and apparatus for illustrating the natural sciences, both of which are occasionally enlarged, but which, even now, meet to a very satisfactory extent the demands of such an institution. The conveniences of the edifice in which the school is kept, the facilities for suitable and healthy exercise, the accommodations of the boarding-house, and the kind and confiding supervision which is extended to the young ladies, at all hours, by the teachers, are excellences which commend it highly to the approbation of those who know what is needed in such a Seminary, or have availed themselves of its advantages.

It was originally intended by the munificent founder and his advisers and coadjutors, that two prominent objects should be kept steadily in view in the whole establishment and progress of this institution. In the first place, a sound and thorough, rather than showy, training of the intellect was to be secured; and in the next place, especial regard was to be paid to the morals and to the religious principles and improvement of the pupils. For the accomplishment of these two ends, it may, perhaps, be said, that no Seminary has been more happily successful. It has not neglected the ornamental branches, nor has it by any means suppressed the buoyant and social impulses of youth; but has aimed at securing that enlarged and correct education of both the mind and the heart, which is the safest guaranty of usefulness and happiness in after life.

This Seminary has enjoyed a uniform prosperity from year to year. Sometimes, however, the applications for admission have exceeded the arrangements for accommodation. Like all other literary institutions, it must, of course, be affected by the fluctuations of other interests in the community; but such are the principles upon which it is sustained, that it will not be seriously affected.

While it seeks assiduously to promote the true interests of its pupils, it will deserve and will receive the approbation and patronage of the good and wise, and will continue to be, as it is, an institution of the highest order of the class to which it belongs.

Norton, Mass., May 1, 1845.

The tongue blessing God without the heart, is but tinkling cymbal; the heart blessing God without the tongue, is sweet but still music; both in concert make the harmony which fills and delights heaven and earth. Ralph Venning.

TO A STAR.

BY J. G. WHITTIER.

WONDERFUL, yet familiar! fadeless gem,
Set by the hand of angels, in the arch
Of the eternal heaven! how beautiful
Thy soft light resteth on the unquiet sea,
That gathereth up its waves, as if the winds
Of yesterday were prisoned in its depths,
And struggling to be free!

The hazy clouds,

Pale relics of the recent storm, have drawn
Their thin, gray shadows out upon the sky,
And curtained it in beauty. Thou alone
Lookest upon the darkness. The great wave
That cometh upward to the guarded shore,
With its eternal thunder, hath received
Thy solitary beam, yet paused not
In its mad turbulence. So have I seen
The light of woman's love, poured out upon
The darkness of man's soul, yet hushing not
The tempest of its passions — a blessed beam,
Crossing the troubled surges of the mind,
Like moonlight glimpsing on a sky of storm.

Sole watcher of the heavens! I have not learned
Chaldea's mystic faith, yet thou dost seem
The emblem of a solitary heart,

Companionless, like mine. No kindred star
Hath gladness in thy presence; and thy light
Falleth upon the waters, like the love
Of a young heart upon the hollow world,
Unanswered, unregarded.

NIAGARA.

THE thoughts are strange which crowd into my brain,
While I look upward to thee. It would seem

As if God poured thee from his hollow hand,

And hung his bow upon thy awful front,

And spoke in that loud voice which seemed to him,
Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake,

The sound of many waters; and thy flood
Had bidden chronicle the ages back,

And notch his centuries in the eternal rocks.
Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we,
Who hear this awful questioning? O what
Are all the stirring notes that ever rang

From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side?
Yea, what is all the riot man can make

In his short life, to thy unceasing roar?

And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him

Who drowned a world and heaped the waters far
Above its loftiest mountains? A light wave,

That breaks and whispers of its Maker's might. - Brainerd.

HINTS TO YOUNG FEMALES ON ORDER AND NEATNESS.

'NEVER keep a professed receptacle for litter, which often degenerates into absolute rubbish, and trust to a day of setting to rights; what is kept in its proper place never needs that trouble.

'Do not imagine that neatness and care demand any unnecessary sacrifice of time, for no time is so completely lost as in hunting for lost things; but that is so much saved which has been employed in providing a place for every article, and by that means enabled you to find it readily even in the dark. The necessity of a neat arrangement of letters, papers, and accounts, to insure our safety, as well as to spare trouble, need not be insisted upon.

