again, "tell me if I may go down and sail my boat. Mother doesn't listen; she is reading the great book and she doesn't hear me."

"You may go, Dan, but keep from the rocks," said old Dame Paulet, who had been watching her daughter-in-law reading "the great book," which was no other than a Bible.

Dan made off with his boat in high glee, promising to keep clear of the Focks.

"Mother," said Alice Paulet, looking up from the Bible, "sometimes I can't understand what I read; but how plain this is, how it comes home to one's heart;" and she read: "As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far country" (Prov. xxv. 25). "I am thirsty to hear about Dan."

"Yes, my child, that seems plain enough, and comes to our hearts, because God has ordered things so that we feel it. A line from our poor Dan would be indeed like cold water to a thirsty soul; but it seems to me there's more in the verse than that, Alice."

Alice read the verse two or three times over, but she could see no more in it.

"Now I don't know that I should have," said her mother, "if I hadn't heard it talked over many years ago, when husband your was no bigger than little Dan." "And what was said about it?" asked Alice; "and who said it?'

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"It was an old sailor that said it. My husband had been gone to sea for more than six months, and I had heard nought of him. I didn't know how I was to hear, nor when; but I seemed to be looking out for news of him every day, and to fancy that every one I met knew something about him. One day I went down to the beach just where your little Dan is gone now, and there came an old sailor man by; but many strange seamen came to the place then, as they do now, and I didn't notice him.

“I was minding that my boy didn't get into danger, when the man came close and said he was a pretty lad. Of course I was pleased, and as he seemed well-spoken, and an aged man, I got in talk with him, and told him how my husband had been away six months, and I had heard no tidings of him.

"That's true enough,' said I.

"What country do you think is meant?' he said.

"The place where my husband is gone,' I answered.

Nay,' said he, 'I take it to be a country farther off than that.' And he pointed up to the blue sky and said, 'It is heaven.' Now I knew nothing about the Bible, but I didn't like that he should find that out, so I was quiet. And he said again :

"And what is the good news that comes from heaven?'

"Then I looked very foolish, for I didn't know what to say; so he began to tell me what he said was more to me than news of my husband.

"He told me about hell and heaven, and how we must be for ever in one or the

other; and how Jesus had died to save us from hell, and was now in heaven preparing a place for us; and, as he told me, he read it all straight from his Bible, place after place.

"I could not but listen to the old man, he was so earnest; and when he saw I looked earnest too, he said: 'Jesus, who is in that far country, heaven, sends you this good news, that you may go to him there and live happy for ever with him and his saints and angels. Shouldn't you be glad to go when have lived his time out in this world?' you "And then he read again such beautiful things such as, They shall hunger ho more, neither thirst any more;' and, 'God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes' that my heart seemed to long for the far country, and I said, 'I should be glad to go if I could be sure my husband would be

there too.'

"Maybe he will be there; maybe he is there!' said the old man, looking down.

"I was so struck with his words, I could not speak at first; but when I got my voice I asked why he said so, and then I saw tears in his eyes as he lifted his head and took a letter out of his pocket.

"It was the last thing my dear husband ever did he wrote that letter with his dying hand to tell me he was going to the Saviour, and to beg me to follow him.

"The old sailor had been the one to show him the worth of his soul. He was with him through all the illness he died of, and saw him breathe his last; and he promised him he would find me out and break the tidings to me, and give me his letter.

for though I loved my husband, and wanted to be with him, I did not love my Saviour; so I had no desire for his presence, neither on earth nor in heaven; and until we love him, Alice, there is no true peace nor comfort. But grace prevailed at last; my heart was softened; and now I count every year that passes as one that brings me nearer to all my happiness."

A quiet smile was on the widow's face as she spoke, and Alice wondered as she looked at her how she would have taken the old man's message.

"Mother! mother!" cried little Dan, coming up the cliff, "mother, here's a letter from father;" and he came rushing into the cottage, followed by a weather-beaten sailor. who seated himself on the bench by the door.

