think; an enormous playground, like the entire Stadt Garten itself, still forming part of the dear old forest, or Hart Wald, as we have already called it in German. See a large number of magnificent and roomy swings, hung by monster ropes from pine-tree to pine-tree, and all crowded with merry laughing girls and boys.

All the German children-no matter what their rank may be-as a general rule play together, and this with the permission of their parents; the only condition laid down by every parent is that the children must be thoroughly wellbehaved and orderly in conduct. There must be no rudeness; if there is, the guilty one's society is shunned by all. Never is German order and the general obedience of the little ones more clearly seen than in the public and beautiful Stadt Garten, where, amidst all the fun, they might so often be tempted to become boisterous or even rude. No, no; the German child is nearly always on his guard as to his behaviour; but this is, it always seems to me, because he is so carefully watched over by his ever diligent earnest-hearted mother. And all the while, in the centre of everything and every one, raised high above all, a military band plays lovely music; to the gay notes of which the merry children often dance -dance in their own particular fashion, just as it pleases them best. There is no special form in the matter. They make their own few pretty steps, to perfect time, too, to the merry waltz or gallop, then swing again; or, if more soberly inclined, walk off arm and arm with some companion, and demurely join the many hundreds of ladies

and gentlemen, who slowly and gracefully march round and round the entire scene.

But now to describe the other games, for they are many. Fancy, then, ten or twelve sturdy ropes fixed firmly, in a sturdy wooden sort of framework, mounted high, perhaps half-way up one of the pines, and then picture, if you can, the same number of boys and girls, each clinging, quite affectionately as it would seem, to the lower end of each, and each meanwhile holding firmly by his or her rope, whirling round and round the pine-tree in rapid succession one after the other, feet are, of course, raised high above the ground; and the beautifully neat boots and shoes, for which the German children are ever remarkable, can be properly admired. No loose strings, no broken or missing buttons, no matter how poor be the child. Such a thing is never seen in Germany. Then some child, who is more ambitious than the rest, suddenly leaves loose of the rope.

The stranger, looking on, starts, feeling sure that an accident has occurred. But the girl is only more daring than the rest, and has bravely, with a swing, thrown herself a moment into the air, then swung herself round, and caught the rope once more to grasp it with the other hand. And all the while she was yet going round in the same circle with her clever companions. Then come less dangerous amusements for the very little ones, but of these, and of the "coloured lantern" evenings, and of other games, I will tell you another time. SIBELLA BARBER EDGCOMBE.

HERE was once a mother, kneeling by the bed-side of the little one whom she hourly expected to lose. With what eyes of passionate love had she watched every change in that beautiful face! How had her eyes pierced the heart of the physician at his last visit, when they glared rather than asked the question whether there was hope! How had she wearied heaven with vows that if it would but grant—' Ah,' you say you can imagine all that without any difficulty at all.' Imagine this, too.

Overwearied with watching, she fell into a doze beside the couch of her infant, and she dreamt in a few moments (as we are wont to do) the seeming history of long years. She thought she heard a voice from Heaven say to her as to

Hezekiah, "I have seen thy tears, I have heard thy prayers; he shall live; and yourself shall have the roll of his history presented to you." "Ah!" you say, "you can imagine all that, too."

And straightway she thought she saw her sweet child in the bloom of health, innocent and playful as her fond heart could wish. Yet a little while, and she saw him in the flush of opening youth; beautiful as ever, but beautiful as a young panther, from whose eyes wild flashes and fitful passion ever and anon gleamed; then she thought how beautiful he looked, even in these moods; for she was a mother. But she also thought how many tears and sorrows may be needful to temper or quench these fires!