'Acquire a habit of folding or rolling up articles. Many a fine print or drawing has been ruined, many a cloak crumpled, and many a shawl trailed on the floor, for want of this timely neatness.'

Original.

A RIDDLE FOR THE CHRISTIAN.

BY ANN E. PORTER.

Ir is a bird, whose tireless wings

Fresh strength doth gain by lofty flight;
When nearest heaven the sweetest sings,
And then her plumage shines most bright.

It nestles in the rudest cell,

Which shuts from man a brother's woes,
And where the burning seraphs dwell,
It folds its wing in blest repose.

It is a breath, as zephyr light,
And yet a burden angels bear;

It is a gem,- all sparkling bright,

And brightest moistened with a tear.

Whene'er a king this jewel bears,
More royal seems his diadem;
And yet the beggar oftener wears,
Beneath his rags, the precious gem.

My gentle reader, canst thou tell,

What mean this bird and gem so rare?
Thy suffering heart doth know it well,
For thou hast felt the 'worth of prayer.'

Springfield, Vt., May, 1845.

BEYOND the enclosure of a large garden, with gravel walks, fruit trees and flower borders, gurgled a little brook, winding its way between green meadow banks, to a river near by. A summer's sun is making long shadows on the grass, and shining through an alder grove, upon three children, happily playing. Fred, the second, a curly-headed fellow of six, has a tiny boat, his own rude workmanship, with bowsprit and mast. Hope, the eldest, of eight years, is plucking up handsful of grass, which she sells to Fred; he freights his ship with this cargo of hay, and sends it to Fanny, who buys it and piles it on her wharf, a large, flat rock, and thus, these mimic merchants of the brook buy and sell with all the reality of actual life. Rosy-cheeked, earnest, buoyant, childhood! How soon it begins to think, to plan, to achieve. Its plays and pastimes, which, to some seem only the waste produce of high health and unchecked glee, are in truth, that important process of self-training, by which it becomes fitted for action in mature life.

At length little Fanny emerges from her interesting character, of hay merchant, by the discovery of several ominous spots upon her pantalettes.

'Oh! what shall I do! see, Freddy! what will aunt Sarah say?' cries Fanny, running with anxious haste toward her brother.

'What! are you not going to buy some more hay?' asks the boy, too busy, loading his ship, to observe the cause of his sister's disquietude.

'Why, Freddy, there are some spots of mud on my pantalettes; what shall I do? I did not mean to,' and she stood holding up her

dress with rueful face.

'It's no matter, only a little mud,' said Fred.

'Aunt Sarah will whip me, she will be angry, she told me not for the whole world to get mud on my clothes. What shall I do?' cried Fanny, running toward Hope.

'Perhaps we can wash it off, Fanny,' said Hope, examining it, with her ever ready sympathy; 'we can, I know, and then aunt Sarah will never know it.'

'So we can,' said Fanny, and a smile chased away the tear-drop which trickled on her long lashes; she sat down upon the grass, while Hope drew off the pantalettes.

Oh, are you not going to play any more?' shouted Fred, looking up.

'Why, Fred, see Fanny's pantalettes! Aunt Sarah will punish her; I am going to try to wash them,' declared Hope, and she went away to a deeper and clearer part of the brook; there she rubbed and rinsed, as busy as a little washerwoman, and then wringing them out and displaying them before her brother and sister, she asked, anxiously, if 'they could see the spots.'

'They are not so clean as they were before; what shall I do?' moaned Fanny.

'Let's dry them and see; oh, I guess they will be,' said Fred, encouragingly, and we'll play until they are dry.'

The children returned to their play, but their zest was gone. Fanny had no heart for her merchandize, and Hope anxiously awaited the result of the drying. Every now and then they all skipped to the bush, on which hung the unfortunate garments.

'The spots can be seen after all,' cried Fanny, and aunt Sarah will find out they are not ironed; what shall I do?' and she began to cry, as she stood there, with her short clothes and bare legs, rubbing her eyes with her little fat hand. Fred and Hope felt very much like crying too.

'Well, I don't think it is any thing to scold about — only a little mud,' declared Fred.

'Aunt Sarah is so nice, and we can never seem to explain how any thing happened, to make her understand it,' said Hope, with a great sinking of heart.