Alice was terrified, and could scarcely hold out her hand for the letter. She turned a glance full of meaning on the widow, who came forward, opened and glanced over the letter, and gave it to her with a smile.

"Take it, my child; there is no trial for you in it as there was in mine for me," she said.

When the messenger, being refreshed and rested, had left them, and the young wife had recovered her full spirits, and could rejoice over the happy tidings she had received, old Dame Paulet said quietly to her: "Alice, remember, whatever betides us here, it is the far country should have our first thoughts. The best news we get about this life may changed for the worst in a day or an hour; but the good news from there is the same now and for ever. Happy are they who thirst for the waters of life!"

MY SCARLET SHAWL.
A WIFE'S STORY.
PART II.

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THE man had not been long gone before I

began to repent of the bargain I had made. I looked at my almost empty purse, and wished the ten shillings safe back again: for I did not really want a new shawl. I had had a good stock of clothes when I was married, and there was one shawl-my best— which I had scarcely worn since the wed ding-day. And if I had wanted one, the bright glaring scarlet shawl I had just bought was scarcely the one that, on proper consi deration, I ought to have chosen. It did not match well with my dresses and my best bonnet. I had not thought of this before. And the price, when I thought soberly of what I had engaged to give for it, almost frightened me. Three guineas-three pounds three shillings for one article of dress! It was a terrible waste of money for me, even though the shawl were (as the man had assured me it was) worth twice the sum.

But what troubled me most of all was that I had made a sort of bargain with myself, and with another person too, to deceive my husband, my dear John; that, at any rate, I had a secret to keep from him, and that somebody else, and that somebody a stranger, shared the secret with me. This had never been the case till now. I had never had a secret apart from John since the day we were married. When I thought of this I was ready to cry with vexation; and if the man had been within call I do believe I

should have begged him to allow me to forfeit half of the ten shillings I had paid him, and to take back his scarlet shawl. But by this time he was far enough away, no doubt.

And then a thought struck me which I declare had not entered into my mind all the while I was bargaining with the man: how could I ever wear that bright flaming shawl without John's noticing it? And how should I account to him for having it? I felt ready to sink to the ground with confusion when this difficulty first presented itself to me; and if any one had been present, it would have been seen, I have no doubt, that my face was almost as red as my new shawl.

"I won't think any more about it now," I said to myself passionately, and starting up; "I have made the bargain, and it is of no use to repent of it. It will be a week before the man comes again; and perhaps by that time I may have made up my mind to tell John what a great silly I have been."

I wish I had told him that very evening, when he came home from work: oh, I wish I had; how much sin and sorrow it would have saved!

But I was a coward: I was afraid John would be angry or vexed at best; and I did not like the thought of vexing him. So I kept my secret as closely locked up in my own breast as the scarlet shawl was closely locked in my chest of drawers.

I suppose you have had no one to call on you to-day, Maggie ?" John said to me that evening as we were at supper together.

"No one in particular, John," I said, without lifting my eyes off my plate.

"My poor Maggie! I am afraid you must feel a little lonely sometimes. I wish my work was nearer home, so that I could get to and fro at dinner time," he said, looking fondly towards me.

"Oh John, I am always glad when the time comes for you to get home," I said (and I felt what I said too); "but I do assure you I do not feel very lonely while you are away. I have plenty to do; and I keep thinking about you; and sometimes I do have people looking in. To-day a man came and asked me for a drink of water," I added, in a light sort of way.

I said this on purpose. I had not made up my mind then that I would not tell John of

my purchase; and I thought this might give me an opening to talk about it. I looked up and watched for what he would say.

"What sort of a man, Maggie?" he asked; and I fancied there was just the slightest, smallest shadow of a shade on John's countenance. I know now that I was mistaken; that there was not the least bit of foolish jealousy in my trusting husband, and that he had more faith in me than I had in him. But I was not so sure of this then: I was but a young wife, and a young woman too; and I had much to learn, as I have still.

"What sort of a man, John?" I said,

repeating his words: "Oh, some sort of a packman, I think."

