On a Mistletoe Thrush.

knew from whence that cry came; and men glared reproachfully on each others' countenances, and strove to keep down the audible beating of their own breasts. The desperate love of life drove them instinctively to their own stations, and the water was poured, as by the strength of giants, down among the smouldering flames. But the devouring element roared up into the air, and deck, masts, sails, and shrouds were one crackling and hissing sheet of fire.

"Let down the boat!" was now the yell of hoarse voices; and in an instant she was filled with life. Then there was frantic leaping into the sea; and all who were fast drowning, moved convulsively towards that little ark. Some sank down at once into oblivion -some grasped at nothing with their disappearing hands—some seized in vain on unquenched pieces of the fiery wreck -some would fain have saved a friend almost in the last agonies-and some, strong in a savage despair, tore from them the clenched fingers that would have dragged them down, and forgot in fear both love and pity.

Enveloped in flames and smoke, a frantic mother flung down her baby among the crew; and as it fell among the upward oars unharmed, she shrieked out, "Go, husband, go! for I am content to die. Oh! live, live, my husband, for our darling Willy's sake."

But, in the prime of life, and with his manly bosom full of health and hope, the husband looked for a moment till he saw his child was safe, and then, taking his young wife in his arms, he sank down beneath the burning fragments of a sail, never more to rise till, at the sound of the last trumpet, the sea shall give up the dead that are in it.

On a Mistletoe Thrush

BUILDING AND THEN SITTING IN AN EXPOSED SITUATION.

BY JAMES HILDYARD, B.D., RECTOR OF INGOLDSBY.

N our garden this spring a mistletoe thrush, which is naturally a very shy bird, has built a nest in the fork of a pear-tree, about four feet from the ground. This portion of the tree has not a twig to conceal it, nor even a honeysuckle or other creeper to mask it, and will be as bare and exposed all through the summer as it was in the depth of winter. The tree, moreover, stands in a narrow flower-border, close to a gravel walk leading to the garden pump, and is passed a dozen times at least every day by some of the household.

Yet, curious enough, this bird has succeeded, by the help of her mate, in building her nest, early and late, unobserved by anyone; nor was it discovered till four eggs had been successively deposited therein. She is now, however, at length sitting, and has attracted the notice of all the family. Yet she is not alarmed, and keeps so constant to her seat, that, though I have passed the place at all hours, from six in the morning to seven in the evening, I have

never once observed her absent. Nor is she startled by the trundling of the garden roller or wheelbarrow, or the hoeing and raking of the bed where the tree stands. Yesterday we had occasion to lop off some dead branches from an adjoining apple-tree, and which had to be dragged past where she was sitting, but even this

noise and rustle did not cause her to leave her nest; and this evening, though men were firing at the rooks for two or three hours in the neighbouring plantation, the undaunted bird still held on to her appointed task.

What a lesson, methinks, does this faithful creature afford us! So long, indeed, as the objects of our pursuit are comparatively unimportant, so long does it beseem us to set about them quietly and unobtrusively; nor is it material if we intermit them, as occasion serves. But when once the call of duty becomes urgent and imperative, then to be absent or wanting to the claim upon our time and talents, becomes a sin. Whole years of labour may fail of their destined fruit by the untimely neglect of a single day.

Had this indefatigable bird forsaken her nest but for one hour at the critical moment, all her hopes of a progeny for the present year would have vanished. Four addled eggs would have rewarded the pains of a month's toil and anxiety.

The business we have once deliberately undertaken, if done only

James Golding's Boy.

by halves, or deserted in the midst, had as well or even better have been never begun at all.

Lastly, what a perfect example of faith have we in this feathered creature! How she dwells on the conviction of a sure though unseen fruit of her labour! How she realises the substance of that which as yet is not!-So little have these eggs the appearance of the life that is in them, that a sparrow will sit for weeks upon half a dozen oval chalk stones when its natural eggs have been removed.

Cannot we, then, trust our inmost hopes to the unfailing promises of Scripture, and believe though we see not; and, strong in that belief, should we not persevere stedfastly to the end, through all the rather fanciful than real terrors and difficulties by which we are assaulted in our heavenward course?

James Golding's Boy.

CHAPTER III.

Ir is not generally difficult to forget. It is, I think, one of the saddest things in this sad world of ours how soon we forget our joys, our sorrows, our blessings, our sins. It seemed at first as if it would be so with James Golding. After the inquest was past and the nine days' wonder was over, after Smith had told the story till he was tired and had some fresh marvel to relate, everything seemed to settle down as if that wretched Sunday was merely a dream. He threw himself with fresh vigour into his business, and his hands were full of work, but he found that to forget was not so easy. Every day something seemed to recall to his mind what he would so willingly have forgotten. One day it was a ragged morsel of a shawl still clinging to the sugar-cask that brought a flood of memories. Another day, as Smith left the shop after making a purchase, he stopped, and, looking across the cricket field and meadows beyond, said, "How they have been cutting the trees here; I declare you can see right across to the Union."