And she seemed to follow him through a rapid succession of scenes-now of troubled sunshine-now of deep gathering gloom. His

sorrows were all of a common lot, but involved a sense of agony far greater than that which she would have felt from his early loss; yes, greater even to her and how much greater to him! She saw him more than once wrestling with pangs more agonising than those which now threatened his infancy; she saw him involved in error, and with difficulty extricating himself; betrayed into youthful sins, and repenting with scalding tears; she saw him half ruined by transient prosperity, and scourged into tardy wisdom only by long adversity; she saw him worn and haggard with care-his spirit crushed, and his early beauty all wan and blasted; worse still, she saw him thrice stricken with that very shaft which she had so dreaded to feel but once, and mourned to think that her prayers had prevailed to prevent her own sorrows, only to multiply his; worst of all, she saw him, as she thought, in a darkened chamber, kneeling beside a coffin in which youth and beauty slept their last sleep; and, as it seemed, her own image stood beside him, and uttered unheeded love to a sorrow that "refused to be comforted," and as she gazed on that face of stony despair she seemed to hear a voice which said, "If thou wilt have thy floweret of earth unfolded on earth, thou must not wonder at bleak winters and inclement skies. I would have transplanted it to a more genial clime; but thou would'st not." And with a cry of terror she awoke.

She turned to the sleeping figure before her, and sobbing, hoped it was sleeping its last sleep.

She listened for his breathing-she heard none; she lifted the taper to his lips-the flame wavered not-he had indeed passed away while she dreamed that he lived; and she rose from her knees and was comforted.

"Ah," you will say, "these sorrows could never have been the lot of my sweet child!" It is hard to set one's logic against a mother's love: I can only remind you, my dear cousin, that it has been the lot of thousands, whose mothers, as their little ones crowed and laughed in their childish happiness, would have sworn to the same impossibility. But for you,—you know what they could only believe; that it is an impossibility. Nay, I might hint at yet profounder consolation, if, indeed, there ever existed a mother who could fancy that, in the case of her own child, it could ever be needed. Yet facts sufficiently show us, that what the dreaming mother saw-errors retrieved, sins committed but repented of, and sorrows that taught wisdom are not always seen, and children may, in spite of all, persist in exploring the path of evil-" deeper and deeper still!"

With the shadow of uncertainty whether it may not be so with any child, is there no consolation in thinking that even that shadow has passed away? For aught we know, many and many a mother may hereafter hear her lost darling say-"Sweet mother, I was taken from you a little while, only that I might abide with you for ever!”—

"Greyson Letters," by Henry Rogers.

A

YEAR! What is it? The telling of a tale-the passing of a meteor -a dim speck seen for a moment on Time's horizon dropping into Eternity.

Awful is the dirge of years. It is an anthem too solemn and grand for tears; but we may weep for the dying days. Faintly they sigh to us of bygone hours; of moments fragrant with all human joys; of friends and familiars whose smile at morning cheered our way, but whose faces at evening were covered; for still as life lengthens the shadows fall, and the past is for ever gathering treasures.

Oh! that this ceaseless current of years and of seasons were teaching us wisdom; that we were numbering our days; that we were measuring our future by our past; that we were looking back on the twinkling rapidity of the months and the weeks which are already gone,

DYING YEAR.

and so improving the futurity that lies before us, that when death shall lay us in our graves, we may, on the morning of the Resurrection, enter a scene of bliss too rupturous for conception, and too magnificent for the attempts of the loftiest eloquence!

And thou, grey voyager, to the breezeless sea
Of infinite oblivion, speed thou on!
Another gift of Time succeedeth thee,
Fresh from the Hand of God, for thou hast done
The errand of thy destiny, and none

May dream of thy returning. Go and bear
Mortality's frail records to thy cold

Eternal prison-house; the midnight prayer Of suffering bosoms, and the fevered care

Of worldly hearts; the miser's dream of gold: Ambitious grasp at greatress; the quenched light Of broken spirits, the forgiven wrong And the abiding curse. Ay, bear long These wrecks of thine own making. Lo! thy knell Gathers upon the windy breath of night. Its last and faintest echo! Fare-thee-well!

Blandford's Conscience. By the Author of "The White Cross and Dove of Pearls,"&c. Angel's Visit. By SAMUEL PASCOE. Haunted Mill. By Rev. J. JACKSON WRAY. iene for Girls. By Dr. I. P. DAVIS. ine: The Story of a Cavalier.

Stormy Seas; or, How will the Voyage End? By ELLEN LIPSCOMB.

Red Carnation. By MDLLE. LACURIA. ld Not be a Missionary's Wife. By Rev. E. A. RAND.

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