There was a little shadow then, I was sure. "You must take care what you are about with those packmen, Maggie," he said, kindly. "Don't you ever have any dealings with them, please. They may be honest enough, some of them; but we don't know them, and we don't want to; do we, dear? And we have not so much money to spend that we are not able to find shopkeepers whom we can trust, who will be willing enough to sell us what we want: eh, isn't that true, Maggie?"

What could I say after that? I know what I should have said: but, as I wrote just now, I was a coward. So that opportunity passed away; and my secret and my new shawl were both kept locked up.

It was two or three weeks after this, and when I had paid two weekly half-crowns (the man coming for them at a time when he knew my husband would be at work: and you may be sure he had found out who my husband was, and where he worked, and what sort of character he had, before he trusted me; but I did not think so then) :well, it was two or three weeks after I bought the shawl, that John said to me one evening,

"Maggie: I want to do something if you have no objection; but I won't do it if you think I ought not."

"What is it, John?"

"I want my mother to have another halfcrown a-week, Maggie. She has always been a good mother to me, and I want to make her quite comfortable now, as far as money goes. I think we can spare that extra halfcrown, Maggie; what with my working overtime and all." And when John said this he looked rather anxiously to me for my answer.

Now, I should say that when John and I married it was an agreed thing between us that five shillings a week of his wages should go to his mother, who had not been long a widow, and who, though she did what she could for her own support, by keeping little shop, was not at all well off. And, much as he loved me, and wished to be married, I know that John would not have been married at the time we were if he had not seen his way clear to provide, so far, for his mother.

"My mother does not complain,” John went on; "it isn't her way, you know, Maggie: but I am afraid she is terribly pinched; and I don't like living in such comfort as I do, and seeing her want.

"I don't want you to feel any difference, Maggie," John continued; "that would not be fair; but I have been thinking how I can manage it. You know I have been talking of having a new great-coat for next winter, and that would cost three pounds. Now I mean to make my old coat do another winter, Maggie."

"It is very shabby, John," said I.

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"Not very," he said; "and it is a good warm one still; and I don't think you will mind the shabbiness of it more than I shall, when you think what a difference half-acrown a week will make to my mother's comfort, Maggie. I would not do it," he went on, "without askin you, dear; because there ought to be no secrets about money any more than about other things between man and wife; but if you will give me leave to spend half-a-crown a week in that way I shall be glad."

Oh, why did I not tell dear John then of my wrong secret? It was in my heart to do it, but my courage failed me. Of course I said I was quite willing for him to do as he said: it was quite right, and I wanted his mother to be comfortable. And he thanked me so heartily; dear trusting John!

And still my own secret, and my new shawl, were both closely locked up.

"So I had. I got into a great shop at the West End almost as soon as I went away, and that is four months ago come next Saturday. I have never been out of work for a day since."

"Then what brings you down to this poor place again? Is not this just the busy time for tailors? But perhaps you got tired of London ?"

"No, I liked London well enough, and I've nothing to say against the master I worked for. He always behaved well to me. I had good work, and good pay."

"Then what was it you did not like?"

"I'll tell you, Bill. I could not stand the swearing in our shop. I never heard such language in my life. It was awful. There were some there who could hardly say a word without an oath. And that was not all. There was wickedness of all sorts spoken there. I dare say it is not so in all great shops; but I did not try any other. I felt I could not stand it any longer, so I just gave up my work, and came away home again. I know I can't earn so much money down here; but, at least, I do my work in peace and quiet." "Did you try to stop 'em?"

"Yes, I tried many a time; but they would not listen to me; at least, most of them would not. Two or three did seem ashamed, but the rest only mocked; and one or two got quite angry, and went on worse than ever. I would not have stayed there-not for twice the wages."

"But I don't see that it hurt you. You had only to sit still and hold your tongue. I don't think I should have given up my work like that.'

"Yes, but it did hurt me, Bill; and very much, too. Would not it hurt you to sit and hear your best friend spoken against day after day? Well, GOD is our best friend. There's

none like him; and I can't bear to hear his holy name blasphemed. It hurts me more than I can tell you."

