table for pasting': suddenly a paragraph in it caught her eye, and she exclaimed', "Now, mice, I defy you, and all your nibblings. Mammá, look here`, I have found an infallible receipt for preserving paste, or any thing, against the depredations of mice.' The easiest way in the world`, mamma'only to surround it with sprigs of mint. Pray', mamma',

read this."

"I read it three months ago', my dear'," said her mother', "and I tried it. I surrounded a plate of paste with sprigs of mint', and next morning I found much of the paste gone, and the mint scattered. I repeated the experiment with different things, and always with equal want of success."

"There is an end, then," said Lucy, "of the infallible preservative."

"I do not know much about plants'," said Harry`, " but I believe there are different sorts of mint'; they may not all have the same properties. Perhaps the mint which you used, mother', might not be the kind recommended in the receipt."

His father observed that Harry's was a good suggestion'; that every circumstance should be the same in repeating an experiment, otherwise it is not fairly tried, and the conclusion cannot be depended on.

Lucy expressed a wish to try the experiment for herself', if her mamma would not be offended'; but Harry assured her that nobody ever thinks of being offended about trying experi

ments.

"Then I will run out to the garden, and gather plenty of mint," said Lucy.

Away she ran'; and at night she fenced her paste-plate round with a double row of different kinds of mint`: thus intrenched, she placed it on the same shelf', in the same closet', and shut the door. In the morning her father and mother were at the opening of the closet. To her agreeable surprise she found that the paste had not been touched'; there were no marks in it of little feet or nibbling teeth', and the sprigs of mint remained exactly in the same order in which she had arranged them.

66

"Well! mamma', what do you think now'?" said Lucy. Perhaps the receipt-writer may not be mistaken after all. Perhaps, mamma', you did not join your fence of mint as well as I did; perhaps you had not a double row, or you left some little loophole for the mouse to push his nose into.

What do you think, mamma', and papa'? and what do you think, Harry' ?"

The door of the closet being open, he could see all that passed.

Why do you not answer, Harry'? What are you looking at'?"

"I am looking at something which you had better see before you decide'," said Harry'.

Lucy followed the direction of his eyes', and saw', just peeping out over the top of a basket, which stood in the corner of the closet', the head of a cat.

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Oh, pussy! are you there all this time' ?" cried Lucy.

At this instant the cat jumped out of the basket', and stretched herself as she awakened. Upon inquiry, it was found that a servant, who had heard Lucy complain of the loss of her paste, and who had not known of the mint experiment, had put the cat into the closet.

"Then I suppose'," said Lucy', "that it was the cat' which frightened away the mice'-I give up the mint."

66

No," said Harry', "do not leave it to suppose; do not give it up till you have fairly tried the experiment. Tonight make sure of the cat', and leave the mint as before. This was done'; and the result was', that the mint was found scattered', and the paste eaten.

"Now I am convinced," said Lucy. "But how very extraordinary it is, papa', that the mint should have succeeded for the man in the newspaper', and not for us.'

Perhaps he never tried the experiment`," said her father. "Oh, papa!" cried Lucy', "Do you think any body would publish that mint is an infallible preservative against mice, without having tried it'? When I saw those words in print, papa', how could I help believing them'?"

Her father laughed`, and told her that she must not believe every thing she saw in print. "A friend of mine," said he', once found a young man reading a romance called *Amadis de Gaul', which is full of impossible adventures: when he asked the young man whether he believed it was all true', he answered', 'To be sūre, sir'; it is in print.'

دو

"But, father'," said Harry', "I think, unless Lucy had been very disagreeably suspicious', she could not have acted. differently. How could she possibly tell that the man in the

* Accent on the first syllable in Am-adis, with the second syllable short.

newspaper was not to be believed, or that his experiments were inaccurate'? She has been used to live with people who tell truth, and who are accurate."

"For that very reason, my dear Harry', I who have had experience of a contrary kind', should put her on her guard against that which, at her age, she could not possibly imagine', without being, as you justly say', disagreeably suspicious."

Harry felt that this was just'; but still he looked as if he had something else sticking in his mind', and which his understanding could not swallow.

"What is it, Harry' ?"

"It is this, father'," said Harry'; "if we were to try all experiments over again before we believed them', we could never get on. Something must be believed-some things that are printed must be taken for granted."

"True', Harry'," said his father. "The question therefore is', what we should believe', and whom we should trust'— you want rules to guide you. Is this what you mean' ?" Exactly," said Harry.

66

'Well, Harry'," said his father, "take, for instance', Sir Isaac Newton's experiments; before we tried them over again', you believed in them', did you not'?"

