was seen, and a cry heard from the passengers. An exclamation was heard from some of them, "Who can swim?" and at the same time, "Stop her!" and another plunge was seen.

It was the man at the wheel.

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'They must both be killed!" said the captain; "for I know he (meaning the man at the wheel) cannot swim." It was a moment of horror I can never forget; but what were our feelings, on seeing the boy dashed off from under the paddle, by the strong arm of his preserver! The latter was, for a few seconds, in danger, exhausted by his struggle to follow, and the mud in which he was sinking; but he was dragged on board, panting and nearly exhausted. Cries of praise for his humanity met him on all sides. At last, when recovered enough to speak, he said, in his blunt manner, and while he ungracefully enough waved his hand upwards, "No thanks to me; for I could not see a fellow-creature perish, and stand still. Praise Him only who preserved us both!"

was now again by the side of the female group, who, in their youthful ardour, were intently moved by the scene. I heard the elder say, as she addressed the younger ones, "My dears, let this be a lesson to you all; and to you in particular, Fanny: let it teach you, through life, to cease to judge by the outward looks of man or woman. Judge them by their actions only." I, at least, learnt a lesson that day which 1 have never forgotten.

F. A.

THE SUMMONS.

COME! said the breezes whose joyous play
Lifted the curls of my dying child,

Come to the meadows and hills away,

Frolic with us 'mid the heath flowers wild!
And my babe awoke as their wings swept by,
She half uplifted her dim blue eye,
Then dropped her lashes again, and press'd
Her pale cheek closer upon my breast;
And straighten'd her limbs more wearily,
And yet more eagerly clung to me,
Tightening the grasp of her fingers small,
As she turn'd away from the breezes' call,

Come! cried the lambs from the pasture land,
Come! sang the birds in the garden bowers,
And the brooklet dancing o'er sparkling sand
Murmur'd, "Come gather and wreath my flowers!"
She heard the finches and linnets sing

Under the blossoms and leaves of spring,

She heard the bleat of the frisking lamb,

And the fall of the stream down the broad mill-dam ; She knew their voices, and knew how fair

Was life in the fresh and breezy air,

And she look'd in my face with her piteous eyes,

And falter'd "Mother," yet did not rise.

His cheek all glowing, his eye all bright,

With health, and gladness, and childhood's bloom, Bearing blue violets and daisies white,

Her brother came to the darken'd room;
With loving kisses her hand he press'd,
"Till she turn'd to answer his boyish glee,
And he cried, "In the ivy I found a nest,

Come with me, Emily, forth and see!"
She smiled to hear him, yet did not speak,
But stroked his brow with her fingers weak,

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And fasten'd on him a dreamy gaze,
As if she watch'd, through a wavering haze,
Some seraph child from the fields above,
Some rainbow phantom of bliss and love.
And still she gazed, yet no word she said,
Till the boy stood silent, like one afraid,
And awed by that fix'd and wondering look,
His bright eyes filled, and his bosom shook,
And he knelt with sobs on the chamber floor
To pray, "Make Emily well once more."

We pray, we pray; our sorrowing love
Sends the wail of its anguish to plead above;
We ask for comfort, for peace we sigh,

But He spake truly whose piercing eye

Marked the stern truth frowning 'neath hope's bright mask,
When He said, "Ye know not for what ye ask ;"

Alas for the answer of 'terrible things,'
That the cry of our blind affection brings!
For the untold trouble the heart may bear,
Ere it gather in gladness the fruit of prayer.

That young boy knelt, and his lisping prayer
Had scarcely risen and flown on high,
When silent wings through the sunny air
Brought swift response from the distant sky;
And an angel sang in a whisper'd tone,
Whose thrilling melody, soft and low,
Was breathed for the suffering babe alone,
And thus it wooed her to rise and go:
"Come! there are gardens, and streams, and bowers,
Fairer than ever thine eyes have seen,
Fields that are radiant with lasting flowers,
Skies where the tempest has never been;

And angel children that never sin,

And babes that never may grieve nor weep, Joyfully wander those fields within,

Or safe in those bowers of amaranth sleep.

And deeper, fonder than tongue can tell,

Or even thy mother's love may be,

Is the love that reigns where their spirits dwell,
The love of the Saviour who calls for thee!"

Softly, softly the angel sang,

But the ear of my darling had caught the lay,
And forth at the summons her free soul sprang,
As a lark springs upwards to greet the day.
One quick pang shiver'd athwart her frame,
One stifled cry from the pale lips came;
A dull shade over the features pass'd,
A filmy glaze on the eyes was cast,
Then the weak pulse under my touch lay still,
The waxen hand in my own grew chill,
And all was ended. The soul was gone;
For the angel back to his home had flown,
Floating away through the clear sunshine,

With a babe in his arms that had stolen from mine.

Ah! we may cling to our cherish'd things,
And love young cherubs, and cage their wings,
Twining earth's roses about their nest,
Wooing them fondly with us to rest;

And our love and its cares are fruitless all,
For who may stay them when angels call?

H. F.

THE PATCHWORK SOFA.

WE often feel less reasonable, I think, and more wedded to a few ideas and prejudices, after an illness than after any misfortune or any other event which throws us out of our ordinary course. I know not why it is, but most of us have proved the truth of this. I do not want, however, to please or try to prove any fancies of my own, but only to relate a circumstance connected with my youth, and bearing upon this subject.

As a very young man, (I was not more than nineteen at the time of which I am speaking,) I was of a remarkably cheerful and buoyant disposition, and had never known what illness, or nervousness, or languor meant, till in the summer of 18- a fever reduced me to the doors of the grave. I had been visiting at a friend's house, and was to pay my respects to an elderly relative, who lived between my friend's place and London, in the village of Y -. As the coach stopped at Y late at night, I determined not to intrude upon her till the next morning, and slept in the inn. I recollect having a miserable night, and was so weak that I could not walk, and was obliged the next morning to order a gig to convey me to this lady's house. No sooner had I dismounted than I fell insensible on the door-step, and recollect nothing more till I found myself in bed, in a cheerful room, one July morning, surrounded by every comfort, and wondering how I came there. I had not to wonder long, for presently the door opened, and an elderly lady, in a quaint, old-fashioned cap, and bearing in her hand a little tray, with some dry toast and some barleywater, entered the room. She approached the bedside without taking any particular notice of me, and was preparing to feed me with a spoon, when I smiled, and said, deprecating such attention:

"My dear madam, I am quite able to feed myselfwhat has been the matter with me?"

"You have had a fever," was the answer, in a peculiarly quiet, composed voice, "and been delirious, or something like it, for this three weeks; but I am glad you have taken a turn.” She did not tell me till long afterwards that the room in which I had slept at the inn was infected, some one having died there, not long before, of the fever from which I was now suffering.

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"You are my aunt, then," I said; "I did not know your hair was so grey." I then laid me down again,