"Well, I'm no swearer myself. At least, I don't often swear; though perhaps I may come out with a bad word now and then when I'm put out. But I can't say I ever felt so much against it as you do. I know it's wrong, though."

stricter than most. I don't pretend to be so strict as you."

question.

"That is not what you are to go by. It does not so much signify what I am, or what I am not. What does the Bible say? that is the There is no other rule for you, or for me. If I am stricter than the Bible, then I am wrong. But I am not stricter than the Bible. I cannot be. All I try to do is to go by the Bible. And I wish I kept closer to it than I do. Bill, you know as well as I do what the Bible says about cursing and swearing. Don't do it. Don't ever do it. Pray God to keep you from it. Think of your boys. You would not have them grow up to curse and swear? But won't they do what they hear "Well, you know, Tom, you were always their father do? Just think of that."

"Wrong! Ay, it is wrong, and foolish, too. I should like to know what good swearing has ever done to man, woman, or child; and I'm sure it's done plenty of harm. For my part, I can't bear it. We can get used to most things; I hope I shall never get used to swearing."

NAPOLEON AND THE ENGLISH SAILOR.

SOME of our readers may be old enough to remember the time when Napoleon Bonaparte threatened to invade England, and encamped with his army at Boulogne. The incident represented in our picture occurred at that period, and has thus been commemorated in verse by Thomas Campbell:

"TWAS when Napoleon at Boulogne
Armed in our island every freeman,
His navy chanced to capture one

Poor British seaman.

They suffered him, I know not how,
Unprisoned on the shore to roam;
And aye was bent his youthful brow
On England's home.

His eye, methinks, pursued the flight
Of birds to Britain, half way over,
With envy-they could reach the white
Dear cliffs of Dover.

A stormy midnight watch, he thought,
Than this sojourn would have been dearer,
If but the storm his vessel brought

To England nearer.

At last, when care had banished sleep,
He saw one morning, dreaming, doating,
An empty hogshead from the deep

Come shoreward floating.

lle hid it in a cave, and wrought
The live-long day, laborious, lurking,
Until he launched a tiny boat,
By mighty working.

Oh dear me! 'twas a thing beyond
Description!-such a wretched wherry,
Perhaps, ne'er ventured on a pond,
Or crossed a ferry.

For ploughing in the salt sea field,
It would have made the boldest shudder;
Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled,-
No sail-no rudder.

From neighbouring woods he interlaced
His sorry skiff with wattled willows;
And thus equipped he would have passed
The foaming billows.

A French guard caught him on the beach,

His little Argo* sorely jeering,
Till tidings of him chanced to reach
Napoleon's hearing.

With folded arms Napoleon stood,
Serene alike in peace and danger,
And, in his wonted attitude,
Addressed the stranger:

"Rash youth, that wouldst yon channel pass

On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned,
Thy heart with some sweet English lass
Must be impassioned."

"I have no sweetheart," said the lad;
"But, absent years from one another,
Great was the longing that I had
To see my mother."

"And so thou shalt," Napoleon said,
"You've both my favour justly won,
A noble mother must have bred
So brave a son."

He gave the tar a piece of gold,
And, with a flag of truce, commanded
He should be shipped to England old,
And safely landed.

Our sailor oft could scant'ly shift
To find a dinner, plain and hearty,
But never changed the coin and gift
Of Bonaparte.

* His little vessel: so called from the name of a famous ship of ancient times.

breed sometimes in our gardens and orchards, and people our hedge-rows and copses, seem to be the most joyful. Happily for them, He who has formed them for his praise, while he has granted them such instinct and cunning as enables them to provide for their wants in the present, has bountifully left them without fear or apprehension for the future. So they "catch pleasure as it flies," and do not concern themselves about coming troubles, or the enemies that may lie in wait for them

Little birds have a great many enemies the worst of them all, in this country at least, being the larger birds, such as the kite, the kestrel, the sparrow-hawk, the shrike, and the barn-owl, which prey upon them, and, at the fall of the year especially, eat them up by thousands. I dare say my young readers may have noticed, that about October or November, the sparrows, the wag-tails, the robins, the chaffinches, and others -who all the summer long have lived separate and apart from one another-now get together in large companies. They swarm, as people say, about this time, and you may see them by hundreds foraging together in the c fields, or among the outbuildings of a farm; or, when a gleam of sunshine comes out, all perched in a row along a bank, and perhaps all chattering noisily. Some have supposed that this

swarming is for the sake glo elege and of company in the dreary

season; I am inclined to

think myself that it is

more for the sake of mutual protection.