"To be sure I did', father'."

"And why", Harry'?"

"Because I knew'," said Harry', "that he had the character of being accurate', and that many other people had repeated them."

"Good and sufficient reasons they are', Harry'. But when you do not know the châracter of the person who makes an extraordinary assertion', then' how would you judge'?"

After a few minutes' reflection, Harry said, "by considering whether the fact be probable' or improbable."

66

Right," said his father'; "when any thing appears contrary to our experience, then it is necessary to examine the circumstances carefully', but at the same time candidly. Some things in science, that appeared incredible at first sight, have been found perfectly true. Remember the astonishment produced by the electrical shock-the powers of steam and gas-air-balloons', and steamboats. Suppose you heard of these things for the first time', you would probably have thought the accounts ridiculous. Did you hear what your mother was reading last night, from that new book of Travels in Mexico' ?"

that

"Oh, yes," said Harry'; "you allude to the Mexican', who was told by a man from Europe', that, by means of a boiling teakettle, a thousand persons could be safely moved a hundred miles a day. This was only exaggeration. But there was also an absurd story which the poor Mexicans were toldthat, at Birmingham, the clergymen are made of cast iron', and that they preach by steam. Now if I had been a Mexican', I never could have believed that', if fifty thousand people had told it to me', because iron cannot feel, or speak, or think."

“Then you feel, Harry', that no assertions could make you believe impossibilities'; and that, in all cases which are contrary to our experience', it is necessary to pause', and doubt', and examine. I may add', that you will sometimes find it necessary to doubt even the evidence of your own senses."

"Oh, papa'!" exclaimed Lucy', "the story you told us of the celebrated instrument maker and his wig, is a good example of that`."

"What can you mean, my dear' ?" said her mother.

“There was a famous mathematical instrument maker',"

said Lucy', "who', having finished some great instrument', of which a magnetic needle formed a part', went to examine it for the last time', and found, to his great surprise', that the needle pointed to different divisions at different times. Having made this needle with great care, he could not believe that it did not do its duty'; he thought there must be some key, or knife about him', which attracted it—but no', there was nothing of the kind in his pockets. He reasoned and reasoned', but in vain'; he could not discover the cause'; he tried again' and again', but the same effect always took place'; and what made it still more wonderful was', that when other people looked', the needle was quite steady. This perplexing instrument was the first thing of which he thought, when he wakened next morning, and he hurried out of bed in his nightcap to look at it. He found it quite steady'; yet, after breakfast', when he looked again', it was again all wrong. But now', mamma', he had a distinct fact to guide him'; when wrong, he had his wig on-when right, his nightcap. He immediately examined the wig', and found that it was fitted with small steel springs', to make it sit close to his head. The wig was thrown aside', and the instrument was perfect."

LESSON L.

MIGRATION OF BIRDS.

THE most interesting phenomenon in the history of birds is their migration. Naturalists have puzzled themselves in attempting to account for the restlessness which impels these aerial travelers to commence these distant journeys. Unable to explain the fact', some have denied it. Others have believed that the swallows sleep out the winter, with the fishes', at the bottom of the lakes and rivers. Dr. Mather, in a number of the 'Philosophical Transactions' of England', seriously maintains that these traveling birds retire, during the winter, into a satellite of our earth', which', though not far distant', is as yet unknown to us. These conjectures are well known to be the mere coinage of the imagination', having been entirely refuted' by more accurate observation. There are few travelers who have not noted the migrating birds in intermediate stages of their journey over the midst of the seas', or on foreign plains.

Our own vast country, which embraces two climates', furnishes ample demonstration of this sort. The hectic invalid', who departs from the remote north of our republic, with the first menace of winter', to breathe the milder air of the south', finds that the robin and the oriole of his native orchards have emigrated before him. Their note in these far countries is the note of a stranger'; for they sing their real domestic songs' only in the regions where they reared their young. Sannini* observed the summer birds of France spending their winter in the isles of Greecé, Syria, and Egypt. The time of their departure and arrival varies with the prevalent winds. By a phenomenon as certain, as it is inconceivablé, this epoch is always in exact harmony with the maturity of those fruits on which each class feeds. The jay and the turtle are seen in Greece at the exact period, when the fruits which they love offer them delicious nutriment. The pies and flycatchers light upon the isles of the Levant at the epoch, when the insects begin to be so numerous as to threaten to destroy the harvest. The wood pigeon, on the other hand', divines the time when the husbandmen are casting their seed into the furrows.

* Pronounced San-nee-ne.