And it was true; a corner of the ugly red brick building was visible, and every time he left his shop, Golding's eyes looked across to the place where his child was being brought up as a pauper. Hitherto he had scarcely heard of the Union, but now it seemed constantly in people's mouths. Sometimes it was in jest, as when a neighbour would jingle the money in his pockets, and say, "Ay, Golding, you and I may have to thank the parish for board and lodging yet;" or, in earnest, as when another would say, "I hope neither me nor mine may ever come to the Workhouse." Then, too, if Golding went out, his business seemed constantly to take him by the Low Meadows or the Workhouse; or if he went in another direction he met the Workhouse school, and could not help glancing at the faces as they passed and wondering if his boy was one. The heart knoweth its own bitterness, and no one guessed how much bitterness lay hid in Golding's heart who outwardly seemed so prosperous, and who was so highly respected. Money seemed to grow under his touch, and his business had never been so thriving

Thus time passed, leaving Golding much as it found him, only turning his hair more grey, and his face more thin and sharp, and making him more keen in his business, and more fond of money for its own sake.

Two years had slipped away, and it was again July, and still Golding was busy. There was something doing in the cricket field opposite, but Golding was too busy to notice it. He did not know that there was anybody in the shop, when a tapping on the counter startled him, and, coming from behind his desk, and looking over, he saw two round grey caps with a button in the middle of each; and underneath these, two pairs of bright eyes looking up at him, and a hand grasping a penny.

"We wants a ha'porth of lollies," a voice said. "Which'll you have, my man ?"

"Them pink uns."

Golding shook out a liberal paperfull, and the children turned to go. As they came to the door he could see them better, and at once recognised the Union dress. Two little boys, about five or six, much of a height, only one was stronger and rounder looking than the other. Both had brown eyes, and one had curly hair and a merry, laughing face, and the other had straight hair and a more thoughtful, serious look. It was only the latter that Golding's eyes fixed on with a sudden pain at his heart. But the door shut with a jingle of the little bell, and the children were out of sight.

A few minutes later Smith came in. "Just come across the road, Golding; there's a sight there worth seeing, if you're not too busy." So they went across to the stile opposite. The field was full of children playing, boys hard at work at cricket, very serious in their play, after the manner of English boys; and girls, hot and happy, over drop-the-handkerchief, and oranges-and-lemons, while under the old elms, a table stood, heaped with mugs and baskets of cake, and forms were being set ready and cans of hot tea were being brought from a neighbouring house.

"It's a school-treat to all the children in the place," Smith said, "and they've not left out one, I should think, not even the Union, poor little souls! Look there now ;" and he pointed to two boys who were standing near the gate, the very two that had just been in Golding's shop. "There's two fine little fellows. Come here, my men, and tell us your names."

The curly-haired boy was evidently the leading spirit, and he spoke for both. "He be Johnnie and I be Jack."

"Jack and Johnnie! Well, be good lads, there's a halfpenny a-piece for you and be off; tea's ready and you don't often get plumcake, I reckon."

The Union schoolmaster came up just then to fetch the boys, who did not want much calling, to run off to the attractive place where there was as much as they could eat, and more.

"Who are they, Mr. Field ?" Smith asked.

"Well, one of them is the child of that woman who was found down yonder dead, and the other was born in the house. Good little chaps, but there's not much chance for them, they're pretty sure to turn out bad." And then he went away; and Golding, with

James Golding's Boy.

a wretched feeling weighing on his heart, hurried back to his shop.

But I must not linger over this time. It is enough to see that Golding was constantly reminded of his boy's existence, and that, do what he would, he could not quite forget, nor go on comfortably, as if nothing was wrong; but people noticed that he grew colder and more reserved, and seemed to care for nothing but his business and money-getting. Не was age-ing fast,' people said, and indeed he looked much older than many a neighbour who seemed to have twice his cares. There was Smith, for instance, with eight little ones and a poor sickly wife, and a hard struggle to keep them decently, but those baby fingers can smooth out the furrows they cause, and as he held his wife's aching head on his breast, it drove away the selfishness and coldness of time and age from his heart. But Golding grew furrowed, and cold, and selfish, for his wife was dead and his child in the Workhouse.

And so time passed; nine years rolled away since his wife died, when the chaplaincy of the Union became vacant, and Mr. Percy took it. He especially devoted himself to trying to help and improve the children who were growing up among such bad influences, and who seemed to have such small chance of becoming good, and useful, and happy men and women. The girls were the special objects of his pity, and many of the Workhouse girls had to thank Mr. Percy for placing them in situations where kindness and forbearance and great patience gradually weeded out the bad and nourished the good, and made the right path smooth and pleasant, and not hopelessly difficult and wearisome, so that at last they became steady, respectable servants, thanking God that they were not like so many who, alas, from gaols and reformatories, point to their workhouse home as the beginning of their downfall. The boys were not forgotten either, and soon after his taking the chaplaincy, Mr. Percy asked his parishioners to give him their help for two boys in whom he was deeply interested. He thought there was much good in them; they were both strong, active boys of twelve, and, as far as he could tell, well-meaning and honest, though, God knows, poor little lads, they have not been in the way of learning much good. "I thought," he added, "that perhaps some of you might be in want of a boy to help in your shop or run errands, and would take one of them, and keep an eye on liim, and teach him a bit."

Mr. Percy's eye was fixed on Golding; he knew that he was doing a good business, and could well afford to keep another lad, and he knew that several boys had made a good beginning at his shop. But Golding was silent. A strange feeling at his heart told him that it was his own boy who was now offered him, and a curious conflict was going on within him; he thought that it might perhaps quiet that restless conscience of his to have him, and do something for him; but then if he was constantly with him the secret might creep out; and then again, why should he burden himself with a boy who might turn out badly and be a constant worry and vexation to him? But while he hesitated others spoke, and Mr. Percy turned from Golding with a look of disappointment to the