Not very long ago I was wandering, late in October, in a thick wood of pines and beeches. Suddenly I came to the edge of a steep declivity some two hundred feet deep, all overgrown with dense brushwood, and overlooking a broad valley, with a village in the distance. While I was looking out on the scene through the fading beech-leaves, a large bird came gently down from overhead, and stopped suddenly in mid-air, not twenty paces from where I stood. It was the kestrel, or, as country people call it, the windhover. I knew it by the regular beat of its wings as it poised itself almost motionless against the wind. It had not been there half a minute before a number of small birds started out of the wood in a body,

belief was, that they frightened the fellow out of his presence of mind: at any rate, he made off as fast as he could, and I watched him till he was far away. At another time I was standing half-way up the rugged slope of Dover Cliffs, near the western limits of the town, when a sparrow-hawk swooped down over the top of the cliff, and was immediately assailed by a swarm of little birds in the same

BIRDS DEFENDING A NEST.

unfledged young from the nest. The hedgehog, the rat, the weasel, the stoat, and some other hedge-vermin, are also all bird-eaters; and these for the most part make their forays in the night. Some years ago, a thrush who had built her nest in a garden in Camberwell, and hatched her young brood, was killed in the night by some marauding visitant, probably a rat, and three of her young devoured, the mangled body of the mother being left in the nest. It happened that a robin had built in the same fence, at an elevation somewhat higher, but within a few feet of the poor thrush. The tragedy which had taken place so near them alarmed the robins, who for some time showed

much excitement. On the second day, however, they began to act in a strange way, and were seen fly

Caroling continually from the

nearest garden-bed to the nest of the dead thrush, and back again. On examining the place the next morning, it was found that they had completely buried the murdered birds in their nest, covering them up with a dome of clay-firm, round, and compact as a ball.

I am not aware that snakes are among the enemies of little birds in this country; but such is well-known to be the case in countries where snakes abound. Our picturewhich was copied by permission from the "Ornithology" of M. Audubon, the celebrated naturalist-represents a scene which he witnessed in a wood in America. The nest is that of the red thrush, which is being attacked by the black snake. The mother-bird has been injured by the folds of the snake, while the father-bird is fighting him bravely. Their cries of alarm have rung through the wood, and called two of their neighbours to the rescue; one

way. The hawk, in this case, was so fright- | is valiantly rushing on the enemy with open ened by the suddenness and the fury of the attack, that, instead of taking flight-as he could easily have done-towards the sea, he dashed in at the open window of a deserted lime-burner's hut which stood near. I entered by the door, and found him terrified out of his wits, and grovelling at the bottom of an empty lime-barrel into which he had flown for shelter.

If the little birds can sometimes manage, by uniting together in companies, to scare away the hawk, they have other enemies against whom they are altogether powerless. Both in town and country the cat is a persevering hunter of birds. Some cats will take to the woods, and lead a wild life during the summer months, even climbing trees, and devouring tho

beak, while the other is furiously pecking his scaly back. M. Audubon tells us that he happened to be near at hand at the time, and he also came to the rescue. "The birds," he says, "were frightened very much; their nest was jostled, their eggs were broken, and the poor mother in great danger; but the snake was conquered, and upon his dead body a crowd of thrushes and blackbirds, and other of their feathered companions, chanted a song of deliverance and gratitude, which echoed through the forest. For my part, I contributed to the general satisfaction; for having softly taken up the half-dead mother-bird, I warmed her in my hand, and when she came again to life, I gave her back to her anxious and loving mate."